Page 96 of SNOB

A moan. It was a moan. It’s louder, an echo coming with it.

“Where am I?” Muttering doesn’t get me out of my haze as recent memories flood back. Picasso. The Lady Killer. Those are the last things I remember. At least I think it is.

“Come here, baby.”

“Aren’t you a pretty girl?”

Flashes come back to me as I cringe. A hand on my chest. Men surrounding me. Red lights. But then it’s black after that.

“Picasso?” I call, another moan coming through the walls. It hurts as I drag my body towards the sliver of light. Reaching up, I tap around for a knob. My hand lands on something cold and smooth. Gripping it, I twist. It doesn’t budge.

With whatever energy I have left, I bang my fist on the door. It’s not even half the power I expect, but I try again, my body collapsing against the floor when I do.

“Picasso?”

Am I locked in here? Wherever this is?

Moving my head, I look for another light, but there's nothing. It’s dark. And cold. Patting my body, I’m only met with skin. Where the hell are my clothes?

My heart pounds against my tightening chest as I try to peer under the crack of the door. There’s not enough space to see. Fitting my fingers underneath doesn’t work either.

“Hello?”

Right now, it’s easy to miss the comfort of The Hill. The comfort of Mac’s room. His arms.

He played you.

We made each other miserable. But we were a team. At least for a little bit.

My mind swings back to The Shed. The helicopter. My old bathroom. The way he held me. The way he made sure to watch me.

You shot him.

But he deserved it. Right?

Slap! Click!

A sound comes from the door. Pushing my pained body up again, I lift my gaze.

Cree-ak!

The door sounds heavy as more light streams into the room. A dark figure appears through my blurry vision.

“Our little artist is awake,” Picasso chuckles, that evil laugh echoing.

“Wh-what did you do?” I mutter, my vision blurring in and out.

“Shhh,” he says as another pair of shoes appears at the door. They’re shinier than Picasso’s brown boots. Expensive. Like something from The Hill.

Have I seen those shoes before?

Squinting, I see two men exchange a wad of cash before Picasso steps aside and counts. I try to back away as the man enters, but my body feels too heavy.

“What’s happening?” I ask, my throat closing, heat coming to the surface of my skin.

A grip comes to my wrist, pain ripping through my body when I’m pulled forward. “Quiet down and be a team player will you?” Picasso’s voice.

Trying to pull away doesn’t work, his hold tightening around me.

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