Page 28 of Follow Her Down
“You don’t talk like other girls.”He leans against the doorway, blocking my path, and his smile is a greasy smear on his face.“Makes me wonder how else you’re different.”
I turn slowly, keeping my expression flat.“You really want to find out?”
He chuckles low.“Yeah, I think I do.”
He moves like he’s done this before—luring someone into a trap.His voice drops, soft and coaxing, like the menace of him is something that should feel like comfort.
Predators learn to disguise their teeth.They learn to mimic the sounds of safety.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, stepping closer.The toxic smell of him intensifies.“I just wanna talk.”
His fingers slide to my waist.His thumb traces the hem of my shirt, dipping beneath the fabric to scrape against the skin of my hip.
My stomach clenches, not with fear, but with fury.
I don’t freeze.I calcify.My muscles lock.My heartbeat doesn’t pound in my chest; it climbs into my throat, thick and hot, trying to choke its way out of my mouth.
I scan the room, and to my left is the cooler door made of heavy steel.On my right, metal shelves are stacked with cardboard boxes, and behind me, nothing but a wall.I have no clear exits.
I drift my fingers toward the top of my boot, where my knife is.My gun created too much of an obvious bulge in my pants pocket, so it’s in my locker, but all I have to do is aim my knife for the soft spots, like the throat, belly, or inner thigh.If I go for the latter, I can try to sever the femoral artery and make him bleed out fast.
Pull it.Do it now.
But my hand trembles.Not with fear, but with a rage so white-hot that it vibrates in my bones.Fury that my body remembers a scene too similar to this.Fury that my muscles recall how to fold, how to flinch, how to submit, when what I want is to rend and tear.Fury thathetaught my body this language.
The language of prey.
Rick’s hand slides higher up my shirt, skimming my rib cage, his touch a sick mimic of affection.His breath gusts against my ear.
“Bet you’ve got a dirty little mouth behind that red lipstick,” he whispers.
His other hand shoots up, surprisingly fast for a drunk.He grabs the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair, and shoves my face down, hard, toward the bulge in the front of his jeans.
A guttural noise tears from my throat, but not a scream.I don’t scream anymore.I learned that lesson too well.Screams are invitations.They make everything worse.
His grip tightens, forcing my head lower.I can smell the denim, the sour sweat, the rankness underneath.My vision blurs at the edges.I see the dirty floor, his tarnished belt buckle.
His free hand fumbles at his zipper, yanking it down in a sharp motion that makes me flinch.He pulls his half-hard, pathetic excuse for a cock out.With a rough grip on my hair, he forces my face toward him.
“Open,” he commands, the word thick with need.
Bent as I am, I have better access to the knife in my boot.Instead of obeying, I reach toward it.
“I said open, you whore.”He takes his cock in his fist and shoves the tip into my lips, but I clench my mouth even tighter.“Open, god damn it!”
I close my fingers around the hilt of the knife, and clarity slices through the haze of my fury.I’m going to carve him open.I’m going to show him what a girl’s capable of when she’s had enough.I’m going to paint the floor with his insides.
But he sees the blade arcing toward him, grabs my wrist, and twists.The world tilts, and I cry out in pain.The knife slips from my fingers and clatters to the concrete floor.
“What did you think you were going to do, huh?”He slaps me hard across the face, knocking me to the ground and stinging my eyes with tears.“Youworkfor me, bitch.You do what I tell you to do.Are you hearing me?Fuck!”
He scoops up the knife, and my shoulders sink.Little by little, he’s taking more of my power, but I won’t let him have complete control.I won’t.If I can get to my gun in my locker, I’ll end this.
I start to haul myself up when he yanks the back of my hair with his fist.
“Let’s try this again, shall we?”He brings the blade to my neck and presses it against my skin.“Open your fucking mouth, or I’ll bleed you dry, bitch.”
If I don’t, he’ll kill me.If I do, he’ll kill me.Is this what he does to all the other women who’ve worked here?Bring them into Gas N’ Go’s back room?
