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“Bullshit,” Dewey repeated. “I got a text from him the morning after you were grabbed off the street.”
“Ahh, the text that said I was almost dead, drugged and promising I would do anything—anything—if he, his fellow corrupt cops and those Trinity fuckers stopped hurting me? You mean that text?”
“You fucking prick,” Dewey snarled.
“The text that you responded to with, tell Pratt I’m coming over to fill his ass with my cock until he’s a dead fucking corpse, right?”
Dewey yanked on my wrist. My stomach lurched with pain and sickened disgust. “I’m going to kill—”
“I particularly liked the follow-up text,” Lucas cut him off, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans to withdraw a smartphone and held it up for Dewey to see. From where I stood on the stairs, I could see the familiar text bubbles of a text conversation but couldn’t read the words in them.
Lucas helped out by reading them aloud.
“Make sure he’s still tied up when I get there. Preferably naked and ass up ready for me.” He grinned down at Dewey. If the Devil had been there right at that point in time, he would have envied that grin. “Obviously I wasn’t still tied up.”
“You killed Kitchner?”
Lucas returned what I assumed was Kitchner’s cell to his back pocket. “No. Loco did.”
I had no idea who Loco was, but by the way Dewey hissed in a breath behind me, he did. By the way he yanked my wrist up higher between my shoulder blades and drove the gun harder to my temple, he wasn’t happy with the news either.
I tried not to react to the fresh pain ripping through my shoulder and head, but a choked whimper escaped me before I could bite it back.
Lucas flicked a glance at me. It was the first time he’d acknowledged I was there since his unexpected arrival. What I saw in his eyes when they met mine made the pit of my stomach clench and my pulse quicken—icy-cold murderous rage.
“You see,” he said, his focus returning to Dewey, “while you and Kitchner banked on the Trinity wanting me dead after you revealed I was your C.I., they also wanted you and Kitchner dead more. Plus the Trinity members who’d betrayed them. The one thing the Trinity value more than loyalty is their privacy, and when you invaded that, it made you a dead fucking corpse.”
Dewey dug his fingers into my wrist. The gun did the same to my temple. “So Trinity is going to kill me now?”
Lucas laughed. “Oh, no, I’m going to kill you.”
Dewey gripped my wrist tighter. I’d completely lost all feeling in my hand by now, and my shoulder was a ball of fire. “For exposing you?”
A calmness fell over Lucas. “For hurting Ronnie. I’m going to break every bone in your body with my bare hands for that.”
“I’ve got a better idea.” Dewey released my wrist, encircled my body with his arm and crushed my back to his chest, squeezing my boob as he did so. “How about I fuck her face and you watch me, before you bend over and I fuck you in the ass?”
I’d had enough. This guy was a dick. And he was making Lucas angry. Very angry. I’d never seen him so detached and calm. And scary.
If I didn’t do something soon, who knew how this was going to end? Above all else, I wanted all three of us to be alive when it was done. I didn’t want Officer Dewey standing—hell, I didn’t want him conscious, but I didn’t want him dead. Dead by Lucas’s hands would bring a whole load of shit down on him, and this pathetic cop wasn’t worth that.
“Hey, Dewey,” I said over my shoulder, keeping my stare on Lucas’s face. “You know you actually need a have dick to get a blowjob, right?”
His hand on my boob grew cruel. “Why, you little—”
I let my knees crumple beneath me. Gravity did the rest.
With abrupt speed, I slid downward, completely out of Dewey’s arms before he could react to my unexpected move.
Hey, if you’re a woman in your twenties living alone in this country and you haven’t attended at least five self-defense classes, you need to get your act together.
The last thing Dewey had expected me to do was suddenly drop to my knees. My instructor—a woman who, according to her brochure, had trained as a Marine before surviving a rape attempt—had spent many a session telling those in my class to use our attacker’s energy against them. When being held, your attacker is going to expect you to fight against them, not turn to a sudden boneless limp noodle.
“Bitch,” Dewey yelp as my shins collided with the stair and the back of my head slid down his gut. His hand—the one that had been pawing my boob—tangled in my hair as I slammed my head backward, hoping against hope I was going to hit his groin.
I heard what Hollywood told me was the distinct click of a gun just above my head, and then Lucas was roaring, “Ronnie, stay down!”
I turned myself to a puddle, just as Lucas charged Dewey.
