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bsp; The bastard in charge smirked and I couldn’t stop from flinching at the predatory gleam in his eyes. He barked out an order in rapid Spanish.
“Fernando! Traer agua y una cilla.”
The door to freedom opened and a young man, also of Mexican descent, placed a polished wooden chair behind his boss and handed him a plastic cup. The boss sat in the chair and offered me the cup.
“Drink.”
Parched, I instinctively swallowed at the thought of drinking something cool. A thousand razor blades tore at the delicate skin of my throat. No matter how badly I wanted the drink, I couldn’t bring myself to take the cup. What if it was poisoned? Or drugged?
Caught between the overwhelming desire to quench my thirst and the need to protect myself, the brute holding me down grew impatient and an open palm struck the back of my head. Stars burst behind my eyes and the room spun like a top. As I was gagging from the blow, the thug grabbed my chin. Huge, thick fingers dug into my face, holding my head in place.
Once more, the boss extended his hand.
“You will drink.” A dark eyebrow rose in challenge and he waited for me to take the cup.
Trembling, I lifted a hand. Fuck. I didn’t want them to see me shaken. No matter what, I was determined to maintain some shred of dignity even if I was kneeling on damp cement, wearing clothes soaked in my own vomit and piss, while two bastards regarded me as nothing but trash. I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, let them break me. Not like this. The last few years were tough, but if I learned one thing during my six months with Mason, it was how to wade through shit and keep on going, no matter what.
I took the cup and brought it to my lips. It was colorless and odorless. Water. Yes, the thought that it might be drugged still niggled in the back of my mind, but I was desperately thirsty, and if the Sasquatch with the big mitts had anything to say about it, the water was going in my mouth whether I liked it or not. It was better to do it on my terms.
I tipped the cup and the second the first drop hit my tongue I couldn’t stop. A balm on my ragged throat, I greedily sucked down all of the cool liquid. I could have easily drunk four more cupfuls, but none were offered. No, the asshole boss snatched the empty cup from my hands and tossed it aside.
“Do you know why you are here, cabron?” I knew enough Spanish to understand the insult and frowned.
“I’ve been called worse than an asshole.”
The man laughed. “I am sure you have, seeing as you are also a whore, no?”
Despite the clammy, frigid air in the room, my skin pricked with heat. A flush of anger rippled down my body and I stared right into the fucker’s eyes when I spoke.
“No, I am not a whore.”
Who is this guy to judge me? He’s a kidnapper and he’s trying to shame me by calling me a whore?
The man leaned forward from his chair and reached out to touch my face. I jerked back in revulsion. The thought of his hands on my skin made my insides crawl. The brute behind me, Raoul, squeezed the back of my neck with his massive meaty paws until I yelped. Subdued, he held me firmly in place at the man’s feet. I watched in horror as a slender finger skimmed across my cheek and trailed down my neck.
I wanted to throw up. The water I drank threatened to make an encore. The guy literally made me sick to my stomach.
“Who are you?” I asked, done with this bizarre game of threats and posturing. I was damn ready for some answers.
“I was told you were a feisty one,” the man said with a chuckle. That fucking finger stayed on my skin, tracing along one of my collarbones to my shoulder. I swear, if it came close enough to my mouth, I’d bite it off.
My throat tightened as my gag reflex got ready to join the action. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t, puta. You are una cusca estúpida. A stupid slut. You know nothing of importance to me.”
Internally, I bristled at his insult, but didn’t give the bastard the satisfaction of an outward reaction.
“Then why am I here if I’m so useless?”
Like a viper’s strike, the man’s arm darted out and his hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing until I began to choke. He leaned in until I could smell his hot, rancid breath and get an up close look at the sadistic gleam in his nearly black eyes.
“You are here because you are importante to someone I wish to destroy.” He shoved me away by my windpipe and I fell back, retching and choking. Raoul caught me by the shoulders and replaced his boss’s hand with his own, cupping it loosely around my throat to keep me on my knees while I continued choking and gasping for air.
The boss stood, tugged on the cuff links of his pressed dress shirt, and skimmed a hand down his perfectly tailored suit. The move reminded me so much of Jag, tears pricked my eyes. The little prick lifted his chin and sneered as if I were a pile of shit left in the middle of an expensive Persian rug.
“I am El Cuchillo, and I am going to kill your boyfriend, the Boss of Austin.” He bent down until we were eye-to-eye. “And you, puta, are the key to making it happen.”
