Page 182 of Deep Cover

Vincent pulled her off me by a handful of long dark hair. "Are you too stupid to realize this has to be fast?"

I didn't miss the hate that raged across her face. He couldn't see her face, because he was standing directly behind her, but she was right above me.

The hate wasn't all for me.

After that, Vincent dragged off my running tights. I kicked, screamed, fought and twisted on the table. It was impossible not to. Kie had been sent away, but there were guards there and Vincent simply nodded to them.

No restraints. Just a man on each limb. My face flamed with heat, humiliation as awful as the fear, and Vincent there, someone I hated, no one I would ever have hooked up with, been with, no one I'd have let touch me –

With his tools.

His light.

"Hold her!"

And he was inside me. At least something of his was. But though Kie had pleasured herself by stripping me halfway and Vincent had enabled whatever he was doing by cutting off the rest of my clothes, apparently that wasn't the intent.

Instead there was a sharp, agonizing pinch deep inside me that made me scream and he said in an almost human voice, "It's over, never mind, that was it," before he dropped something from the forceps into a metal pan. It didn't bang like a bullet in a television show.

It made a plastic and wire sound of something maybe tech-like, something small, something plastic, with bits of something harder. My brain scrambled and I struggled with the men holding me down, wanting to get my head up far enough to see but they did an admirable job of stopping me from moving, from being able to lift my head or kick my feet, still shod in running shoes.

I couldn't even get my head around far enough to bite one of them.

They were utterly, eerily, uninterested in my nakedness. That maybe more than anything else scared me. It was of paramount importance to me. Being forced into being naked with everyone else around me was humiliating. It could go on happening forever and it would never be anything but humiliating, leaving me frantic to cover up, to get away, to never be seen by those who had seen too much of me – ever again.

Being naked is being vulnerable, not just in a new relationship, the first time with someone new, but because the paranoia of being human screams of the need to be able to move fast, to protect the skin, the feet, the hands, to run without the pain of body parts bouncing, to protect against the elements.

To be able to go out the door and save yourself because even an open path and your own gun at that moment would have made you at least hesitate. The need to be clothed is too ingrained.

They didn't give me the chance anyway. Not to run. Not to see.

Vincent handed the metal dish off to someone and said, "Clone it and disperse it." Then he threw a stack of sweats onto my belly and said, "Get dressed."

Five minutes later we left Hollywood.

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