I’m not out until like three in the morning, and there’s no chance she’ll still be awake, but I don’t say that and just agree instead.
Eating the small bit I can, I chug my juice and head back out onto the floor. My gaze immediately seeks out Connor, only to find his table empty and being cleaned off by one of the girls. My heart stutters, then finally calms down again in relief.
He’s gone, and I hope he never comes back.
Noticing a few tables that need clearing, I don’t hesitate to grab a cloth and get to work. By the time last call is announced and the final girls have danced their set, my feet are on fire, my back is burning, and I want to sleep for a week.
The physicality of working here doesn’t bother me; it’s the emotional drain from Connor showing up that makes me feel like I’ve gone a few rounds in a ring.
Once the front of the house is cleared, I slip on my sweats, a baggy shirt, and runners. With my bag in hand, I say goodnight to everyone and begin the twenty-minute walk home. It’s the worst part of working at Euphoria because you never know if you’re going to run into someone unsavory or not.
As I turn the first corner, I hear the unmistakable sound of a motorbike revving, and butterflies erupt in my belly as I think of the two bikers who caught my interest when I showed up at Trista’s clubhouse.
Viking and Priest were scary as hell, but they called to something dark and depraved inside my soul that made me think of sweaty nights and screaming pleasure. It’ll never happen now, especially with getting all but kicked out of that place.
Ignoring the lingering sounds filtering through my head, I clasp my purse tightly to my chest, with my keys out, as I approach the dumpy motel. Climbing the stairs to the second-floor balcony, I like that it’s out in the open rather than inside a building because when I need to breathe, I can just step outside.
Twisting the key in the door lock, I step through, then quickly close and relock it. While it’s not a high-crime area, I don’t leave anything to chance. Too bad the true violence comes from the inside.
“You fucking whore,” Connor’s voice hisses from behind as he grabs a chunk of my hair and slams me into the wall beside the door. My face bounces off the cheap plaster, and I immediately taste blood in my mouth.
“Connor, stop,” I cry out, regretting that my room is so far away from the front office.
“Connor, stop,” he mocks. “Fuck no. Do you have any idea what the fuck you did?” There’s no chance for me to answer before he slams a fist into my side, promptly knocking the wind from my lungs and turning my vision black. I can’t pass out, though. “Dad was in the hospital with a severe concussion, eighteen stitches, and he’s mad as hell. Once he gets his hands on you, your body is going to be so fucked up.”
Whimpering, I try to push him off, but he slams my head off the wall again. This time, my eye hits the light switch, and it swells instantaneously. “He shouldn’t have tried to rape me.”
A humorless bark of laughter escapes his mouth as he drives another punch into each side of my ribs. Wheezing, my legs give out as tears run down my face.
“You should have been a good little whore and opened your legs for him.” Grinding his hips into my back, I feel his hardening dick and want to scream, but I know nobody will come to my rescue.
“No. I’m not a whore, let alone his.” Bucking against him, Connor must not have expected it, because he stumbles backwards just enough for me to reach the door, flip the deadbolt, and open it about a foot before he’s on me again.
His weight slams us both into the door, the handle digs into my hip with blinding pain, and I scream out this time. Spinning us around, Connor tosses me across the room, where I crash into the table, a lamp, and the side of the bed.
Everything hurts as he advances on me, the rage and hatred in his eyes so startling that for the first time in my life, I feel true terror. I worry this will be it, and all I can think about is the sound of motorbikes until I realize it’s not in my imagination this time. They’re outside.
A burst of hope and energy strengthens me. I jump up and sprint to the window, grateful that the curtains are open, so I slam my fists against the thick glass. When I spot two bikers in the parking lot, I pound even harder until they look up, and I recognize it’s them. It has to be.
Connor is right on me, though, and bashes my head against the glass, shattering it with the force and dropping me when my frame can no longer hold me up. Excruciating pain erupts in my skull, and I know I’ve been cut open as wetness streams down my face.
Trying not to panic, I remind myself that head wounds bleed badly and take advantage of Connor’s shock by flipping my body out the window, ignoring the stinging of glass shards in my palms as I fight to crawl away and hopefully reach help.
“Who the fuck are you?”
I remember those cold words from last week and cry out when my body gives up and drops to the ground. I have no strength left. Whatever happens to me doesn’t matter anymore.
“Who the fuck are you?” Connor grits out, the quiver in his tone unmistakable.
“Boy, you messed with the wrong fucking girl,” Priest warns as he and Viking step around me. My vision is blinded by blood, so I can’t see any more of what’s happening.
“That’s my fucking girl, so fuck off,” Connor challenges, not realizing how screwed he is right now.
Laughter from the two menacing men makes me cringe because even though I don’t really know them, I get the feeling that reaction means someone is about to be hurt.
“I don’t think so,” Viking growls, his tone low and foreboding.
I hear a few grunts, then stomping feet, and I can tell that Connor must have made a run for it.
