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Messina's eyes darkened, but the nasty grin remained. "Well, then maybe I should just get my money's worth now."
He let my chin drop, and his gaze drifted over my body, hands following familiarly over my shoulders and arms.
"Stop," I croaked, finding a few remnants of strength to shake against his touch. "Stop fucking touching me!"
Messina's sweaty form just leaned closer as his hands took hold of my thighs and wrenched them apart, holding them still against the chair.
"Let me go!" I shrieked into Messina's ear, earning myself yet another slap. Luckily, that hand didn't have any jewelry.
"None of that, now," he said. He laughed, big heaving guffaws that shook his belly, and grinned with an open mouth that revealed multiple fillings. "Don't make me tape that pretty mouth shut too."
He traced a fat finger over my face, giving my cheek another tap on the side that was already hurt. The swift touch sent a river of pain through my cheekbone, still raw from his previous blows. He leered down my loose tank top.
"You're a little skinny for my taste, Red," Messina said as he continued to look me over like I was a brood mare. "But we could still have some fun while we wait for lover boy to show up. Do you think he'll still pay up for damaged goods? Would he want my sloppy seconds?"
Messina squatted down, his belly hanging over his pant buckle as he put himself just below eye level with me. He set his sweaty palms on my knees and started to tug at my jeans.
"Don't fucking touch me!" I shrieked, seizing in my chair.
I wrenched my body around, but it was no use. They had nailed the thing to the floor. My wrists were taped tightly enough that I could barely move and certainly couldn't stop Messina's pork-like fingers from unzipping my loose jeans down to my underwear.
"What do you say, Red?" Messina asked as he eyed the blue lace fabric. "Does the carpet match the drapes?"
I took a deep breath to scream as loudly as I could into his ear, but before I could let it go, the door flew open, and a shadow fell across the room.
"Skylar!"
I jerked my head up and saw Brandon in the doorway, trying his damnedest to muscle his way past the pair of Messina's goons. My stomach dropped. As happy as I was to see him, I wanted nothing more than for him to get the hell out of here as fast as he could. Both of Messina's henchmen looked a little worse for wear, but each had firm grips on Brandon's arms, essentially locking him in the doorframe.
"Ah," Messina said as he straightened up. He grinned at me, a foul-mouthed mask of a man. "Too smart, huh? Guess not."
"Get your fuckin' hands off her!" Brandon thundered. He was clearly straining against his captors with every bit of effort he had, causing his face to turn bright red and the veins in both his forehead and his neck to pop visibly.
I had never been so surprised to see anyone. Or more relieved. Or, as I saw Messina reaching around his back and into his waistband, more worried. There was only one thing he would keep there.
"Brandon!" I cried out, suddenly filled with dread. I turned to Messina. "Let him go. Please, you'll get your money, I promise."
With a roar, Brandon managed to knock one of the thugs' heads into the doorframe, felling him with a quick blow. He turned to the other, lightning fast, and proceeded to pummel him into the floorboards, exacting six-feet, four inches of corded vengeance until the guy fell next to his partner.
Brandon turned to me and Messina, who was now standing behind me, gun drawn and pointed at my temple. Brandon froze.
A knife tore through the duct tape at my wrists. My arms were free, but with a gun at my head, I still couldn't move.
"Stand up, Red," Messina ordered, yanking me out of the seat and pinning both of my wrists in his ham fist.
I cringed as his fingers dug into the raw wounds. I followed his orders, keeping my eyes glued to Brandon's. Stay there, I willed him with everything I had.
"Let her go," Brandon said as he took one careful step over the still bodies on the floor.
Messina cocked the gun with a loud click.
"You stay right there, Don Juan," he said as he twisted me around the room, moving in an awkward dance with Brandon.
Up a flight of stairs, I could hear voices yelling for us––Brandon's security team, obviously left behind when Brandon had jumped out to find me. Three of them toppled into the room; one even had another gun drawn.
"It's over," Brandon said in a low voice to Messina. He glanced at the felled men. "Let her go, and we'll take you to the police instead of shooting you like the fuckin' dog you are."
His South Boston accent, which usually just came out when he was emotional, was so thick I almost couldn't understand him––"are" was so flattened that the "r" had completely disappeared.
