Chapter 52
Chapter
Fifty-Two
WREN
T here are a few drunk girls leaving the bathroom, unaware of the events that just occurred as I sprint toward the office.
I’ll probably go to hell for this, but I didn’t bother to stop and tell them to get back inside the bathroom and lock the door. I don’t know them, and I sure as hell do not have time to try to talk to a grown-ass adult like a toddler and explain what just happened. It’s probably from working in a bar for so long, but my patience for drunk people when I’m sober and not on shift is basically non-existent.
Once I reach the office, I quickly shut and lock the door. Slamming my back into it in relief as I slide down until my ass hits the cool tile.
God, I hope Matteo is okay.
I’m starting to think I’m the bad luck charm in this whole scenario. This is the second time we’ve been shot at. That can’t be a coincidence .
I sit on the floor for a long time. It isn’t until my ass has that cold, numbing feeling that I finally get up. Just as I get to my feet, there’s a loud knock on the door.
“Who is it?” I call through the door. If I make it out alive, I’m telling Cain he needs to put one of those little peepholes in this door. It would really make these types of situations a little more convenient.
Silence.
The hairs on my arms are starting to stand up because something doesn’t feel right.
Matteo or any of the guys would have answered me.
“Hello?” I try again, proud of myself for not letting the fear that's coursing through my veins be known.
Silence.
My heart is loudly pounding in my ears as the door handle starts to jiggle. It jiggles faster and faster until whoever is on the other side starts body-slamming into it.
I made myself a sitting fucking duck.
Great.
Another big slam against the door, and it starts to crack.
I dart around the desk, frantically moving various items and papers around the desk, trying to find something, anything, to use to defend myself if it comes to that. I know Cain has to have a gun stashed in here somewhere. I yank open the top drawer, finding nothing but a fifth of Jameson that maybe has a swallow left. Of course he wouldn’t keep a gun in the obvious place.
Fuck my life, dude.
I jump as the person rams the door again. This time I can see into the hallway through the little slit between the frame and the edge of the door from the lock being bent now, not letting it close properly.
One more ram, and they’re in .
The door comes crashing in, splitting the rest of the way as soon as it hits the wall, falling to the floor in pieces.
I freeze as I come face to face with the same man who stalked me home, broke into my apartment, and tried to kill me.
“You’re a hard woman to get alone, Wren,” he says. A chill runs down my spine at the edge in his tone.
I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat. “Why do you want me alone?”
“You’re a loose end.” He shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “As much as I would love to stay and have a nice chat, we can’t.”
I take a step back with every step he takes forward until my back hits the row of filing cabinets behind the desk.
My eyes quickly dart around the room, trying to find a way out, but I see nothing. I’m trapped.
“Why can’t we?” I never thought I would be trying to reason with a psychopath, but here we are. Anything to buy a little bit of time.
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” he snaps, slamming his fist on the desk. “You saw.”
“Saw what? I honestly have no idea who you are or what you’re even talking about.” The next time I see someone basically dying on the side of the road, I am not stopping because fuck this shit. I didn’t ask for any of this. And if today is the day I die, then so be it, but it will not be in the back office of DD’s.
I fucking refuse.
“It all started with you fucking seeing me!” he screams, chunks of spit flying out of his mouth and hitting me in the face. It takes everything in me to stop thinking about all of the nasty things that are probably floating around in his saliva. Just the mere thought of it makes me want to throw up on the spot. “And then you just had to help him. You just had to stop and stick your nose into something that you have no business even being in. You stupid fucking girl.” He rants, sounding more crazy as he goes on.
A glint on the side of the desk closest to me catches my eye. The silver color gives me hope that it’s something sharp.
“Let’s fucking go.” He roughly grabs my upper arm, squeezing until the skin under his fingers turns white from the loss of blood underneath it. I can already feel the bruise starting to form.
I try to yank my arm out of his grasp, but I fail. Instead, he grows more angry. He pushes me, making me stagger, not prepared for the sudden jarring motion, and I fall toward the desk. Just as I put my free arm out to catch my fall, he shoves me again, only this time it’s harder. Instead of my arm breaking my fall, I land face first on the wood. My head bounces back on impact, but he’s right there, slamming it back down and making me cry out.
I can feel tears start to pool in the corner of my eyes. They’re not from being hurt though. No. They’re from the fact that I’m giving him the satisfaction of letting him know that he’s hurting me. The last thing I want is for this piece of shit to think he has had any sort of effect on me.
I’m seeing stars as I try to regain focus of the spinning room. The tears are only making it harder.
“Stop making me hurt you. I was going to make your death as pretty as you,” he says in a sickening soft tone. His free hand starts to stroke my hair as I feel the vomit work its way up my throat. “I had it all planned out. You were going to be lying down in bed. I was going to dress you in a white gown. You would look like an angel.” He pauses to lean down and sniff my hair.
Fucking gross .
I start to fold into myself on reflex. My shoulders are almost touching my ears, and I arch away from him.
“Keep doing that.” He takes another deep inhale. “I love it when you squirm. I want you so badly.”
Want you?
Want you?
“Just give it a little suck,” he says, making my body lock up tight. His hand shoots out in front of my face, and before I can register what’s happening next, he shoves two of his dirty, slimy fucking fingers into my mouth, making me gag. The vomit rushes around his fingers, the chunks oozing in between them as I bite down hard. He rips them out of my mouth with a scream, vomit dripping from his fingertips.
Using this small distraction to my advantage, my hand darts out, grabbing the shiny silver object I saw minutes before. I thank every single god and goddess that comes to mind when I realize it’s a letter opener.
Without hesitating, I tightly grip the slim handle before throwing my arm back as hard as I can, praying I make contact with anything on his body.
He lets out a blood-curdling scream, much like the one he let out the first time I stabbed him. The memories that come flooding back don’t paralyze me. They fuel my rage. Fuel my need to finish what he started. I refuse to be a victim in this made-up game he turned into my life.
I look back behind me and see the letter opening sticking out of his thigh. Blood is already starting to drip down his leg and onto the floor.
“You fucking bitch!” he roars, yanking the letter opener out of his thigh and throwing it on the desk. “You’re going to fucking pay for that.”
That’s the last thing I hear before everything fades to black.