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My brain kicks into action and I realize what’s about to happen.
“I’d like Beat to search me.”
We stop in front of a rusty Toyota Tacoma—I think it was red at some point—and Ink fumbles for the keys in his coveralls.
I don’t want to fuck my way out of a bad situation. It’s always been a hard limit for me. But this time, I just might make an exception in order to save my life. Godfrey wants me untouched. The minute one of them sleeps with me, I have leverage over him. The master plan would be to run away, but considering their physical advantage, it’s wise to have a plan B.
Now, I’m not sure which one of these idiots is more likely to hand me the Out-of-Jail card. Ink seems affected by my looks, but too mortified by Godfrey and his crew. Beat, on the other hand, isn’t intimidated by the English gangster, but doesn’t look like a guy who is struggling for pussy. Offering him sex would be like selling STDs to a street hooker.
“You don’t get a say in this shit,” Ink announces with borrowed authority. I can hear the uncertainty leaking from him. He’s what I call an easy job. If it were just him watching over me, I would have been dancing in Iowan cornfields far away from here by now, Sebastian and Godfrey’s heads tucked in that Nike bag.
“You make me uncomfortable.” I yank my arm away.
“What, and the other guy makes you warm and fuzzy?” He sounds genuinely offended.
Beat inches closer behind me, and I feel the heat of his body drifting into mine. He’s close. Hot-jock-leaning-against-your-locker close. It’s going to be hard to bypass someone his size.
“You think I’m nice?” His breath moves through the plastic of his mask, tickling my ear. I shudder down to my toes. His mouth smells like peach. How bad can a guy who smells like a peach be?
“Nice-r.” I clear my throat, my eyes still trained on Ink in front of me. Ink shakes his head, indicating that I’m dead wrong. The air becomes chilly. Why hadn’t I noticed it’s so chilly?
Because it’s not. It’s August in California, and I’m cold because I’m frightened.
“Let’s test your theory. I’m going to touch you now. Move without permission, and I’m breaking your arm.”
My busted lower lip splits open again as I scowl. He definitely looks like a guy who makes good on his threats.
“Okay.” I lick my bloody lip, my voice tender.
Beat kicks my legs open and brings my arms up, patting me down dryly, like airport security. His rough fingers stroke the curves of my shoulders as he moves down from my skull to my outer breasts, circling them lazily. Down to my stomach, lower to my tensed inner thighs, then he pushes the fabric of my mini dress away to make room for his warm paws.
Every muscle in my body is ready to plow forward, to run away, to try and hurt him; the memory of every experience I’ve had that started this way demands for me to take action. But this. . .it doesn’t feel like a violation. The sour taste of bile has yet to explode in my mouth.
His hands move down my legs, stroking my ankles. . .then he stops.
“Got something inside?” He squats down, hooking one of his thumbs into my ankle boot. His masked face is eye level with my pelvis, and warmth spreads along my bones like hot wax.
“No,” I lie. There’s still a slight chance he won’t check.
But he checks.
Beat jerks my boot off and a Swiss army knife falls with a clank on the concrete pavement. I let out a sigh and drop my head. Shit.
Happy thoughts.
Frozen yogurt with Preston down at the local mall.
Curling up on the egg-swing with a Mia Sheridan book.
Water lilies blooming over the artificial pond in the Burlington-Smyth’s garden.
A genuine smile from a stranger.
Beat stands up slowly, his gleeful mask zeroing in on my face. It all looks like a scene from a horror movie.
And I’m the victim.
“You know I can hurt you without leaving physical marks.” His thumb brushes my lower lip, like he’s about to kiss me, and chills run marathons up and down my arms. “Don’t test me, Boots. I can make sure you suffer in more than one way your country club ass isn’t used to.”
Maybe it’s because his finger is on my bleeding lip, and maybe it’s because his tone is the most peaceful I’ve ever heard, but the threat runs deep.
“I’m so s–sorry.” I stutter my way into heated cheeks. He doesn’t answer, just shoves me lightly in Ink’s direction, announcing in a flat tone, “Let’s blindfold her. No way in hell I’m driving with this shit on my face. Wait here.”
He strolls to the other end of the deserted parking lot, giving us his back, while Ink digs his fingers into my arm like a nervous child. Ink is twitchy, fidgety and judging from the wet pools under his armpits—scared shitless. I watch as Beat pulls off his black hoodie in the darkened corner of the lot. His back is defined with arches and muscles. Tan, and not only from the sun.
