5. Chapter 3
Emery
My eyelids feel as though they have one-hundred-pound weights attached to them, and I have to put every bit of strength I have into opening them. It’s slow, and the inside of my skull gives a sharp throb as an odd, yellowish light filters through my eyelashes.
Someone is walking around, and as the sound of my own pulse diminishes, I can hear muttering among the shuffling of sneakers against the dusty floor.
Losing the battle against the weights, my eyelids slide shut again.
Whatever I’m lying on—a mattress, maybe?
—smells like seven different shades of piss, and I fight the urge to gag.
There is no what the fuck or how did I get here moment. Sure, I might not know exactly where I am, but I remember everything leading up to this point.
The apartment, alone.
Obsession.
The foyer.
Red.
The Uber ride.
Tray.
Pain.
The surge of emotions that swells within me from just thinking his name makes the nausea I’ve been ignoring bubble up to the back of my throat as my skull returns to feeling like it’s going to explode.
I squeeze every muscle I can manage in an attempt to stop myself from throwing up and take deep breaths as quietly as I possibly can.
Right now, my only plan is to continue pretending like I’m out cold until being unconscious is no longer keeping me safe.
Tears burn the backs of my eyes as the heaviness of the situation falls down on me.
No one knows where I am.
No one knows I need help.
Oakley might know, but she might have just as easily assumed my call was a butt dial and hung up.
No one is coming to save me. Least of all the four men I broke things off with by using my safe word, which they have repeatedly told me will end things if I used it. I have no idea if they really meant that.
But what I do know is that all their bullshit about consent and safe words, the protective vibes they put out into the universe, of BDSM relationships needing open and clear communication, is exactly that—bullshit.
I gave them everything they asked for. I played by all their goddamn rules, even when I didn’t understand what the game was. But the one thing I asked them for, the one thing I needed from them—the right to make my own choices—they couldn’t give to me.
I’ve had a lifetime of other people thinking they know what’s best for me, of them making choices on my behalf, never once asking me what I wanted. The life of a “problematic” kid in the system is just an endless game of chess, being moved from square to square by some nameless puppet master.
Getting out, getting into college…those were all decisions I made for myself. Me. I did that. And I’ll be getting myself out of this situation. I’ll make whatever decisions I have to so that I can survive and continue the life I have fucking planned for myself.
Getting a graduate degree, becoming an accountant, buying my own house and a cat.
Make that two cats. Big, fluffy white ones.
No, wait. Shelter cats that are maybe a little mean but need a second chance at life.
Yes, that. That’s what I want. I want to be a cat lady in my own house, with my own career, without anyone else around to fuck it up for me.
But right now, I need to deal with whatever the fuck Tray wants.
Taking a deep breath, I force my eyes back open and almost jerk back when I’m confronted by some nasty-as-fuck sneakers only a few feet from my face. Slowly, I scroll my eyes up the legs, then roll onto my back as I’m forced to look all the way up, until I’m staring up at Tray’s face.
“Fuckin’ finally,” he sneers before dropping to his haunches, the knife in his hand glinting off the weird yellow light. “Thought we were gonna have to do this while you were out.”
A quick glance causes a spike of pain in my temple, but I spot the source of light, an actual flame-lit lantern on top of an overturned crate. I…what? Actually, no, I don’t care why he is using literal fire for light.
“What the hell do you want, Tray?” I grit out, throat aching and head pounding at the sound of my own voice. My field of vision is blurry as fuck, and only his face is in focus.
He laughs, the noise not even close to happy, and waves the knife a little. “Did you really think you could leave me?”
Apprehension is slowly eating away at the fog that has taken up residence in my brain, but I refuse to give in to it. Letting the fear take over is only going to cause more problems. “You don’t own me, Tray. I can be wherever I want to be.”
Groaning, I use my hands to sit up but end up gasping and collapsing back down as screaming pain shoots from my index finger, down into my thumb joint, into my wrist, and up my forearm.
I grab my aching forearm with my free hand and raise both so that I can see the damage, but besides a slight bit of swelling beneath my thumb, there doesn’t appear to be an injury.
I mean, I know there is one ’cause it fucking hurts—exactly like the time I did break my arm—but it doesn’t look broken.
Last time, there was a huge amount of swelling and bruising almost immediately.
