Page 28 of Little Sunshine

If Veronica would hurry up with my money, I could return to my apartment and never have to see even the edge of Moonlight again.

Which sounds very ominous and dramatic, but whatever.

With an exasperated sigh—both at myself and my mother—I tore my eyes away. I checked my phone, but there was still nothing. No call to explain. Not even a text to acknowledge she was late.

Tired of waiting, I hit call. After only a ring and a half, it cut off and went to her voicemail.

She hit decline.

When it beeped for me to leave a message, I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her what a shit mom she was. How she was selfish and greedy and ruining my life.

But I didn’t.

I kept my frustration and temper in check because if I wounded her giant ego, she wouldn’t meet up. I wouldn’t get my money. She’d flip the whole narrative around to be the victim. And with an angry voicemail as proof, she could really milk it.

Not wanting to give her any excuses or fuel, I kept my voice as light and non-confrontational as possible. “I’m here, Roni?—”

I didn’t have the chance to say anything else when two things happened at once.

My phone was plucked from my hand.

And my body was moved against my will—and not gently.

It took a moment for me to realize what happened.

That I’d fucked up.

I’d lived in Vegas and the outskirts my whole life. I knew it was as dangerous as it was glamorous.

As in, the rich areas were glamorous with just a hint of danger to keep it exciting. Outside of that—in the areas I lived and shopped and worked and existed—was the opposite. It was dangerous with just a glimpse of glamor in the distance. Close, yet always out of reach.

Even knowing how dodgy it was, I’d been focused on my phone. My thoughts had been preoccupied by my mother. I hadn’t stayed aware of my surroundings.

For anyone, that was a stupid risk.

For a woman, it could be deadly—or worse.

As soon as my brain caught up to my body being shoved against a building, I inhaled deep.

And then I screamed my damn head off.

My mouth was quickly covered, a sweaty palm pushing my cheek harder against the brick. The rough texture scraped and stung as I was dragged farther between the buildings.

Whoever had me spoke, but with my blood roaring in my head and a forearm against my ear, I couldn’t make out what he said.

A different, quieter voice responded.

I knew better than to think that voice was some Good Samaritan rushing to help me. If anyone else was in the vicinity—and that was a big if—they’d likely lower their head and take off in the opposite direction. A second voice only meant one thing.

There are two of them.

Fuck.

My thoughts raced as I tried to figure out what to do. I needed to scream. Lash out. Kick. Scratch. Bite my way free.

With my heart hammering in my chest and my lungs burning with insufficient breaths, my fight-or-flight instincts screamed at me to do something. Anything.

I didn’t.

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