A devilish glint appears in his eyes, and I immediately recognize my mistake. I’ve just played right into his hand although I’m not fully up to speed yet.
He shrugs, smiling. “Girlfriend. Fuck buddy. I don’t care what label you put on it once you understand you’re mine.”
I’m struggling to release myself from his embrace when he tightens his grip on my neck, digging his nails into my hip as he prods my stomach with his obvious erection. Nausea churns in my gut, and it’d serve him right if I puked on him.
“Fighting me gets me horny,” he admits, nipping my earlobe. “So, I could do this all day, but we have an audience to please. Act convincing, or I’ll run straight to Carole’s office and inform her that her precious daughter has turned back to her druggy slut ways. I’m pretty sure I overheard my mother telling my father she’ll kick you out of the house and college if you start using again.”
“I fucking hate you,” I hiss as I force a smile on my face. He takes my book bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he grabs hold of my hand and smashes his lips against mine. It’s more of an assault than a kiss, but I don’t protest, because if I make a scene, it could get back to my mother.
“You can do better,” he whispers against my mouth before probing the seam of my lips with his tongue. Reluctantly, I open for him, trying not to gag when his tongue invades all corners of my mouth.
“Good girl,” he says when we break apart a minute later, and I want to tell his patronizing ass to fuck off, but I keep the fake smile on my face as I make my way outside the building with him.
We walk in silence toward the parking lot, and he keeps a firm grip on my hand. The entire time, I’m grappling for something I can use to halt this, but it’s futile. He’s got me in a bind, and I can’t see any way out. Being beholden to someone like Weston Blakely is akin to swimming in a sea full of hangry sharks, blindfolded and naked, with blood smeared along my bare flesh.
I might as well just tell him to kill me now.
But a sliver of self-preservation still lingers in my tissues, and that stubbornness means I’ll suffer through whatever humiliation he has lined up, until I find a way to extricate myself from this mess.
He roughly shoves me into the back seat of his blacked-out SUV, climbing in behind me. He locks the doors and unzips his pants while I try not to puke. Grabbing my neck, he pulls my face down to his bare cock. “Suck me off, bitch, and make it good, or I’ll fuck your cunt instead.”
I don’t get the chance to reply as he rams his big cock into my mouth, shoving it all the way to the back of my throat. Tears spill out of my eyes, and I feel sick to the pit of my stomach as I start sucking him, but I cling to my resolve, more determined than ever to find a way to remove Weston Blakely from my life without everything blowing up in my face.
3
Adam
On Friday night, I’m pacing outside a car repair shop in a seedy part of North Charleston, attempting to calm my nerves. The area has a reputation for drugs and violence. I guess the drug trade hasn’t changed much. Donnie, my old supplier in New Jersey, ran his operation out of a car repair shop too. Only Donnie had a side business of stealing expensive cars of the rich and famous. That wasn’t my gig. I’d been too young to drive for him anyway.
I check my watch.
Ray Diaz is late.
I’m half-tempted to call Donnie to make sure he gave me the correct address when headlights brighten the narrow alleyway.
The SUV is crawling toward me, and my nerves are jacked. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should find a decent part-time job to pay for my sister’s medical expenses, but I see no other way. We have to get her vest fixed or buy a new one. Selling drugs is the only way to make some quick cash. Besides, I’m good at it. I sold dope and pills for years, and I’d never been arrested. I always had my pulse on the neighborhoods, and I knew where cops loitered at night.
You’ve been out too long. Things might have changed, and you’re in a new state.
I push my inner thoughts aside. None of that matters. I’m always alert. I always know what’s around me, and as Mom tells me, I’m perceptive as hell. I have to be. Taking care of Mom and Phoebe—especially Phoebe—I have to be alert to her sounds, her breathing, and her emotions.
Thinking of my sister sends pain slicing through my chest. I can’t let anything happen to her. She spent two days in the hospital, where the doctor pumped her with antibiotics, until she started feeling better.
The SUV pulls to a stop, and a short stocky guy gets out of the front passenger seat brandishing a gun. The driver, a taller man than his compadre, follows.
I lift my hands as if a cop is arresting me. “I’m unarmed.”
Aiming the gun at my head, he stalks toward me. His dark eyes are hard, his mission resolute. “Move and you’re dead.” His deep voice is lethal.
An all too familiar wave washes over me, and I’m tempted to back out of this stupid idea to sell drugs and run before he pulls the trigger. I’m not any good dead to Mom and Phoebe. But I know his words are just a scare tactic while he frisks me.
I stand statue-still while the second dude, sporting a thin beard and no mustache, pats my sides, my lower back, down my legs, and straight down to my ankles. He sticks one finger in the air. “All clear.”
The stocky dude lowers his gun, and, inwardly, I grin. The goon didn’t find the blade in my boot. I’m not about to use it though. But I don’t walk into situations like these unarmed. Still, I make a mental note of the type of men I’m dealing with.
A tall man climbs out of the back seat. He’s sporting baggy jeans and a New York Yankees ball cap, and the gold bling around his neck probably weighs ten pounds as it glints off the dim light on the side of the car repair shop.
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. Donnie doesn’t show off like this dude. Donnie’s motto is blend in with the crowd. Standing out only draws attention.
