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After sitting down next to Rusty, I look across the room. The way the Reapers treat their women makes me realize just how much freedom the Cruz Cunts have.
Here, they punish every mistake with a beating. Well, the minor mistakes get corrected with the Reapers’ fist or belt. The bigger ones… I shudder as I recall watching one of the women getting whipped bloody for sneezing into the line of drugs the guy they call Noose had just lined up.
When he was done, and she had passed out, the other women took pictures on their phones while cackling like a group of witches. No one tried to help her.
I went to bed before I saw what happened to her, and the next morning she was gone. There was still blood on the floor, making her imprint hard to miss. I haven’t asked any questions because I’m pretty sure I don’t want the answers.
Swallowing down a yawn, I force myself to take another bite of the disgusting food we’re served. Well, I say served, but that’s a fucking joke. We’re the ones doing the serving while the Reapers do nothing but drink, fuck, smoke, and snort whatever they can get their hands on.
“How long are we going to stay here?” Noose asks, leaning over the table to look at Rusty. “It’s a fucking dump.”
I try to look like I’m not listening intently.
“What the fuck did you expect?” Rusty growls back. “We lost our clubhouse in the fight. This is what we have for now.”
Noose swipes his plate of food off the table. “This isn’t fucking living, Rusty. It’s something we shouldn’t have to go through again. Especially not when we have the money to—”
Rusty leaps out of his chair, kicking the woman who was sucking him off out of the way. “One more word,” hethreatens, wagging a finger at Noose. “I fucking dare you to continue your whining.”
Doing his best not to lose face, Noose folds his arms over his impressive chest. “Or fucking what? You’re our Prez, so fucking act like it. Why are you hiding us like cockroaches instead of waging war on the few Kings who survived?”
“Noose!”
Ignoring his Prez’s warning, Noose carries on, growing more heated through his tangent. “We’re fucking split, man. Instead of being under one roof, you have us in different safe houses. What if the Kings come back? We’re sitting fucking ducks.”
With an angry growl, Rusty jumps over the table, punching Noose square in the face. “Show some fucking respect,” he bellows. “Do you think I don’t know all this? I’m waiting for the next shipment of girls. Once we sell them, we’ll have enough money to fix our living situation.”
What the fuck? Do the Reapers sell women? Oh, God, I think I’m going to be sick.
“Yeah?” another Reaper interjects. “And when is that going to be? I’m sick of fucking the same overused holes and eating the same disgusting food.”
Empowered by the two Reapers who were first to question their Prez, more start voicing their disagreement.
“And then you fucking have this grade A cunt walking around, but we’re not allowed to touch her. This is bullshit!”
I cringe and try to make myself smaller at the mention of me. The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself.
“She’s not yours to touch,” Rusty says smoothly. “You know the consequences if you do.”
I pray the conversation isn’t going where I think it is, because I’m still not ready to choose Johnny’s fate. Fuck, I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.
Rusty turns his evil eyes on me. “No, that’s right. You don’t know, do you? Because the VP’s Old Lady hasn’t decided yet.”
Fuck!!
“No time like the present, sweetheart. Tell us your final decision.”
“I-I…” Words fail me as ice spreads in my stomach. “I was going to wait for the VP. Because… umm… I wanted to make sure he’s pleased with my decision.” The words spill from my lips like verbal diarrhea. I don’t know where they come from, but it sounds good—plausible, even.
Rusty laughs heartily, and I know I’ve lost when Noose and the others join in.
“Sweet words from a sweet girl,” Rusty says. “But since he already said it’syourdecision, there’s no way around it.”
Closing my eyes, I pray for the earth to swallow me whole. When that doesn’t happen, I pray for the ceiling light to fall down and hit me in the head. Of course, nothing happens.
How the hell am I meant to pick whether they stone him, stab him, or cut off his hands? There are no good scenarios, not even a lesser evil. It’s so fucked up.
“Stab,” I whisper, cursing my voice for failing me. I repeat the word, louder this time. “Death by stabbing.”
