A stuttered breath traveled through his nose. The grim situation keeping him present.
A noise rattled behind me; Ville wrapped up the last of the contents on the table into the battered cloth they'd sat upon. He slugged it over his shoulder, and his big boots carried him away, like he was fucking Santa Claus, dumping the sack in the corner of the room.
“You know what to do.” He waved with an uninterested hand.
“Please.” My plea was for anyone.
What’s-his-face shifted with what felt like discomfort, and I almost thought he’d let me go. . . but his grip tightened as I wiggled. My head careened, my gaze focusing on his eyes. Blue, and innocent looking—clearly, a fucking lie.
Or, maybe not.
He looked sorrowful, pained. Here for a reason. He didn’t level up to his colleagues. The grime of his dirty job hadn’t stained him completely yet. . . but it was stealing his youth and soul with each life he helped pilfer. The lighter creases of his frown told me he was younger than the other men by around twenty years. I’d have guessed him in his twenties, somewhere. His face held a boyish charm, reminding me of Woodrow, who I found myself turning to seconds later.
“Woodrow,” I sobbed, tears running down my face, sorrow dripping from my nose as my mouth dribbled with terror. I couldn’tfocus, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand the sight as he collapsed in front of me. Sylvia let him fall.
I fought, kicking and thrashing, doing all I could to remove the man glued to me. Failing with each thrash. I screamed, my voice heightening with obscenity.
Woodrow wasn’t breathing, wasn’t moving. His lifeless body lay on the floor, his eyes closed. His form rocked under the force of Sylvia’s heavy boot, kicking somewhere deep between his stomach and chest.
I didn’t hear whatever was whispered in my ear. I didn’t hear the laughter in the room, but I saw their ugly faces twisting with evil amusement in my peripheral.
“Leave him the fuck alone!” I wouldn’t allow this. Someway, I’d stop them from hurting him, even if he could no longer feel it.He can feel it,I told myself, refusing to believe he’d gone to a better place without me.He can fucking feel it!
“Breathe,” I demanded, my knees going weak when his chest still didn’t rise. When he didn’t react to another kick. . . to the pain. “Please, Woodrow, breathe. Please. . .”
I turned my head as Sylvia’s leg swung again, gifting another kick, straight into Woodrow’s chest. The sound of Woodrow’s lungs trying to drag in air jolted my attention back to him.
I watched his fingers spread across the ground, shaking like the rest of him as he tried to help himself up. His other hand moved to his chest, rubbing once, twice, then moved to his throat.
“Woodrow.” His eyes, glossy with tears, bloodshot with pain, followed my sound. His gaze, starting at my toes, moving up over every curve, settled on my face, his breathing finally relaxing.
“Great, now that he’s alert, toss her on the table.”
“What?” I twisted around, breaking my connection with Woodrow. The relief that only just filled me, draining out.
I kicked back, dread fueling my energy, reviving what I thought had already depleted. Teena pulled me from his acquaintance and slammed me down, face first, causing the old wood to creak. I tried to sit up, to fight back, but he slammed my head down, and I saw stars as he held me in place with both hands.
“Leave her. . .” Woodrow choked out. “Leave her alone!”
The men gathered around me as I lay face down on the table like a damn sacrifice. My heart pounded against the wood, wracking my body.
Dispiriting touches smoothed my skin, rising higher up my legs.
“Stop,” I begged, pointless, because I already knew they didn’t acknowledge my needs.
“Don’t touch her.” Woodrow was still trembling on the floor. Still trying to catch his breath.
My hand weaved through my tight curls—the act of comfort I’d indulged in my entire life. A trait Ville had noticed over the last few weeks. His giant fingers swatted mine away and replaced them in my hair. His long fingers twisting and twirling, taking away my repose. . . and the loss hurt me more than my banging head.
“Stop. STOP. STOP!” I screamed.
Ville’s grip grew tighter, wrapping around my strands, painfully, to yank back my head and thrust it back into the wood. “Shut up, little slut. I know you like this.” Ville’s breath, scented with alcohol, cigars, and hate, tapped at my cheek. “I’ve seen how you let my son play with this.” He took a few strands to his nose, inhaling a much nicer scent than I had to.
Woodrow knew what he was talking about without looking. “Don’t touch her hair.” He knew it was my comfort. My safety. A feature of my own that reminded me of my mother.
I hated that Ville saw our intimacy as we’d basked out in the daisies. Hated that he knew of our weaknesses. I just fully fucking hated him.
The hands on my legs reached the apex of my thighs, and I fought to close them before they were locked in place, spread and held by a slightly softer touch. I knew who that belonged to.
