“They said don’t kill her.”
“They said pretty sells better.”
A hand grabs my hair.
I go still. Still the way a snake goes still before it decides whether to strike or wait.
The man hauls my head up just enough that my neck screams. He crouches beside me, face half-hidden in the dim light leaking through the front windshield. He is young. Maybe late twenties. Shaved head. Thin mustache. A gold tooth that flashes when he grins. No cut on him, just a black shirt and a chain thick enough to be fake.
“You awake, estrella?”
I stare at him.
“Good,” he says. “Would’ve been boring if you slept through your big moment.”
“You always this desperate for women’s attention?” I ask, voice rasping.
Men like him hate when the prey talks back in full sentences.
Someone in the front seat laughs. “She’s got mouth.”
The one holding my hair tightens his grip until my scalp burns. “I can fix that.”
“You touch my mouth, and I’ll bite your fingers,” I say.
It slips out before I decide to say it.
His eyes sharpen.
“Who said I’ll use my fingers?” he laughs.
My pulse kicks.
I smile even though my lip splits wider. Fresh blood warms my mouth.
“You’ll lose that too.”
That earns me a slap.
Not hard enough to knock me out. Hard enough to turn my vision sparkly at the edges and make my cheek explode with heat.
There it is.
The old male math.
Woman talks. Man hits. Man thinks he won.
I blink through the pain and let my smile come back, slower this time.
“Feel better, baby?”
His face darkens, and for one second I think he will hit me again. Then the driver barks, “Boca. Leave her.”
Boca.
Good.
Names matter.
