Chapter 21 #5
I better have something to drink to look authentic. She poured a lemon-lime soda for herself and moved it to one side.
The men walked back in. All male Doms, no submissives. Blaize paused to lock the door, having to push his shoulder against it to get the deadbolt to work. “Get a newer house next time, Savage.”
“Noted.”
As they headed straight for her, she counted. Seven of them.
They included Conan. And Savage, the bartender. Her heart sank.
One pulled off his shirt, showing tats from wrist to shoulders. Her stomach dropped as she recognized the cruel shaggy-haired sadist.
She sure didn’t have enough drugged drinks. Gods help her. Hastily, she made three more drinks. Without drugs. Dammit.
Okay, get your acting hat on. From behind the island—as if it would protect her—she beamed at them all. Perhaps it was good she wasn’t wearing a mask. Made it easier to appear to be drugged to the gills.
Why hadn’t she brought a gun or something?
“I made you drinkshs!” She leaned over the island and held out an undrugged drink. “For you, Master Wick.” Seeing as you don’t look as rough as the others, Master Creeper.
He pulled his mask down as did the others. Seeing their faces didn’t help her fear at all.
Gods.
Before she could move, a pale, lanky blond called Bourne grabbed a drink from her tray. One of the drugged ones.
Damn him. She’d wanted the drugged drinks to go to the most dangerous men.
Pulling the tray closer to her, she handed a plain one to Savage, the icy blue-eyed, overweight bartender. She couldn’t take the chance he’d recognize the taste of Rohypnol.
“Here you go, Sir.” The other roofied drink went to a body-builder type with bulging muscles and mean eyes. Definitely someone who needed to be knocked out.
Moving sideways, she pretended to stagger, and they all laughed.
Conan, the big skinhead who’d guarded the door, sauntered around the island. Ignoring her attempt to give him a drink, he grabbed her and squeezed her breasts hard enough to make her grit her teeth.
Can’t hit him. Not yet. Instead, she hugged him, preventing him from getting more handsy. “You’re so nice! Want a drink?”
On the other side of the island, the mean-looking bodybuilder held up his drink and snorted. “Here, Hellboy. You like this shit.” He handed the glass to a stocky bearded man with dark red hair who took a taste and nodded approval.
Damn. So much for taking the dangerous ones out of the picture.
“Let’s get the party started.” Blaize took out his phone and propped it on the island, facing the living room space.
Savage took out his own phone and put it by the television—again facing the couches.
They recorded their assaults? An unnerving thought made her stiffen. Did they have a video of her from the past?
I’m going to throw up.
No, no, keep going. They weren’t the only ones recording the events tonight.
Sliding out of Conan’s grip, she hurried to Blaize and wrapped around him. She rubbed her breasts against his arm.
“You’re pretty cute, subbie-girl.” He rubbed his crotch against her.
Don’t puke.
Blond Bourne and bearded Hellboy were sipping moderately. How long would it be before they were incapacitated?
Stall some more. Hey, she was hyper and crazy, obviously put on this earth to distract these hedge-pigs. Go, me!
“Hey, I’sh beed learning dance an’ rapic-pactic…Ack, pr-ac-ti-cing,” she said slowly. “Imma show you.”
Swinging her hips like an over-sized metronome, she headed over to the phone beside the speaker box and scrolled the playlist. Yeah, this one. The Eurythmics’ cynical lyrics of “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” blasted out.
Upping the volume, she started dancing in the center of the sitting area. A few occasional staggers added veracity.
The men moved into a circle around her. Watching her with a nauseating lust in their eyes.
When Annie Lennox got to the “some of them want” list, she cupped her breasts and mouthed the words, “abuse you.”
Bartender Savage drained his drink and took a step forward.
And then Bourne dropped down onto the couch as if his legs had given out.
Ray’s heart rate kicked up a notch. Don’t figure it out, please!
She smiled at the men, tilting her head in a drunken way, eyes half-closed. “Whatcha planning to do with me?” She blinked and frowned as if noticing the number of men. “There’s a lot of you.”
“Bitch, we’re gonna fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk tomorrow,” the door guard Conan said.
Savage nodded. “Start with her, then bring out the other one.”
By “other one,” the bastard meant Marisol. Oh, you need a foot to the crotch. I can kick you in the jewels so hard—
Brain, stay focused. This is being recorded. She asked loudly, “All seven of you?”
“Yeah, fuckmeat, all of us,” Blaize said loudly.
Time to register non-consent. Loudly and verbally—although even being drugged should be enough.
But if and when they got arrested, she’d be able to say—and show on the recording—she had refused.
She held her hands up, palms out, shook her head, and retreated several steps.
“No. I don’t want any of you. I do not want to have sex with you. I’m going to go home now.”
“The fuck you will.” Rambo, the mean-eyed bodybuilder who hadn’t gotten a drugged drink stalked forward and grabbed her arm. Yanked her to him. “You and Conan’s bitch are our fuckmeat for tonight.”
Conan’s bitch. Was Conan the same person as Marisol’s Master Atlas? Gods, she wanted to hurt him so bad.
“You…” Even as he twisted her arm and made her yelp, Rambo was looking her over. “Wick’s right. You’re older, but I remember you from before.”
Ice ran up her spine.
“Yeah, before. She gotta great scream,” Hellboy slurred.
“Hold off, Rambo,” Savage said. “Roofie her first. Don’t want her remembering anything tomorrow.”
“What?” Frowning, blond Bourne looked up from where he sat on the couch. “I thought you said the girls were into consensual non-consent play. But drugging her… That’s not the same thing. An’ she doesn’t look like she wants it.”
“You’re new, right? Relax, we’ve all done this lots of times.” The tattooed sadist grinned.
“Yeah, this shit works great. You’ll see. Makes great vids too.” Bartender Savage pulled out a key and headed down the hall.
Uh-oh. Even half-frozen with fear, Ray yanked her arm out of Rambo’s grip and stepped away from him.
Savage’s angry shout sounded from down the hall. “Hey, two of the vials are gone.”
“What?” Conan yelled back.
With a moan, the stocky, red-bearded man staggered backward. His eyelids were at half-mast, his chin sagging. Near the front window, he sank down to the floor and toppled sideways.
“What the fuck, Hellboy.” Conan walked over and nudged the limp man with a boot. No reaction. “You’re actin’ like a roofied bitch.”
“I feel funny,” the blond Bourne whined.
Oh, damn, damn, damn. Ray glanced at the front door. How was she ever going to get out of here?
“Someone jimmied open the safe box.” Savage stomped across the living room. He stared at Hellboy, who lay on the floor. At the half-conscious blond. His eyes widened. “Someone roofied our drinks. This a joke?”
“Sure ain’t one of us,” the sadist snapped.
Blaize’s eyes narrowed at her. “She went to the bathroom.”
They all turned to stare at her.
She took two more steps back.
“Yeah, she did it. The bitch drugged their drinks.” Conan’s cursing was so foul her skin crawled.
“I gave mine to Hellboy.” Rambo stalked toward her. “Oh, bitch, you’re gonna be sorry I didn’t drink any.” The bodybuilder’s grin was full of malice. “I’m going to enjoy making you scream.”
Gods, I’m going to die. Her fear spiked impossibly higher.
She sucked in a breath and deliberately closed her hands into fists. Time to fight. I want to live—I will live.
He lunged at her.
A scream escaped her as she dodged.