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“So when we go to visit Callie’s mum or this investigation actually leads us somewhere…”
“I’ll kill every fucker who even breathed in her personal space.”
“Ah good,” East replies with a snark. “I’m glad that we cleared up just what ‘no part of it’ actually means.”
“Fuck you, East! Fuck you and your honesty. It’s not always the best damn policy.”
“Dev—”
He whirls on me, pointing his finger at me while still clutching the almost empty bottle.
“Fuck you too, Tex! I hope you’ll be very fucking happy together. I see now that all this time I was trying to show Callie how much I care by exorcising her demons, I should have just been cosying up to her in bed every night like you. Fuck getting my hands dirty when I could have been getting my dick wet instead!”
“Wh-what?”
“I fucking smelt the sex as soon as I walked in! When were you going to say something?”
“I—”
Fuck.
The empty bottle explodes behind my head as it hits the wall. I duck and shield my head with my arms.
By the time I look up, the front door is slamming and Devon’s gone.
“East, I—”
What do I even say?
“You better go and reassure Callie. No doubt she heard every word of that.”
I blink and he’s gone too.
I’ve well and truly fucked everything.
It takes way more than five minutes to work up the courage to open my eyes. Though of course, I have no way to actually measure time with my lids clamped shut.
It’s time.
Be brave.
Do it!
Open your goddamn eyes, Callie!
As soon as I open them, I wish I hadn’t. But it’s too late to go back. Even if I close them again, the brief glimpse at the horror of my reality is burned into my retinas and can never be erased.
Girls, girls just like me, are crammed into the tiny, dark, dingy space. The smell is horrific, and I know that some of them must have been here for a long time.
Some are crying quietly, huddled in on themselves, while others stare into space with blank, empty eyes.
Some aren’t moving at all.
“Oh dear god,” the horrified gasp slips from my lips before I even realise that I probably shouldn’t speak.
I wish I hadn’t when rough hands grab me and an even rougher voice calls out, “we’ve got a live one.”
“Who?” Someone calls out.
“Peaches.” The nickname makes me retch. The boys love my peach shampoo, East used to call me Peaches all the time. It was half teasing, half endearment, I think. But hearing it from the rancid mouth of the scarred thug standing over me in the dim light of my prison, the term repulses me. I heave and he laughs maniacally at me, whispering in my ear, “What I wouldn’t give to taste your juices, Peaches.”
He curses and shoves me away from him when the contents of my stomach hit the dirty wooden floor by his feet, and I’m so weak I almost land in it myself.
He grabs me once more, but this time I’m saved from being pulled against his malodorous body, as he keeps me at arm’s length.
Fear like nothing I’ve ever known before pools in my belly, heavy as a brick, when a new voice replies, “Well, what are you waiting for? Bring her over for inspection.”
