Page 32 of The Price Of Possession

Slowly I shimmy toward the edge of the bed. My saving grace is he's far too drunk to notice my absence until I'm long fucking gone. His car keys rest on the end table next to his sleeping form. The mattress creaks with my shuffled movement. My feet touch the cold hard wood floor. His oversized T-shirt falls over my thighs. I creep toward his side of the bed.

With each step a pang of fear forms in my throat. The fear of being caught is almost enough to have me turn back around but I shake off the jitters. A discarded pile of clothes lay on the floor in a heap alongside his bed. Dirty or not, I need something to cover my ass and feet in the freezing cold. I sift through the pile and pull out a thick pair of sweats. I quietly slide each leg in and pull them on.

My hands shake violently. Each second that ticks by could be my last. My breath seizes. As I take the keys, they scrape along the wood varnish. His soft patterned breathing remains steady. I grip the keys and jam them in my pocket. I take a risk and open his drawer. My phone stares back at me. My heart flips in my chest. I pocket it, knowing the consequences if I'm caught. A pair of sneakers lay beside his bed. They're three sizes too big, but usable.

I slide my foot in each one, then I shuffle backward keeping eyes on him as I leave him behind. I lick my dry, cracked lips before I bolt.

The dull ache in my head refuses to relent. I’m slipping again. A pounding drums hard against my skull. I'm teetering on the edge of being awake and asleep. The vibration of my phone jars me. I wipe the saliva from my mouth and scrub my hands along my face. The alcohol won again. Damn easier than being present when it comes to Mortensen.

I grip the edge of the nightstand feeling around for my phone to turn off the incessant beeping. My phone clatters onto the hard floor next to me.

“Fuck,” I curse. I zombie forward and swing my legs over the bed. My jeans hang loose on my hips undone while my shoes are still plastered to my feet. Another alcohol induced coma. My phone screen lights up along the floor, buzzing along the wood. I trip from the bed and scoop it up, reluctantly answer it, praying to Christ it isn't Mortensen. I'll need a whole ass bottle of liquor if it is. I settle on the edge of the bed, massaging my temples.

“Your naughty little bitch is taking a joyride in your Bugatti,” a voice snorts through the speaker.

Val?

I grumble, blinking a few times to wake up. I yawn. “Who? What the fuck?” I reply groggily, trying to compute what the hell he's on about. It's still dark outside, and I'm not ready to be awake. Hell, I can't even remember shit from last night.

“Clara Vane?” he responds as if it's the most obvious shit.

Fuck! Clara. We fucked and I passed out.

My head snaps around to find an empty bed. I surge forward, hobbling as I zip up my jeans. My eyes flicker over to the end table and the drawer that is now askew.

My keys.

Fucking gone.

Her phone.

Also fucking gone.

I swipe all the shit off my end table and rip the drawer out, expelling the contents onto the floor.

This clever bitch. I let out an incendiary burst of laughter.

My tongue rolls along my inner cheek. I grind my teeth, fighting an impressed smirk.

“Clara,” I recite. I clutch the phone, squeezing it until my palm turns white. She must enjoy being tortured and used because that is exactly what happens when I'm tested. Delicate my fucking ass. The beast is ready to play, sweetheart.

Val continues with his hyena laughter. “Man, I knew you'd never loan any whore that vehicle. Ever. I bet she needed a fix. I haven't seen her in a minute.” He chuckles.

He doesn't need to know I've been behind her absence. But, what the hell?

“What the fuck do you mean?” I grit. It's no secret she does drugs to numb herself. From what, no Goddamn clue. What does he know about her habits? Maybe she was serious that she fucked him. I haven't been around his ass since she threw it in my face, and I punched his ass out. The fact he's calling me is a surprise on its own.

He's quiet.

“What does she take?” I repeat, trying incredibly hard to remain calm despite the pent-up rage. When I catch her, she'll wish she was in the Void instead of in my grasp. I rummage in my jeans pocket and fish out a cigarette. The lighter clicks open. I watch the flame dance in the darkness. I pause, shoving down those memories. My eyes slam shut. It's the only thing lighting up this cold, desolate place.

I wish it was weed, but this gets the edge off well enough. My nerves are shot. Fuck, even drugs would suffice. The level of shit I've been dealt has about reached my maximum. I release a heavy exhale. I grow increasingly agitated with each beat of silence from the other end of the phone.

I pace around the room like a caged animal ready to rip the next person who walks through the door to shreds. The beast is unleashed and ready for blood. Finally, the dickhead responds, “She likes downers. Though recently I've given her uppers to clear that head of hers. She sucks cock way better on molly. She’s a fucking mess dude . . .” I see red.

“Nah, wait a minute. You—You're giving her that shit?” my brain glitches. I know he dabbles in drugs, but I figured he wasn't supplying her. Does she even have the money for that shit? Guess I don't have to guess how she's paying. “What the fuck, man!” I grit into the receiver on the verge of losing my shit. Why? I don't fucking know. I shouldn't give a damn, but here we are.

“Yea,” he replies sheepishly. “How the hell do I say no to free pussy in exchange?” he scoffs, justifying his actions. Bingo. I fucking knew it. I'm just as guilty of using women for what I want, but for whatever reason, it pisses me off. The line goes quiet. I'm seething. She's whoring herself out. Guilt laces Val's voice. His conscience is the least of my worries.