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“Oh my God, Taylor, did youseeKieran here tonight? Have you ever seen someone more fuckable?” A girl in leather pants leans into her friend’s side in front of me, swaying on her feet even with the assistance.
Her friend nods, face giddy, her sparkly bronzer glittering in the shadows. “Girl, yes. And his reputation around here doesn’t even matter. I’d ride his big dick and let him kill me afterward. I don’t even care. I have needs too, you know.”
My face scrunches at their backs, my stomach churning with misplaced jealousy. I don’t have a claim on him any more than he does me, so I force myself to relax. To breathe.
“You really think his dick is big?” Leather Pants asks, eyes widening.
“For sure. You know he used to sleep with one of the reporters atThe Gazette.The one that died? I heard him and his brother used to share her, and that—”
Dislodging myself from the line, I decide to find a different restroom, unwilling to subject myself to any more rumors.You’re not supposed to care, remember?
Cursing my heart and vagina for being wholly incapable of doing anything my brain asks, I remember being told years ago of a private family-style bathroom at the top of the stairs, and right now I’m just buzzed enough to be curious.
Tiptoeing up, careful not to put too much weight on my heels so as not to draw too much attention to myself, I grip the bannister when I get to the top, stopping in my tracks. Two hooded silhouettes stand at the far end of the hallway, bodies angled toward one another as they speak in a hushed foreign language.
The only words I can make out areKieran Ivers, because apparently he’s incredibly popular at this bar. But then they switch to English, mentioning something about the culprit behind the shooting of Craig Ivers. I still have no clue what condition the patriarch of the Ivers clan is in, and something angry ignites in my chest at the realization, followed quickly by white-hot rage over the fact that I evencarethat I don’t know.
They repeat the Ivers surname over and over, their tone hostile, and it makes the hair stand on the back of my neck—I have no idea what exactly Kieran’s involved in, but if this is mafia stuff, IknowI can’t be spotted.
I might not technically be a Montalto, but I’m still potential collateral. And I don’t want to put Caroline in that position. Don’t want her to worry about me.
Besides, what the fuck do I care about Kieran or his family for?
These people are nothing to me except a stain on the town I live in and a pain in my ass.
Moving my foot back down onto the step below, I start my descent back into the crowd, but then a hand is snaking around my waist at the same time another clamps down over my mouth, shoving me all the way upstairs. The two men whirl in my direction, cursing in their native tongue as fingers dig into my hip, bruising me.
My legs flail as my assailant drags me closer toward the men, and for a split second, sick hope blooms in my chest that maybe Kieran came for me after all, that he’s about to save me from this disaster I’ve thrown myself into, but as I’m rammed into the wall at the end of the hall, my lip connecting with the plaster and splitting, I realize what a pipe dream that is.
There are no saviors in reality.
Just monsters with different masks.
They pry my arms behind my back, securing my wrists together above my ass, as my assailant fits his entire body into mine. I will tears away as pressure builds behind my eyes, unwilling to make things worse for myself, remembering how Caroline said her despair only seemed to egg our father on when he beat her.
“Montalto,” one guy spits, his saliva spraying my cheek, almost making me retch.
A shiver skates along my spine as I struggle, realizing how deeply fucked I am if we’re as secluded from the rest of the club as I think we are. I could maybe fight off one of them, have gotten used to kneeing guys in the balls for getting too handsy with me, butthreeof them is probably not going to happen.
“Please,” I slur, the alcohol in my blood trying to catch up with my situation, slowing my movements. Delaying them. I think one of them mutters something about a “spy,” and I latch on to the word, trying to appeal to their logic. “No, no! I’m not a spy, I was just looking for a bathroom. Please, let me go—my friends are waiting for me.”
The man at my back barks something to his cohorts, and I hate that I can’t even see what any of them look like; I try to turn my head as the other two scurry off, but their hoods are drawn too tight and then there’s a fist twisting in my hair, forcing my face into the wall.
Metallic liquid blooms in my mouth as I suck on my lip, trying to add some reprieve between me and the space I’m losing. I swallow over it, hating how it warms my stomach, and try again. “Sir, please, I won’t tell anyone about this. Just let me go.”
He grunts something unintelligible, and I feel his fingers glide along my spine, to the edge of my dress. They graze the hem, the back of my thigh, and I bite back a scream, trying not to make things worse. “Beautiful,” I hear him say, and dread swells inside me, an expanding canyon of blackness I want to swallow me whole.
Panic takes siege of my insides, a tornado threatening everything in its path, and instead of it driving the fight within me, instead of using my fear to kick and claw my way out of this mess, it takes over.
Paralyzes me.
Locks my soul inside a tight little cage and tosses the key.
I shrivel into myself as this vile man reaches around, hiking his hand up my skirt and playing with the band of my thong, closing my eyes as I have so many times before and praying it’s over quickly.
With men like this, it always is. Even if it seems to drag on for centuries, leaving you feeling like you’ve lived a thousand lifetimes, each one of them worse than the last.
His arousal presses into my backside, and I clench my jaw, trying to imagine I’m not here at all. That I’m a kid again, learning to bake a cake alongside my sister, and not about to be violated in a dirty club.
