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“We had an agreement. You’re not supposed to be here.”
Once a week, I get the hellish displeasure of doing whatever he wants all night, in exchange for him not showing up at mywork, or myhome,or thegrocery store. For the last five months, it’s worked. He stays on his side of Los Angeles, and I’ve got mine. Saturdays are the worst night of my life, without a doubt—a day of the week I dread as much as having a goddamn root canal every seven days—but considering the authorities haven’t bothered to keep him away from me, I consider it a success on my part. Eight years with the asshole, and I still don’t know what he does for a living, but I have no doubts about his connections to police, judges, lawyers, businessmen. I’ve seen him shake hands with politicians and important people in the city, who treat him like an old friend, but I don’t have a clue how they know him.
Sometimes, he wears a suit and tie, and based on his bulky build, I’ve guessed him to be a bodyguard, or something. He’s mentioned a military background, on occasion, and tonight, he’s wearing jeans and a gray camo T-shirt. I know he’s killed—of that, I’m certain, along with the belief that he’s a true sociopath. The kind that can wear charm like skin stretched over the evil buried beneath it.
I don’t have to look up to know his eyes are narrowed, arms crossed. Years of dealing with the asshole means I can damn near predict the thoughts in his head, which are probably spinning with questions, like where I’ve been all day.
“Came by earlier. You weren’t here.”
No shit.
“Where were you?”
Busying myself with straightening up a mostly spotless kitchen is a poor attempt to convince him that I’m not just a little unnerved by his presence. “Out.”
“You know that ain’t how it works.” He moves deeper into the room, boxing me into the corner between the sink and the stove, his body big and imposing. “I get to know where you are at all times. That’s the deal.”
“Yeah? So is not showing up at my apartment. Why are you here?”
“Having the walls painted. Fucking paint fumes are killing me. So I’m having the boys come here.”
His words sink inside my head like a bucket of bricks in the ocean. “No. No way. I don’t have enough room for tha—”
Grabbing my throat, he slams me against the wall behind me, nearly lifting me up off the floor. Air locks inside my chest, my mouth fish gaping for one sip of it. His thumb strokes my hammering artery as if testing the sharp edge of a blade.
“Way I see it, I can go wherever the fuck I want. Ain’t I the reason you get to stay in this shithole?” He glances around before his eyes are on me again and down to my breasts. He cups one of them, squeezing it too hard in his palm, sending a bruising zap of pain across my flesh. In what little movement I can muster, I turn my head away, while he fondles me, undoubtedly studying my reaction. “Boys’ll be here at ten. Gives us an hour. Was thinking we could dirty up that clean, white bed of yours.”
No. I’ll never want to sleep in it again if he fucks me there.
“I’m not in the mood,” I rasp over the throttling of my neck.
Head shaking in disapproval, he snorts a laugh as he sets me down. “When do I ever ask if you’re in the mood, shithead?” A sharp tweak of my nipple has my face screwed up in pain, and I clench my jaw in frustration.
“I’m sick. I threw up earlier,” I grit out, my arm rubbing over my tender breast.
“’Sat what I smell?” His grin is the most disgusting thing about him, because it shows off pearly white teeth designed to highlight the face he spends more time primping every morning than I do my own. “Go get cleaned up.”
“I’ll shower later.”
“You’ll shower now. I don’t want you scaring off my friends, smelling like a fucking carton of sour milk.”
“Why do you do this shit? What do you get out of making me miserable?”
“Miserable? ‘Sat what I make you? And just how miserable would you be right now, if you were paying on forty grand in fees to the city, huh? Living out of a fucking tuna can because your shitty ass job doesn’t pay for anything more than a piss pot.” He leans into me, assaulting my senses with the smell of his chewing tobacco. “Maybe you should’ve cut the cord to Grams a little earlier, baby girl, and you wouldn’t be in this position.”
“Fuck you. Fuck. You!” I slam my palms into his chest, kicking him back a step, before his smile turns to a snarl.
Only a brief flash in my periphery warns of the following crack against my cheekbone that radiates up into my sinuses and kicks my head to the side.
Before I can register the hit rattling my skull, his fingers dig into my jaw, sending a sharp ache into my teeth. “You ever lay a hand on me again without asking, and I will lay you out and fuck you while you’re down.”
Eyes squinting, I grip his wrist to break the hold at my face, but he tightens it.
“You understand? Say,yes, Daddy.”
“Fuck. You.” I know better than to test him. Experience has taught me the consequences of such actions, but my head is so lost to anger, I can’t even think straight. My mouth simply fires off on its own reflex, despite my brain telling me to slow down.
His hand slides down to my throat, and at one obnoxious squeeze, stars burst in front of my eyes while the oxygen sits trapped beneath his grasp. “I think you want to play, don’t you? Does my little whore feel like testing her limits? Huh? Want to see how long I can choke you before you black out?”
