He thinks he’s smart.He’s not.
He doesn’t know what I know.
He doesn’t know Sawyer’s promise.
He doesn’t know the way my insides go quiet sometimes when I imagine him barreling home, all fury and focus.
Sawyer promised he’d come for me.I believe him.
That thought is a bright, stubborn thing I clutch to my ribs.
“Let me go,” I tell Roach when he fumbles for the ignition.
“Art, get the key for the toilet!”he barks.
When Art returns, he holds out the key, and my fingers are shaking but steady.
He hands it over to Roach.That fucker takes it, holds it high.
“I really have to go,” I repeat.
Then he drops his hand with the key—slow, like he wants me to beg.
I try to be casual as I take it, but he won’t relent.
He steps in close, fingers snagging my arm like a leash.
The smell of smoke is close, hot.He’s watching me like a man appraising a prize animal.
“Just makin’ sure you don’t try nothin’.And just so you know, a little blood won’t bother me none when we’re alone in the dark.In fact, I prefer it,” he says, and his hand slides to my hip.
His touch is invasive, like a hand that’s deciding what it owns.My skin crawls, and bile rises in my throat.
I try to pull away, and he tightens his grip, palm digging into me.
“Stop it,” I say, loud enough that the dark around us shifts and two of his friends turn their heads toward us, leaning on their bikes with idle menace.
One of them laughs, low and ugly.
Roach steps me toward the little convenience store door like I’m a puppet.He pats my pockets with a showman’s flourish, fingers sifting through the denim of my jeans as if he’s looking for treasure.
I swore I’d keep my phone on me.I did, tucked deep in a zipped compartment of my purse.But he checks the purse too, and the second his fingers find it he fishes the strap out like a proud hunter.
“Phone,” he says, voice casual.“Gimme.”
“No,” I say.My voice shakes but I stand up straighter.“You can’t?—”
He gives me one of those slow, hateful looks.
“You think you’ll try to call someone while you’re in the bathroom?Cute.”
He’s not just talk.
He’s playing for control.
Taking my phone takes my lifeline out of the picture.I’ve learned a lot about men like him during the course of my life.
He’s a bad one.
