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Win’s ass hurt.If he hadn’t already checked, he’d have thought he was bleeding. But he wasn’t. He just…hurt. His breaths seesawed out of him as he held himself still, wishing his heartbeat would slow down so he could hear what was going on.
He was thankful for the reprieve from the john’s brutal use of his body, but that would be brief. Something told him so. Half an hour into their one-hour stay at the motel, there’d been a bang on the door. The john had eased his grip on Win’s throat and torn out of him with no regard for his discomfort, ordering him to get under the bed.
He could have said no, to all of it, but he needed the money to buy food and get the tires fixed on his ancient Mazda. Which was why he’d returned to the street corner when he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do it again after the last time ended up with him in the emergency room getting stitched up. Ricky, the kid with the mismatched eyes who hung out on the same corner, had warned Win about this particular trick, but Win couldn’t afford to leave money on the table. So he’d climbed into the silver Porsche with the darkly tinted windows, reassuring a pensive Ricky that he’d be just fine. As soon as they’d entered the motel room, the man’s hands were around Win’s throat.
He was a biter.
A hitter.
And to him, whatever his name was, lube was a mere suggestion.
He liked when Win cried.
Hunger and adrenaline had Win shaking now as he hid under the bed, ears straining to make out the conversation happening between the john and whoever he’d let into the room. Whoever the person was that had knocked on the door scared the john; Win had caught the brief flash of fear in the other man’s eyes before he’d masked it by slapping Win in the face when he’d questioned the order to hide. They were talking now, the john’s voice high and beseeching, the other man’s low and drawling. The new guy’s words sounded as if he had all the time in the world, but still held a bit of annoyance. For some reason, his appearance had goose bumps blanketing Win’s forearms.
“Please.” The john’s tone was now cajoling. “Just name your price.”
“Are you trying to bribe me?” The newcomer sounded equal parts bored and amused.
“You don’t have to do this.”
Win could only see from their calves down when he peered out. First, the john’s bare feet backing into the room, then the newcomer’s. Shiny black shoes. They looked expensive. None of that faux leather shit. The real stuff. Shoes that would probably pay Win’s rent and feed him for a few months.
“I’m just allowing you to talk because I like hearing you beg, Nelson,” the guy told the john. “You know what’s about to happen.”
“N-No! I—”
A low pop sounded, making Win jerk, and it was only once the john—Nelson—landed on the floor on his back, his head turned toward Win, a trickle of blood between his wide eyes, that Win processed the fact that the pop had been a gunshot.
He yelped then slapped a hand over his mouth.
The retreating footsteps halted.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
His bladder gave up on him then and the hunger shakes turned into something way more terrifying. His heart banged painfully in his chest. He was dead. The john was just…dead. Staring at Win as if Win could’ve saved him.
“You can come out on your own.” The lazy drawl sent hot tears rushing down Win’s cheeks. “Or I can drag you out. You pick.”
Win’s chest heaved and with every breath he struggled to achieve, his head got lighter and lighter. He was gonna die. He knew it. When he’d made the choice to sell his body, he’d known the possibility existed. Somehow he’d managed to live through about half a dozen beatings and the knife to the gut that had sent him to the emergency room, but he wouldn’t survive a gunshot to the head.
His time was up.
He wanted to move but he couldn’t. And he couldn’t stop staring into the john’s dead eyes. He’d been an extremely cruel man for all of the thirty or so minutes Win had known him, but did he deserve to die? Did Win deserve to die for being in the wrong place at the wrong time? He should’ve listened to Ricky. He should have listened to the voice in his head that told him returning to the street corner was a mistake.
But he’d had to survive and there’d been no other way.
A face appeared so suddenly—cold gray eyes, aggressive features, dark hair—that Win reared back, knocking his head on the bed. A hand grabbed his shoulder, nails digging into his flesh as he was dragged out from under the bed.
He screamed.
At least in his mind, he did. His throat was as paralyzed as the rest of him, refusing to work. To voice the terror that had his teeth chattering. The man flung him atop the john’s dead body and Win scrambled off, retching onto the carpet.
“Should’ve known.” The man’s voice was low, but Win still heard his muttered words as if they’d been delivered through a bullhorn.
Bitterness coated his tongue and tears blinded him as he doubled over. He didn’t want to die. Life sucked, but it was life.
