“That’s enough, Damon.”
One of Emory’s men ripped Damon off her and dumped him outside the car.
Amelia’s consciousness ebbed and flowed like a black tide closing in, and her temples pulsed with every heartbeat. One of Emory’s men pulled her from the backseat and expected her to stand, but her useless legs couldn’t hold her weight when he propped her against the car. Amelia slid to the ground and squinted against the light.
A desolate two-lane road stretched in a straight shot toward both horizons. In the distance, a mountain range towered over the barren desert dotted with tufts of greasewood bushes and cactus scrub.
Where the night had been chilly and humid, the sun rode high and sweltered with suffocating heat. It had to be midday, but where exactly was she? The desert spilled into California from Nevada. If they drove through the morning, she could be burning alive in Death Valley.
Amelia tried to stand but instead slumped against the Buick roasting in the heat.
“Please. Just tell me what you want,” she pled, but Emory’s men ignored her.
An eternity passed beneath the angry sun. The men wiped sweat from their brows and scrutinized the road. West or east, Amelia couldn’t say. The twin horizons boasted the same shadowless features. Eventually, a black car emerged in the distance.
“It’s about goddamn time,” Damon said.
The car grew from a wavy mirage and kicked up plumes of dirt as it pulled off the road. Through heavily tinted glass, Ameliacouldn’t see the occupant, but her stomach dropped when the driver climbed out. At Rich’s party, he’d sat next to Emory with amusement then dread filling his big blue eyes.
His blond hair was still greased back, but he wore all black—snake-skin cowboy boots, a plain t-shirt, and jeans with a handgun tucked in the waistband. A wallet chain jangled with each step he took toward them. On his arms, sleeve tattoos displayed colorful pin-up girls nestled amongst a patchwork of strange symbols and bolded letters.
“Well, I, for one, didn’t dress for this weather,” he laughed. “It’s hotter than Satan’s asshole out here.”
Amelia struggled against Damon, who dragged her to the driver and shoved her to the ground at his feet. Dirt and rock scraped her knees, and her dress shifted up her thighs. With bound wrists, she frantically pulled it back down again.
“I want my money, Jack. Ten grand cash. And I expect to be compensated for the trouble.”
Damon pointed to the gash on his cheek. The driver, Jack, strode to the Buick and poked his head in the backseat.
“Where’s the boy she was with?” he demanded to know from the other two men.
One shook his head regretfully, but not for the life taken. To them, Brian was just a messy little tidbit. Amelia seethed at the thought but kept her mouth shut.
“That’s justfuckinggreat.” Jack slammed the backdoor shut and paced to Amelia but pointed at Damon. “And you have the stones to demand payment?”
Crouched in front of her, Jack brushed his fingertips beneath Amelia’s chin. She flinched at the contact and refused his stare.
“I’m not gonna hurt you. Just let me see.”
As Jack scrutinized her collection of injuries, Damon’s assault on Amelia turned verbal. He peppered it with slurs—slut, bitch, cunt, a few she’d never heard—and detailed the ways he could have violated her body but hadn’t.
Amelia’s stomach lurched. What was to say he hadn’t? She’d lost time, hours unaccounted for where he had full control.
Jack stood with his fists clenched at his side. “Where were you two when he did this?”
Once more, the question went to the other two men who couldn’t summon an answer, so they looked away.
“You get paid when she’s delivered,” Jack told Damon. “That was his agreement.”
Damon shifted on his feet, and his gaze darted between the three men before returning to Amelia. He hurried to the Buick and flung open the passenger door, but Jack hastened after and wrestled a pistol from Damon. With one arm coiled around his neck, Jack pressed the gun to Damon’s head.
“Wrong move. We’re going for a ride.”
Jack dragged Damon to the Mercedes, shoved him screaming into the backseat, and flung the door shut. He chucked Damon’s gun at the other two men.
“Get rid of it on your way back. Chief’s in a mood, so decide amongst yourselves who’s gonna take the lumps for this shit show.”
The men retreated—one to the Buick and the other to the car they came in—and rolled out in quick procession down the dusty road.
