The guard's voice is pure rage. A roar that fills the room.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!"
He kicks him. Hard. In the ribs.
The man gasps. Tries to curl up. But the guard doesn't stop.
"We told you NOT to fucking hit the girls!"
Another kick. To the stomach.
"You think the boss won't find out?!"
Kick.
"You think he won't fucking kill you for this?!"
The man tries to argue through blood and broken teeth, his voice high. Panicked.
"She was waking up—I had to—she was fighting—I want my fucking money back—"
The guard doesn't respond with words. He pulls his handgun from his belt and brings it down hard across the man's skull.
Once.
Twice.
The sound is wet. Final. Like a melon splitting open.
Blood sprays across the concrete. Dark. Thick.
The man drops. Gasping. Whimpering. Scrambling for his clothes with shaking hands. He's bleeding from his head. His face. His mouth. Teeth scattered on the floor like broken glass.
He stumbles toward the door. Half-dressed. Broken.
And the guard lets him go.
"Get the fuck out," the guard snarls. "And don't come back."
"You're fucking banned."
"If I see you again, I'll put a bullet in your skull."
The door slams shut, and the room falls into silence.
I'm shaking so hard I can't stop. My entire body convulsing with cold. Fear. Shock.
I can't catch my breath. I can't think. I can't do anything except lie here on this filthy mattress. Naked. Bleeding. Broken.
Cold. That's the first thing. Not the kind that makes you shiver. The kind that seeps. Into your
18
Becca
I wake up warm.
That's the first thing I notice. Not the ache in my ribs. Not the soreness between my legs. Just warmth.
