Chapter 70 Everett
SEVENTY
EVERETT
“Can I have a bucket of ice?” I ask, sitting down at the bar as “Comedown” by Bush plays on the old speakers.
The bartender looks at me oddly, and I want to roll my eyes. Where the fuck is Missy when you need her? Probably still passed out at Adam’s house after getting punched in the face last night.
“Sure.” She finally nods, and I go to get cash out of my clutch but realize I left it in the motel room.
“Fuck,” I hiss. I could go get it but decide not to. He’s going to choke me out the moment I step back into that motel room.
Joke’s on him. I’m looking forward to it. The longer he simmers, the more pissed he’ll be.
I need…something, and I’m not sure what it is. I just feel lost and confused. I need him to make me feel alive. To feel like someone else.
“Everything okay, honey?” the guy next to me asks, sipping on his scotch.
“Yeah.” I sigh. “No. I forgot my wallet.” I hold up my right hand. “Need to soak my hand in some ice.” It’s starting to swell. My knuckles are bruising.
He frowns, glancing at it. “That looks pretty bad.” I cup it in my other hand, and he gestures to the bartender. “Whatever she needs is on me tonight.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“You can and will.” He winks.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
The bartender brings me a bucket of ice, and I shove my fist into it, hissing in a breath at the frozen water.
“What happened?” He scoots his barstool closer to me.
This is why a woman should never allow a man to buy her anything. He immediately wants something in return for it. Even if it’s just your time. He thinks you owe him something.
You don’t.
“Got in a fight with my husband.” I hold up my other hand and show him my wedding ring.
“Oh.” His eyes widen at the size. “That’s…pretty.”
I shrug. “I guess so. Not like it means anything.”
“How did getting into a fight hurt your hand?” he digs more. It’s not that he’s really interested. He just wants to keep me talking. If I’m chatting with him, I’m not talking to anyone else.
“Went to hit him and missed. Hit the wall instead.”
His eyes roam my face, neck, and chest that my dress exposes before dropping to my thighs. “Well, it could have been much worse.”
“Meaning?” I know what he’s implying, but I want to hear him say it. It gives me reason to stab him.
“A woman who hits a man can’t expect him to not hit her back,” he answers. “We have to protect ourselves too.”
A man like him will say anything to justify any type of abuse. “I guess so.” I drop my eyes to my legs and pull my hand from the ice bucket, cradling it to my stomach.
I’m not saying I’m any better than a man right now. Did I go a little overboard with Kashton tonight? Yes. I just wanted to be alone. I needed a moment, and no one was giving it to me.
But he came for me. That’s what I’ve always wanted. For someone to care enough to show up, and Kashton always does.
“Thanks for the ice. I should get going.” I stand from the barstool.
“You’re upset. You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
Unbelievable. But I’m not surprised. This bar is known for rapists and human trafficking.
Statistics cite it’s usually someone known to the victim.
A family member or someone close to the family.
They gain your trust and then turn on you when they think they’ve got you right where they want you.
The ones who don’t bother to get to know you are few and far between.
All they see is an easy target and a fast payout.
Dollhouse is an exception to all the rules.
Typically, when you’re kidnapped and sold, traffickers want you out of the country.
But Dollhouse pays a premium dollar to those who bring in people to be trained.
They don’t ask your name or where you come from because they wipe whatever life you had clear away.
You become a number and show up on an app for others to bid on.
Then you’re sold to the highest bidder, given a bath, and put on a plane. After that, there’s no hope left. By then, you’re no longer who you once were anyway. You’re just a doll to be stripped down and used.
“I have a motel room next door.” I give him a shy smile. “That is…if you want to join me.”
“I’d love to.” He stands, and happiness bubbles up inside my chest. Maybe this is what I needed.
He follows me across the parking lot and notices the blacked-out Bentley parked outside the room with the personal BLAKOUT license plate. “Your car?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
“Huge rock and nice car…he must take good care of you.”
I roll my eyes since he’s behind me. Most men believe that you can’t support yourself. Coming up to the door, I turn the knob and spin around to face him before I open it all the way. “Not always.”
He reaches up and pushes my hair behind my ear. The simple touch makes my skin crawl. “Well, that’s what I’m here for.”
This man thinks he can get me off. If women had half the confidence in themselves that men have in their useless dicks, we would rule the world. Be unstoppable, I swear.
I turn and shove the door open, stepping inside. The room looks like it did when I left it, except my husband is nowhere in sight. There’s a black bag on the floor by the dresser that wasn’t here before, but that’s it.
