“I won’t ruin anything.” I feel like I’m drowning, flailing around with nothing nearby to grab. I know there has to be a huge reason for them to invite me up to the house, but I can’t have imagined it would be this, not in a hundred years.
“We finally figured out a way to make you worth something.” My father—my very own father—lifts his glass and laughs at his own pathetic joke. “So you’d better not disappoint me.”
“We’ll probably have to buy her some new clothes.” Matteo looks me up and down, disdain etched over his face. “We don’t want the Brookshires thinking we’re welfare recipients. They won’t like being involved with a piece of trash.”
“That’s a good point.” There couldn’t have been a bigger difference between the way the old man looked at me and how he beamed at Matteo. “Way to think things through. I can’t imagine she has much of a wardrobe.”
Matteo burst out laughing. “Who needs formal wear when you live in a trailer?”
I wonder if he thinks about that now when he’s screaming and throwing up from the pain. Does he ever wish he had made different choices?
The familiar sound of a lock disengaging startles me into sitting up straight, eyes wide open. The pitiful blanket isn’t much protection, but I clutch it closer to my shaking body just the same. Like armor against whatever is coming next.
It’s not so much the sight of my guards that twists me up inside and makes my bladder suddenly feel much too full. It’s the blood on their hands, coating their knuckles, flecks of it on their wrists and forearms. I can even smell the coppery tang in the air when they step closer to the cot.
“What are you doing?” I hate the weakness in my voice. The fear.
“Taking a break.” The one I’ve heard Quinton call Bruno laughs and elbows his buddy, Rick. I’m pretty sure there aren’t more than three brain cells between the two of them, but they don’t need to be big thinkers. They only need to follow orders and be complete, merciless thugs.
Rick sneers, looking down at his swollen, blood-coated hands. “Nothing like a good day’s work, right?”
The way they laugh about it stirs whatever is left of my sense of self to life. I don’t care that they probably beat my brother half to death and laughed about it while they did.
It’s the way they laugh about it now. It’s a joke to them. They don’t even know him, and they don’t care to. They don’t even have the decency to act like they regret doing what they’re paid to do. Fucking pigs.
“So what?” I whisper. “You wanted to come in and show off? Congratulations.”
“She’s still got that smart-ass attitude,” Bruno remarks, flexing his hands.
“It’s a shame we can’t beat it out of her,” Rick replies.
“Or fuck it out of her.” They share a cold, nasty laugh, and revulsion makes me shudder until I think about the way he said it.
They can’t beat or fuck it out of me? Hmm, interesting. Quinton must have given them an order. Not that it makes him a good guy or anything like that, but at least I know what I can expect and what probably won’t be happening.
There’s no guarantee they’ll obey orders, but I doubt Quinton is the kind of boss who likes finding out his orders were disobeyed. And I’m sure they know that.
It gives me the strength to sit up straighter and look at them without ducking my head or acting like a weak, pathetic captive.
“It doesn’t seem like such a shame from where I’m sitting.”
Their laughter cuts off abruptly. Rick steps up closer to the cot, and I don’t like the look in his eyes. The look of a man who’s about to say fuck it, let’s spit roast this little bitch anyway. “You know, there’s other stuff we could do.” Like what? I don’t dare ask. I don’t want to know. I can only hope he’s bluffing.
Bruno nods a second before his hands move down to his belt. My heart starts hammering, and every instinct tells me to run like hell, but how? And where to? I couldn’t get away if I tried. I don’t even know if I’d have the strength to make it out of here, much less make it to safety.
“Take off your shirt,” he orders. “I’ve been wanting to see those tits since you got here.”
Oh, no. Not this. I remain still, staring at him, silently begging him to laugh at his joke. But he doesn’t. His eyes hold no humor, only a sick and twisted desire.
He grabs his zipper, opens his fly, and digs around in his shorts before pulling out a thick, stubby little dick. My stomach clenches and would probably force anything inside back up out of my mouth if it wasn’t completely empty.