Page 45 of Burning Ember
I almost felt normal. Like maybe, my life wasn’t one giant mess. Like I was just a regular girl, in a regular place, and I didn’t have a big cloud hanging over my head.
Of course, I had to ignore the whoring going on around me. And it twisted my stomach to see girls treating themselves so cheaply. But I was also thankful, thankful it wasn’t me, and that I’m hands off for now, and thankful because it was clear every one of those girls wanted to be there, doing what they were doing. They weren’t being forced. They weren’t being held captive.
I hear a faint sound to my left. Startled, I snap my head in that direction.
What the . . . ?
A shock of panic zips through me and I’m instantly wide awake.I scramble backward until I sit with my back to the headboard and yank up the sheet, needing a barrier between us even if it’s only a flimsy piece of cotton.
My heart starts beating overtime because there’s a half-naked man sitting four feet away from me on the black leather couch. He’s the big guy with the tattoos on one side of his face. With his shirt off, I can see his dark body art running down his neck and continuing all the way south to his black leather pants. His pants are partially unbuttoned. And I’m thinking his graphic tats don’t stop at his waistline.
He’s not looking at me. He’s messing with some black objects on the small coffee table in front of him.
I search the room quickly.Did I fall asleep in the wrong room?My mind scrolls through the last events of last night. Dozer walking me to the door. Him winking at me a second before he closed it and locked it. “Ummm. I’m sorry. Dozer said I could sleep here. Is this not his room?”
When a few seconds go by without him acknowledging me or looking over, I try again, “Hello?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Can you not hear me?” I wave my hand. Nothing. Whatsoever. Though I do get the sense he can hear me just fine.
“What are you doing?”
His hair is brown, short on the sides, longer on the top and down the middle of the back. He has a couple of days’ worth of stubble, and a patch of facial hair below his bottom lip. His eyes are what I find most disconcerting. They’re so dark they appear black. And he’s ripped with muscles everywhere, and it’s obvious he could do some real damage to me if that’s what he’s here to do.
Thick black leather bands circle his wrists, and his hands are colorfully tatted and adorned with bulky rings. After further inspecting, what he’s tinkering with—little black pieces of metal that lay on a small white cloth—I make out what it is.
I cinch my fingers more tightly around the sheet, pull it up to my neck, and slowly draw my legs up to my chest. Like that would protect me if he decides to use what’s in his hands.
He’s cleaning a gun.
Lined up on the far side of the cloth, are gold bullets and a magazine.
As if to punctuate my thoughts, he starts assembling it. Sliding pieces together with sharp, yet fluid movements, I hearclick . . . click . . . click . . . click,as it becomes a lethal weapon in his hands.
My heart rate accelerates with each click.
Once all the pieces look to be in place, he sets it down on the towel, picks up the magazine, and then thumbs the bullets in one by one. Slow. Precise movements.
My eyes fly to the door. Closed. I sharply look over to the window. I know I opened both of them late last night.
Oh, god.A prickle of fear skates down my spine.
Suddenly, my breath becomes short and hurried. His presence has somehow sucked out all the air out of the room.
The last bullet makes this awful sound as it’s loaded into the clip. Then he shoves the magazine inside the gun, and in one quick movement, he draws back the top.
Which I’m pretty sure means he just loaded a round in the chamber.
I hope to hell that I’m wrong.
His gaze leaves the gun and gradually slides over to me. Eerily. Quietly. He sizes me up. Like he’s got all the time in the world. He tilts the gun to the side, rests it on his thigh and his finger slides into the hole to rest on the trigger.
With sweaty palms, I clench the sheet, though I know it’s stupid. It’s not a bulletproof shield.
Standing, he points toward the floor. Then he walks around the table and comes to stand at the end of the bed, never taking his unnerving coal eyes off me the entire time. He motions me forward with the gun, waiving it around a bit.
“C’ mere.” His voice is low and has a whispery quality to it. Like he’s lost it recently and he’s still recovering.
