They've chosen their drug, and it's made them dumber. I've chosen mine, and it's made me sharper.
“The fuck is going on?” A deep voice from over my shoulder shouts.
I feel Cal pressed against me, a solid comfort, a line of defense. I just have to worry about the men before me, and he'll take care of the ones behind me.
I don’t react, don’t breathe, don’t even move. I just watch them come closer, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on.
He doesn't answer, and I share his silence, drawing them deeper. One of them must be less high, or not as stupid, because his steps begin to slow and he sticks to the shadows as his friend continues forward.
His brown hair is pulled back into a knot, the tattoos on his knuckles making my grin widen. One hand spells death, in big, gothic-looking letters. I assumethe other says life, but when he gets close enough and lifts his hand to my cheek, I see it says mercy.
I won't be showing him any.
“Fucking hell. They said you'd be drugged, but I expected a half-dead bitch, not a fucking zombie.” He chuckles as he rubs his fingers across my face, reveling in the feel of my flesh beneath his fingers. “What do you have her on, and where can I get it?”
I'm silent as he pinches my lips, and then he groans.
“Fuck, you're cute.” He laughs. And then his playfulness disappears as his hand, the one that says death, gravitates toward my throat.
He drives me against the wall, making a sound like thunder clapping resonate around us, breaking through the music.
In the corner of my eye, I see Cal turn just enough to ensure I'm fine before he returns his attention to the men approaching from the other side.
“Where's Garrett?” One of them asks.
I return my attention to the man before me and giggle at the intensity between his furrowed brows, unable to help myself as he slides his pants down his hips, his pathetic cock springing free.
He grips my dress and begins to frantically pull at the fabric, searching for a way to crawl beneath it. His fingers find it, eventually, and then make quick work of finding my pussy. He doesn't hide his delight at finding it wet. The dumbass is too stupid to realize it's not ready forhim.
“Typical whore. Your pussy is already weeping from just the sight of me?” He scoffs, though he looks proud of himself in spite of his disgust for me.
His fingers dig blindly around between my thighs, seeking an entrance.
“It's not your cock I'm excited for.” I say softly... so softly he has to lean in to hear me.
“What?”
“It's not your cock I'm excited for.” I tell him, louder this time.
“Yeah? Think you're cute, slut? What are you excited for?”
A glance at Cal shows me that the other men are close enough to act. He nods just once, a short little tip of his head so imperceptible I wouldn't have noticed it if I wasn't looking for some sort of permission.
I flex my fingers discreetly against the handle, adjusting my grip.
I didn't just put together a Killer Playlist and pretend to sleep while he staged all the photos for tonight. I also searched for the most effective way to slit a throat.
It was a weird honeymoon.
My admittedly shady research led me to two tokens of wisdom that served me well with my last assailant.
The first? Prepare mentally before physically. The throat is vulnerable, and so is the human mind. I think my mind has been fucked up for years, in spite of how much I've tried to pretend it's not. So, no concern there.
The second tip? Aim for the jugular and then pull the blade across.
“Your blood.”
He never even sees it coming until I'm burying the blade in his neck. Someone knocks into me, though, before I can drag it across his neck. He stumbles backward as I turn the knife on whoever just helped him, expecting his friend who'd lingered in the shadows.
