Page 49 of Debt of My Soul

“You’re right. Patience always makes it better.” He sniffs, rubbing his hand back and forth over his nose. “But I’m first, Liam. Don’t pull rank.”

“She’s not my type,” Liam clips out, not sparing me a glance. “Better see what Darrin wants with her before you start making plans, Trip.”

Not his type? Good. I don’t want to be his type—arrogant jerk. Fighting the drop in my chest, I tremble when Trip forces me to him, pulling my shirt by its front collar. The strength of his pull causes me to slam into him, and I nearly throw up at the smell of his body odor and the scent of stale chips on hisgraphic T-shirt. My hand grazes the sweat-slick hair between his too-short shirt and hanging belly, and I try to flinch away, but he holds fast.

“Let’s go, beautiful.” Trip’s hand comes to the back of my neck, gripping there, and I yank away. On instinct, I knee him in the groin and duck when he tries to grab me. Darting for the open cell door, I make it two feet before a muscular arm spans the width of the opening.

Tendons and veins spread the length of his arm and I freeze before colliding with him. Trip uses the pause to yank back my hair and another whimper of pain leaves me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Liam’s nostrils flare briefly while he focuses his gaze on the upper corner of the hallway. I try to catch his attention and fail.

I’m not sure why. I’ve only interacted with him a handful of times, but in this moment of uncertainty and fear, he’s the only person I remotely know. I was at his parents’ house, and they aren’t people I’d associate with this insanity for one minute. My eyes flutter to him, seeking an ally. But he avoids me altogether, and I’m on my own.

Forced through the door, I’m pulled through the narrow hallway with another three cells lining the hall to the double-door entrance. Liam follows, fists clenched at his sides. With every shove from Trip, I try to angle my head back to see him. His chin is raised and he scans ahead as though on the lookout for something to jump from the shadows.

Through the doors, a darkened ramp ascends gradually before it zigzags back and up even farther. Lights flicker and the cement foundation blocks break into drywall halfway up.

Trip opens another door and I squint at the bright light.

A dining hall? What is this? It’s like a high school lunchroom. Round tables are scattered throughout the vaulted room with plastic chairs circling each one. I’m so confused. My browsfurrow as I try to slow, to figure out where I am, despite each press behind me.

Is this a school?

We pass a kitchen hidden behind a stainless-steel serving buffet with rolling doors operated by a chain dangling to the side.

At first, it’s eerily silent. The white lights reflect through the windows, blocking my view outside. Up ahead, the illuminated hall dims, and a neon sign above another set of double doors is lit with the wordBREAKand the wordROOMscrawled like graffiti next to it.

Quickly, the surrounding atmosphere grows heavy. Bass pulses from the room, rising louder with each push. Trip licks his lips, his eyes hungrily trained on the door like he’s starving for what’s inside.

The overpowering smell of smoke and sweat seeps out, and as we reach the door, I have to swallow the bile rising in my throat because of it. It’s pungent and strong, masking even the suffocating odor that wafts off the man jostling me closer to his side.

He pulls me close when the door opens into the room.

No. Not a room.

I’m struck with the sheer size of what lies behind these doors and what’s taking place.

The “room” favors the square footage of the first floor of my house, with a makeshift bar in the back. Rustic wooden shelves stack behind the stainless-steel counter. All lined with liquor, some lean slanted, and most of them asymmetrical. Two rows of back bar refrigeration units are on each side, stocked with a variety of beer.

But the bar only holds my interest for seconds before it wanders to the two stripper poles. Each is positioned perfectly in the room so no matter where you sit or stand, you can see.Mismatched chairs and lounge couches are placed around the space, the focus on one large leather chair in particular.

Smoke billows across my face, and I turn to see the man named Blitz sitting with his back sunk into a couch while a woman straddles him. He flicks the cigarette in his hands as he’s focused on me.

It feels like slow motion, watching the embers drift to the tile floor. Light in this room is barely existent and the tiny ashes scream into the darkness.

With his heavy lust-filled stare, I instinctively step back, running into the belly of the man clenching my neck. Trip chuckles and runs a finger up the side of my arm.

“Don’t worry, darlin’. I’ll take good care of you.” He whispers his vile words in my ear and I shudder, teeth aching from my tense jaw.

I avert my eyes, counting more than twenty men in the room, all of whom are nursing a drink and fondling a half-naked woman. Tears threaten with each passing second, and I wrestle with the severe desire to slump to the ground and sob.

What have I gotten myself into?

Trip maneuvers around the space, dodging occupied chairs and full couches to drag me toward the corner of the room.

A handsome man sits in a deep, black leather chair. Tight dark curls hug the top of his head, but it’s the one blue eye next to the bronzed brown that snags my attention. Trip kicks the backs of my knees and I stumble forward, the hard floor stinging bone.

I keep my head hung low but don’t miss the black boots that step into my peripheral. Following the black jeans up to his blond hair pulled back into a bun, I watch Liam’s jaw work back and forth. His eyes look past me at the darkened windows drawn closed.

“Meet Darrin, sweet thing,” Trip says, kicking my feet currently tucked under my bottom as I practically kneel before this man.

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