Page 100 of The Soldier

No one is around, but I keep running and don’t bother looking around. I just run and run and run. While my heart pounds a million miles an hour and utter fear drives me forward.

Is Roger crazy enough to chase me knowing there are cameras everywhere and his broken dick is hanging out?

I can’t think about that.

I just run.

When I reach the elevators I slam my hand on the button and snap my head around, quickly trying to decide whether I take the stairs—a huge risk—or bang on some hotel room doors.

That’s when I see him. Roger is standing at his door holding a hand over his cock.

“You piece of shit!” I scream and punch the button repeatedly while trying to untie my hands.

I’m trembling so hard.

“Tell Marshall he can have the damaged goods back,” he yells.

What?

“You would’ve been a dry fuck anyway.” He slams the door.

The elevator doors ping open, and I run inside and punch the button to go down to the lobby while his words roll around in my head.

I was right. They know one another.

Why did they both pretend not to?

Shaking, I try again to get my hands free, but it doesn’t work. I don’t even know if I am drunk anymore when the doors open once more and I stare out at the busy lobby. People are happily going about their Friday night while I’ve just had the most traumatic experience of my life.

That’s when I start feeling the pain and bruising as the adrenaline begins to wear off. A tear slides down my face and robotically I walk across the lobby and out into the dark night.

“Are you all right ma’am?” Someone asks and I nod but keep walking as more tears pour down my face. As I head down the street, traffic rushes past me and I stumble.

“Hey,” a woman who looks like a waitress heading home says, pulling her handbag close to her.

Jesus. I’m not some dangerous homeless person. I’m wearing a Prada dress. Compliments of Savannah once more, but still.

I realize I must look a mess.

Drunk. Probably like I’m on drugs.

I feel completely out of it.

“Sorry,” I mutter and keep walking, then suddenly nausea rises up and I run into the bushes. I power vomit what feels like gallons of fluids as I fall to my knees.

Did Roger put something in that tea?

Spinning for what feels like hours, I kneel on the grass heaving and spitting, wiping my mouth on my arms.

Then at some point, I collapse onto my ass and just stare at nothing.

The traffic lights change, and I barely acknowledge them.

The night sky is barely visible with all the lights of Los Angeles.

Car horns blare.

Loud music and tires screech past, while I just sit there.

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