So, hopefully just sprained? Whatever it is, I still want to sit up and put some distance between myself and that knife, especially since I’ve recently spent a bunch of time with someone who knows how to actually handle sharp objects.
Tray really doesn’t inspire any belief in his skills, especially with the way he keeps twitching, and now that I’m looking a little closer, sweating.
Withdrawals.
Fuck. Okay, it’s really time to move.
Using my good arm, I push up and scoot backward with my butt, but I don’t get far before Tray closes the gap and grips my hair, yanking my head sideways and tipping me off balance.
I grit my teeth and refuse to scream when the throbbing turns to an explosion in my skull, but I definitely make a noise because he grins, his hot, rancid breath flowing over my face.
Instantly, I close my mouth and cease my own inhalation.
His teeth look like he gave up brushing them weeks ago. Maybe even months.
“That’s where you’re fuckin’ wrong. I own your ass. I’ve always owned your ass,” he growls at me, eyes filled with a level of crazy I’ve never seen before.
If it wasn’t for the knife dangling in his free hand, like he’s forgotten that it’s there, I’d be kicking him in the balls so hard right now.
But with my wrist doing whatever the fuck it’s doing and my head pounding the way it is, I’m thinking that playing this game might be the safest thing for now.
It’s not like I haven’t done it before. I know exactly what this is. He owes someone money. Probably more than one someones, especially if he hasn’t found a way to pay them since the last time we were together, which was months ago.
“Who do you owe?” I demand through gritted teeth, nausea sitting at the back of my throat.
His brow creases with confusion, and the grip in my hair loosens. “What?”
“That’s what this is, right? You owe money, and you promised them my pussy in exchange.” I practically spit the words, my energy draining with the effort.
Surprise, irritation, and then an ugly look of joy spread across his features. “Not your pussy.”
Not my…
“No.” My heart seizes in my chest with fear. “Absolutely fucking not.”
A dark grin spreads across his face. “Yeah, that sweet, tight, virgin asshole. Cruz an’ his boys will be here soon, just stopping to get some lube. Then all three of your holes are goin’ to get worked over. And in this outfit, they are goin’ to love you.”
My club outfit. Black lace and satin. I’m wearing a goddamn push-up bra.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I need to get out of here before the Two-Sixers crew gets here.
Throat tight, I still manage to scream and shove him away from me. The only reason he moves is because I catch him by surprise, since he’s not used to me fighting him on anything.
“I said no, Tray! Clean up your own fucking mess. I’m done with this shit.”
Motherfucker. Fear floods my system, and I force myself to stand, the room tilting to the side as I am literally backed into a corner, stumbling over the uneven mattress beneath my feet, Tray advancing on me with his knife out.
“Mer, mer, mer. You don’t have any choices. When they get here, you’re going to bend over an’ you’re gonna take it like you always have. I’ve heard that Cruz loves to hear a girl scream, so don’t feel like you need to hold any of that back.”
My stomach is turning over almost continuously as I try to fucking think. Can I just pay it for him? I have the cash from the guys now. The most it has ever been was a few hundred. That would barely make a dent in my savings. “How much is it? How much do you owe them? A grand?”
The sharpness in his eyes dims and he glances away.
Oh shit, more than one thousand dollars?
“More? Two, three?”
When he doesn’t answer, anger burns through my veins, and I shove him off the mattress. He stumbles, but he manages to catch himself. “How much is my ass worth, Tray?”
There is a long, drawn-out silence. “Twenty.”
I stare at him as my stomach drops out through my ass, and an incredulous laugh bubbles up in my throat. “Twenty thousand dollars?”
He nods a single time, looking away from me, and suddenly, everything clicks into place.
This piece-of-shit house, the lantern, the fact that he reeks like he is one step away from death.
He’s hiding out, and he finally wants back out in the real world.
But instead of paying his debts himself, he wants to use my ass—literally—to save himself.
There is no way I’m getting out of this unscathed. Either I have to cough up all the money, or I have to bend over and take it from the Two-Sixers. All the fight leaves my body, and I sag against the wall, fingers and hands tingling as the edges of my vision go even hazier.
I want to cry. This is so unfair. Why the hell does this shit keep happening to me?
I. Was. Out.
I made the choice to save myself. To save my damn future. Why can’t someone save me just this once?