“The Kill (Bury Me)” by Thirty Seconds To Mars plays from his cell phone sitting on the dresser beside the TV, so I know he didn’t go far. He’d never leave his phone behind. Maybe he’s in the bathroom.
I turn to the man. “Would you—”
He wraps his hand around my throat, picks me up off the floor, and slams my back onto the bed, cutting off my air.
“I bet you like it rough.” He gives me a sinister smile.
You have no idea, buddy.
I buck my hips, and it forces him up off his knees a little bit but not enough to get out from underneath him.
He laughs. “Feisty bitch.”
I reach up to stab his eyes out, but his arm is longer than mine so I can’t reach his face. Instead, I grab at his suit jacket and button-down. Anything I can reach.
His free hand yanks my dress off my shoulder to expose my bra, and he frowns that I’m not naked underneath.
Fucking bastard. Where is Kashton?
I arch my neck, trying to relieve the pressure on my throat, but it does no good. My fisted hands punch at his chest, and he laughs, letting go of me.
Gasping, my throat burns when I manage to breathe.
He gets off me and stands at the end of the bed.
He undoes his belt and then unzips his slacks.
I take the opportunity to roll onto my stomach and reach for the lamp on the nightstand as he grabs my ankle and pulls me down to the end of the bed.
I flip back over and slam it into the side of his face, breaking the lamp.
“Fuck,” he stumbles back.
I shove my heel into his chest, knocking him into the dresser and TV, causing it to crash to the floor. He trips over it, stumbling around, disoriented.
Reaching out, I take advantage of his situation and yank his belt from his slacks since he had it undone and jump on his back, wrapping it around his neck from behind and pulling it as tight as I can.
He thrashes around, slamming my back into the mirrored wall before he shoves me into a corner, making me grind my teeth at the sharp edge biting into my skin.
His hands frantically try to reach behind him to grab at me, but all he gets is a few loose strands of my hair every now and then, yanking pieces from my scalp.
“How does it feel to choke, you bastard?” I grind out, refusing to let go no matter how much my right hand hurts.
His legs give out and he falls to his knees, and still I hang on for dear life. If I let go, I’m dead. I won’t get an advantage over him again, and I don’t have a gun or knife on me. This is it.
He falls face-first onto the floor just as the door opens. Kashton steps inside and comes to a stop.
“About fucking time. Where the fuck have you been?” I bark.
KASHTON
“What—” I look out at the bar across the parking lot and then back at her. “What the fuck are you doing?” I step inside, shutting the door behind me. The bed is disheveled, the TV broken and on the floor.
“What’s it look like I’m doing?” She gets up on shaky legs and falls back into the dresser, running the back of her hand across her drool-covered chin while she tries to catch her breath.
Her dress is shoved up to her waist, and she pushes it down to her thighs before fixing the shoulder strap.
“Are you fucking serious right now?” I demand, staring at the dead guy. At least I hope he’s dead. I kick him to see if he makes any noise, and he doesn’t.
“He came on to me.” She shrugs. “Then he attacked me.”
I set my Crunch bar on the dresser, along with the bucket of ice I got for her hand.
Eve begins to laugh. “I almost died because you were getting chocolate?” She arches a brow. “Are you about to start your period, Kash?”
I want to strangle her, but it looks like the mystery man beat me to it because her neck is red and irritated. I move to stand in front of her, pinning her ass against the dresser, and she stiffens. “You’re fucking crazy,” I tell her, cupping her face.
She licks her lips. “Yeah, but you knew that when you met me.”
“I did.” I run my knuckles over her throat, and she leans her head back so I can get a better look at the redness on her sensitive skin while she tries to calm her breathing.
“And you still love me,” she adds.
“I do,” I agree, and she lowers her head, meeting my stare. “How’s your hand?”
Her green eyes hold mine, and there’s a challenge in them. “How’s your nose?”
“Not broken,” I answer.
“Mine either.” She places her hands on my hips, pulling me into her.
“I know what you’re doing,” I tell her.
A smile curves the edges of her plump lips. “What am I doing?”
Fuck, I’m obsessed with this woman. She is everything I’ve ever wanted in my life. I want to consume her. Devour her.
“You’re not getting out of your punishment.”
She lifts her right leg, wrapping it around my hip, and I lower my hand to slide up her dress and grip her thigh. “I’ve been looking forward to that all night.”