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I listen closely, my lips twitching when I can hear soft footsteps pattering down the alleyway behind me. They’re just barely audible. The person is good. If I wasn’t aware of them already, their steps wouldn’t have even registered.
I take one last listen, relaxing my shoulders before I turn the corner. As soon as both feet are firmly in the passageway, I turn, pulling my knife from my pocket as I wait.
It's the exact moment I make my first mistake.
I let out a yelp as a hand wraps around my waist from behind. Their grip is tight and I grit my teeth as my ribcage is squeezed harshly.
I suck in a strangled breath, hitting the switch on my knife and blindly swinging my arm out behind me. I know the moment I connect with flesh, a deep curse coming from behind me. Warm, wet, stickiness hits my hand. Blood.
I use the split second to toss my head back as hard as I can, keeping my grip on my knife.
I’m released.
As soon as my feet hit the ground, I spin around, knife ready for more flesh and blood. I can barely see the person in front of me, only getting the dark silhouette of a large figure.
Definitely a man.
He reaches for me and I slash out, realizing my second mistake a moment later.
The first stalker.
My braids are pulled on roughly, pain shooting through my scalp. My eyes water but I refuse to give up. I continue to swing blindly even as my left hand reaches for my gun.
I never get the chance to take the gun out before there’s a sharp prick in the side of my neck. Almost instantly, my limbs go limp. I sway on my feet, my vision going blurry. Wobbling from side to side, I fight to stay on my feet, to stay alert.
The knife falls from my hand, the clatter ringing through the night. Spots form in my vision and it's hard to breathe.
And then there’s nothing.
CHAPTER TWO: RIAN
I haven’t tripped this hard since the time I did shrooms with my mom.
It feels like I’m sitting in a fucking inferno.God, how in the hell is my skin not literally melting off?There’s a throbbing in the back of my skull, my throat feels too tight. My eyes aren’t even open and the room is already spinning.
I’ve dabbled in some pretty hard shit before, but I tossed all of that to the side a year ago. The hardest thing you’ll see me pick up is a blunt.
So why in the hell does it feel like I’m coming down from coke?
Scratch that, the come down from blow is nowhere as brutal as how I’m feeling right now.
The pain in my skull doesn’t seem to be letting up, if anything it's getting worse, and the pads of my feet and hands feel like someone’s sticking pins in them. Repeatedly.
I blink slowly, squinting as a harsh light hits my eyes. “Fuck,” the one word comes out slurred, my tongue too thick for my mouth.
What’s the last thing that I remember?
Nothing comes to mind.
Maybe I was on a job and someone got the drop on me.
Maybe at the ball…
No, that job was over a month ago.
The marina that I stole that yatch from.
No, no… that was last week.
