Page 99 of Break the Ice
“You’re not just a pretty little bitch, right, Sylkes? You’re a man… huh?” Crawling across the green carpet, he leans closer, eyes spearing into mine. “Twins know things about each other. We feel things,” he smirks when my phone rings loudly in the pocket of my shorts.
Before I check, I know it’s Finley. She calls me after every game when everyone has gone to bed and she can hide in her closet without the risk of her parents finding her talking to me.
When I try to get up, Presley shoves me back down. The drink Ryker poured me spills all over my chest as the glass tumbles up into the air with the whoosh of my breath. I don’t know if it’s the liquor or the rush to get out of here, but my moves are sludgy and slow as he pulls my phone from my pocket, sniggering at the screen.
“Give it back,” I bark at him, pushing myself up into his face, gripping my phone awkwardly around his hand.
“What if I want to talk to my sister?”
He doesn’t say it, but I can hear it in the grate of his voice; it’s chiseled in his glacial stare.
Mine.
“Finley isn’t yours, asshole.” I shove him back, but he can hold his drink like most of the other guys on the team. “She doesn’t even like you.”
Presley chuffs cooly, glancing over his shoulder at his buddies. Before I can gather my wits, they’re on me.
Pinning me to the carpet while Ryker tries to diffuse Presley.
“He fucked you yet, Hallman?” Presley sneers, snatching the bottle of liquor from Ryker’s hand. “Or maybe you fucked him? Who’s the fucking ass bandit? The taker?”
“We’re friends, dickhead. More than you can say about most people on this team.”
The sound of muffled laughter echoes in the distance as Sullivan’s hand wraps around my throat to stop me from fighting against his and Martins’ hold. I can’t hear much above the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears.
My vision begins to haze when Presley yanks Ryker up by the collar of his shirt and throws him on top of me. His thighs are straddling my hips, and I can feel his entire body shake over mine as he ignores whatever Presley tells him at first.
“Do it,” Presley screams, sending the entire room quiet as he pours more of the liquor on my chest. “Fucking lick it, gay boy.”
Ryker lets out a long breath. His thighs squeeze around my hips with the downward motion of his body when he leans down, over my chest. He never looks at me, in my eyes, before he licks my vodka-soaked shirt from one side of my chest to the other.
“Stop,” I sputter, my nails clawing at the short, clumpy pile beneath me while Martins continues pinning my arms to the floor. “Stop. Stop…”
My eyes screw shut at the deluge of liquor Presley pours into my desperate gasp while Sullivan squeezes my throat. Choking on theoverflowing burn, I focus on the throb taking over my head, my panicked thoughts, my senses.
They’re all watching.
Every fucking guy is just watching.
Watching me.
Watching Ryker.
Watching Presley.
Nobody does a thing.
Not them.
Not me.
In the distance, I hear it again.
My phone rings and rings and rings. It keeps on ringing again and again. On repeat until the noise blends with the numbness. It becomes part of the pounding in my head.
Throb.
Throb.
