Page 96 of The Pleasure of Panic

The goons leave. Even the giant who started this little party fighting a girl. Someone helps him up and he stumbles through the door, probably hoping he can get dropped off at a hospital.

Declan joins Caleb and the senator in the kitchen while I take my attention back to Issy.

Get the phone! I mouth.

Her eyes dart to it, then to me. How?

Scoot, I mouth. Grab. Pass.

She nods, understanding, as she scoots her body down, turns on her side, grabs the phone between the palms of her bound hands, and then maneuvers herself almost on top of my back to hand it off to me.

My fingertips find all the buttons. Because this is an old phone. It’s not a smartphone. Hell, that little bit of clear plastic hardly even counts as a screen. So I find the right button. The one I programmed for my contact when I took this deal and left DC to go undercover in Denver to pay the Bureau back because I killed my father.

As I press it, I wonder if he’s gonna be the guy to pick it up on the other end.

“Hello?”

The voice is so loud in this small house.

“Hello?” it says again.

And then the phone is kicked out of my hands. I am kicked, repeatedly. In the ribs, in the face, in the chest…

Issy is screaming as Declan pulls her up from the floor, and drags her down a hallway into a bedroom.

The senator follows Declan, unbuckling his belt as he walks.

And then Caleb grabs my hair once more, forces my head back, and says, “She’s gonna pay for that. We’re gonna make sure her little sex fantasy comes true.”

My heart races, thumping inside my chest as he stands back up, walks down the hallway, and stops. Turning to look at me.

“Don’t worry,” Caleb says. “I’ll leave the door open for ya.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - ISSY

Like I said. I have two God-given talents. Martial arts and an ability to make people believe what I tell them. I’m holding on to those two things right now. Because three men are now crowding me. Declan, Finn’s partner, the fucking FBI. Senator Walcott, Chella’s father, the fucking voice of Washington. And Caleb, my one-time stepfather, the man in my nightmares.

Their hands on my body. Their mouths talking, saying things that don’t even register in my brain because they are dark, sick, evil, and none of what they say matters. That’s one thing I learned about being a public speaker. My words are only words. It’s the people listening who give them power.

I refuse to give these men my power. I refuse to hear their disgusting threats. I refuse to let them crawl inside me and turn me back into the small, scared girl I used to be.

I just stare at them. Face blank. Body motionless. Eyes focused.

Because they have a little problem.

My ankles are bound.

I want to smile, but I force it down and I wait.

They don’t need my legs open, Declan is saying. They could rape me any number of ways, Caleb adds. But where’s the fun in that? Walcott replies.

Where is the fun in that?

These are some sick, sick people.

There are hands on me. Sliding up my shirt like those hands belong there.

Caleb says something like, “You’re about to get your fantasy.”