So I start to scream and struggle, but stupid fucking Reggie simply pulls back his arm and backhands me so hard I fall on my backside, despite his grip on me.
That’s when a savior steps up to help.
No, not Sir.
George, the concierge of the building, comes hurrying out and shouts at Reggie, his phone in his hand as he threatens to call the police.
For a moment, Reggie looks conflicted, glancing between me as I scramble backwards, still on my butt, and George, whose phone is audibly ringing.
With a snarl, he turns to me. “This isn’t over, bitch. You just made things ten times worse for yourself.”
Yeah, I can't really think of anything much worse than being prostituted against my will while systematically being used as a punching bag and drugged up to keep me compliant.
And since Reggie has conceded defeat, jumping into his car and flooring it, his tires squealing as he tears away, I sure as hell don’t plan on waiting around to find out.
Chapter
Eleven
Thorne
I've been conquered in my own damn house. Outmaneuvered on a battlefield of my own design. Juno, or Linnea, as the asshole she brought into my home called her, has upended everything, made me the hunted, the victim, fucked over by a pair of con artists rather than doing the fucking.
My mouth is dry and bitter, and I grab the Macallan 12 and take a slug straight from the bottle.
I think of the contract, my own desperate gamble, which brought her into my orbit, and wonder how the money I was paying her wasn’t enough. I’m certain anything she and her boyfriend might have robbed from me couldn’t be pawned for even close to that sum. But perhaps this was all supposed to happen after she left, so she got two payouts.
I should hate her. I should want to crush her.
Part of me does, but another part is fucking hurt.
I got attached. Damn, I’m a fool.
I take another swig from the bottle, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat. It's not enough to numb the ache in mysternum or the bitter taste of betrayal on my tongue, though. I've been played, and the worst part is, I can't even bring myself to fully hate her for it.
My phone buzzes, and I glance at it with disinterest. It's George, the concierge, probably with some trivial matter that I can't be bothered with right now. I ignore it, but it rings again and again until I answer just to get rid of him.
"Sir, there's been an incident with Miss Juno. She’s been assaulted. Should we call the police?"
For a moment, I'm tempted to tell him to send her back to me, but I'm certain it's another fucking ploy. A game she and the dick play if things go wrong and she needs to pull on the heartstrings.
Well, too bad. I don’t have any.
“Call her a cab and send her home. She's not my problem anymore,” I tell an audibly shocked George.
I can hear Juno… no, that’s not her name - Linnea - in the background. She sounds despondent and defeated as she tells him not to worry. That she’ll make her own way home.
I swat away the twinge of concern that threatens to surface. It's all an act, I remind myself. Everything about her has been a lie.
I end the call and toss the phone onto the couch. My fingers itch to pick it back up, to call George and tell him I’ve changed my mind, but I resist. I've been weak enough already.
As a consolation, I walk to my office and turn to the bank of security monitors lining one wall. Jun… Linnea really doesn’t know very much about me. I’ve always kept this door locked when I was gone, and anything of value is in here, although I guess to a two-bit thief some of the stuff around the rest of the apartment looks like a good haul.
Hell, it probably is, but it’s nothing I’d miss.
But the fact is, I don’t just live in this penthouse, I own the building… and my humble beginnings are enough that I’m a paranoid bastard. Fuck that. It’s not even paranoia, it’s experience. I know the kinds of hustles lowlifes pull because I’ve witnessed most of them firsthand. Which is why all my businesses and properties are wired to the max.
That’s how I know dear old Reggie couldn’t have gotten in here on his own.
