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Another round of nausea rises up my throat and burns my tongue threatening to spill out onto the floor, so I push open the nearest door hoping I’ve stumbled across the toilet.
“What the fuck?!” a voice roars.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.
Before me, Jeb, the leader of the fucking Skins, is standing with his pants pushed down to his ankles whilst a guy on his knees deepthroats him. A guy. A fucking man.
Holy fucking shit.
I’m dead.
I’m fucking dead. Not metaphorically.Actually.
Jeb is straight as a die, or so everyone believes. So if he’s back here getting his cock sucked behind closed doors then this is asecret, something he doesn’t want anyone to see, let alone me. I’m so fucking dead.
Two things happen at once. I promptly throw up again with the stress of my brother’s threat, barely missing the guy on his knees, and Jeb lunges for me, his dick slipping from the guy’s mouth.
I run.
Blind fear fuels me and I skid on my own vomit, grabbing the wall to keep steady before legging it down the corridor.
I don’t get far.
A thick arm folds around my waist, hauling me backwards. “Now, now, pretty girl. Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
“I didn’t see anything… I-I was lost. I-I’m sorry, I’ll clear up the mess,” I rattle out, my tongue a loose, word-spewing, mess.
“Let’s have a chat, shall we?” Jeb says. His voice is a low, threatening growl in my ear.
I consider fighting back. That thought lasts all of a second when I realise that Jeb will sooner put a bullet in my head than let me even raise a fist to him, or run again. The only thing I can do now is exactly what he asks and hope that somehow he doesn’t decide to kill me.
Letting out a whoosh of breath, I allow Jeb to drag me into one of the other rooms along the corridor. Inside is a medium sized office with a large mahogany table, along the back wall are six TV’s, all recording footage of the club. A large man is sitting with his back to us, busy watching his mobile phone, his headphones plugged into his ears, laughing raucously. He isn’t looking at the screens and he definitely isn’t paying attention to his environment given we’ve just walked in without him noticing. Jeb deposits me on a seat in the corner of the room then steps up behind the man, picks up his gun that he’d left so carelessly on the table and places it against his temple.
The man freezes.
I stop breathing.
Jeb yanks out the man’s headphones and leans over, pressing his mouth against his ear. “You’re fired,” he snarls, then pulls the fucking trigger.
Blood, brain, and bone burst out of the side of the man’s head, splattering the wall opposite, leaving nothing but a gaping mess.
My mouth opens in a silent scream. Inside my head the sound is blood-curdling.
Tonight, I’m going to die.
