Page 63 of House of Cards

Christ, I’m getting a headache again.

I slip my hand in my pocket, taking out the two painkillers Eddie had given me the first time I took Zoey to the Angels’s quarters. I’m about to dry swallow the pills, but hesitate, staring at them as I trace my fingers over the spot where Zoey stuck me with a fork.

Well, there’sonething I can do about it.

Zoey

I reluctantly open my eyes, groaning at the pain radiating off my backside. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to force myself to drift off. Should’ve been easy with a head stuffed with cotton balls.

If I’m asleep, I don’t hurt.

If I’m asleep, I don’t need anything fromhim.

But I’m hungry, thirsty, and I desperately have to pee.

Except…this isn’t the same room I went to sleep in. I’m in a tiny, vaguely familiar room, barely large enough for the narrow single bed and clinical nightstand. There’s an IV drip attached to my arm, and a single camera blinking one red eye at me from the top corner of the room.

I’m not sure which of those freaks me out more.

“The hell?”

I push myself up on shaking arms, wincing in expectation of more pain, but all I feel is a sullen throb. I swing rusty-feeling legs over the side of the bed so I can stand. Either gravity increased, or I’ve gained a couple hundred pounds, because getting to my feet is a monumental effort.

I take a few seconds to straighten out my body into a full stand because every move seems to pull at another stiff muscle I never knew existed.

It feels like I ran a marathon. After climbing Mount Everest. But somehow I slept through it all.

I peel the tape from my skin, gritting my teeth and taking a big slow breath before pulling the needle out of my arm.

It doesn’t hurt like it should.

Nothing does.

My eyes flick to the half-drained bag hanging from the IV stand beside the bed. Must be some heavy duty painkillers in there. Smith is no doubt expecting me to be grateful that he drugged me without my consent. He’d probably tell me it was to help me heal faster.

Psycho asshole.

I’m still standing there, working out a kink in my neck with a slow roll of my head when I hear a noise behind me. I turn to the door, facing a doe-eyed girl that’s as vaguely familiar as this weird little room.

She starts when she sees me, a hand fluttering to her chest. “Geez,” she mutters, “Give me a heart attack, why don’t you?”

“Should have given me stronger drugs.” I toss the needle onto the bed, hoping Smith or one of his cronies stands on it barefoot and ends up needing a tetanus injection.

The girl giggles, which is an odd sound coming from someone who looks as drugged as I feel. It’s the shadows under her eyes, the way her eyes roam around like she can’t find the energy to be interested in anything for longer than a millisecond, her fingers absently rubbing the fabric of her red silk gown.

“Thought you were in a coma,” she says. “Bet you’re starving.”

“Could care less about food right now.” My stomach rumbles like it thinks it’s invited to this conversation, but I ignore it.

The girl shrugs. “Wanna watch a movie?”

I push past her gently, but firmly. Don’t want to break her little bird bones or anything. “I’m getting the fuck out of here,” I mutter, more for myself than to her.

“Uh…okay…” The girl yawns, her voice following me from the room. “I’m Anita, by the way. Smith said you’re Zoey? That’s a nice name.”

Anita can’t read a room to save her life, because despite my frigid silence, she trails me as I search the weird sex trafficking dorm I’ve been imprisoned in.

There’s an exit, but a sliver of memory warns that there’s a burly man stationed outside who could snap my neck without breaking a sweat.

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