Taking a deep breath, I force my eyes back open and almost jerk back when I’m confronted by some nasty-as-fuck sneakers only a few feet from my face. Slowly, I scroll my eyes up the legs, then roll onto my back as I’m forced to look all the way up, until I’m staring up at Tray’s face.
“Fuckin’ finally,” he sneers before dropping to his haunches, the knife in his hand glinting off the weird yellow light. “Thought we were gonna have to do this while you were out.”
A quick glance causes a spike of pain in my temple, but I spot the source of light, an actual flame-lit lantern on top of an overturned crate. I…what? Actually, no, I don’t care why he is using literal fire for light.
“What the hell do you want, Tray?” I grit out, throat aching and head pounding at the sound of my own voice. My field of vision is blurry as fuck, and only his face is in focus.
He laughs, the noise not even close to happy, and waves the knife a little. “Did you really think you could leave me?”
Apprehension is slowly eating away at the fog that has taken up residence in my brain, but I refuse to give in to it. Letting the fear take over is only going to cause more problems. “You don’t own me, Tray. I can be wherever I want to be.”
Groaning, I use my hands to sit up but end up gasping and collapsing back down as screaming pain shoots from my index finger, down into my thumb joint, into my wrist, and up my forearm.
I grab my aching forearm with my free hand and raise both so that I can see the damage, but besides a slight bit of swelling beneath my thumb, there doesn’t appear to be an injury. I mean, I know there is one ’cause it fucking hurts—exactly like the time I did break my arm—but it doesn’t look broken. Last time, there was a huge amount of swelling and bruising almost immediately.
So, hopefully just sprained? Whatever it is, I still want to sit up and put some distance between myself and that knife, especially since I’ve recently spent a bunch of time with someone who knows how to actually handle sharp objects. Tray really doesn’t inspire any belief in his skills, especially with the way he keeps twitching, and now that I’m looking a little closer, sweating.
Withdrawals.
Fuck. Okay, it’s really time to move.
Using my good arm, I push up and scoot backward with my butt, but I don’t get far before Tray closes the gap and grips my hair, yanking my head sideways and tipping me off balance.
I grit my teeth and refuse to scream when the throbbing turns to an explosion in my skull, but I definitely make a noise because he grins, his hot, rancid breath flowing over my face. Instantly, I close my mouth and cease my own inhalation. His teeth look like he gave up brushing them weeks ago. Maybe even months.
“That’s where you’re fuckin’ wrong. I own your ass. I’ve always owned your ass,” he growls at me, eyes filled with a level of crazy I’ve never seen before.
If it wasn’t for the knife dangling in his free hand, like he’s forgotten that it’s there, I’d be kicking him in the balls so hard right now. But with my wrist doing whatever the fuck it’s doing and my head pounding the way it is, I’m thinking that playing this game might be the safest thing for now.
It’s not like I haven’t done it before. I know exactly what this is. He owes someone money. Probably more than one someones, especially if he hasn’t found a way to pay them since the last time we were together, which was months ago.
“Who do you owe?” I demand through gritted teeth, nausea sitting at the back of my throat.
His brow creases with confusion, and the grip in my hair loosens. “What?”
“That’s what this is, right? You owe money, and you promised them my pussy in exchange.” I practically spit the words, my energy draining with the effort.
Surprise, irritation, and then an ugly look of joy spread across his features. “Not your pussy.”
Not my…
“No.” My heart seizes in my chest with fear. “Absolutely fucking not.”
A dark grin spreads across his face. “Yeah, that sweet, tight, virgin asshole. Cruz an’ his boys will be here soon, just stopping to get some lube. Then all three of your holes are goin’ to get worked over. And in this outfit, they are goin’ to love you.”
My club outfit. Black lace and satin. I’m wearing a goddamn push-up bra.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I need to get out of here before the Two-Sixers crew gets here.
Throat tight, I still manage to scream and shove him away from me. The only reason he moves is because I catch him by surprise, since he’s not used to me fighting him on anything.
“I said no, Tray! Clean up your own fucking mess. I’m done with this shit.”
Motherfucker. Fear floods my system, and I force myself to stand, the room tilting to the side as I am literally backed into a corner, stumbling over the uneven mattress beneath my feet, Tray advancing on me with his knife out.
“Mer, mer, mer. You don’t have any choices. When they get here, you’re going to bend over an’ you’re gonna take it like you always have. I’ve heard that Cruz loves to hear a girl scream, so don’t feel like you need to hold any of that back.”
