Page 4 of Brutal Secrets

He takes the gasp as enthusiasm and reaches for my other breast so he can knead them both. I’m caged in his grip as he stands behind me, my waist pushed hard against the vanity with no room to move. I go very still, hoping he’ll realize I’m not into this, but apparently he likes his girls young, wooden, and unresponsive.

As he grips my breasts, his breathing speeds up, washing me in the sour fug of coffee, milk, and two shots of vodka. It turns my stomach and I retch, bending lower over the vanity and curling in on myself and away from him.

“Come on, baby, don’t be like that. Let’s have a little fun,” Jimmy growls, gripping me tighter.

I slide to the side and knock over the chair in my frantic attempt to get away from him. I lift the chair as I stand. There are no legs to fend him off, but it places a barrier between us. I brandish it at his face and hiss, “I don’t want this. There are lots of other girls here. Why don’t you find one of them?”

“Because I want you. I own you. You do what I say, and I say that tonight is the night.” Jimmy advances toward me.

I throw the chair at him and it lands on the floor with a crash, but he remains between me and the door. I jump the other way and end up tripping against the sofa, and then he’s on me. Wrestling me down. Tearing away the thin crotch of the dress as he settles between my legs.

“Come on, you little slut. Give it up. You’re nothing special. There are a million more girls like you in Nashville. I made you. You’re only famous because of me, and now you belong to me.” Jimmy’s not smiling anymore. He looks furious as he holds me down with both hands.

He’s too far away to headbutt, so I spit in his face. That only makes him more furious, and he pulls back his arm and slaps me hard across the cheek.

That will bruise.

“You’re not looking after the merchandise!” I shout, but he’s not looking at me anymore. He’s scrabbling at his zipper, a nasty smile on his face.

“I’m going to teach you a lesson, you jumped-up little piece of trailer trash,” he says.

“Get off me!” I scream as loud as I can. I’m writhing against him, bucking against his iron grip, when the door opens.

“Is this a party anyone can join?” a deep baritone voice says.

I look up at the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life. The scar on his left cheek only serves to highlight the perfection as his blue eyes blaze down at me.

Chapter Five

When I heard a palm crack heavily against skin, I couldn’t stop myself from opening the door. The sound brought back memories of my childhood. Now, standing in the open doorway, I blink my eyes shut, then open them again to glare at the man who’s hastily doing up his zipper.

God, what a pathetic specimen. What kind of worm needs to backhand a woman to get her to sleep with him?

My golden-haired angel from the stage has a red mark on her face, and she’s scrabbling away from him on the black leather couch, eyes wide and shoulders shaking. The man draws himself up to his full height, but I still dwarf him.

“Get out,” he says. He has an American accent, but it’s not pleasant to listen to like the singer’s. It’s too nasal. “This is a private dressing room. You don’t belong here.”

“Just checking that everyone is enjoying our Russian hospitality and having a good time,” I say.

The man glares at my little songbird, and as he stops to adjust his pants, I meet the girl’s green eyes. Her gaze is like her voice. It’s true and doesn’t waver. She sits up, edging her way toward the corner of the sofa as she arranges the gold beads over her lap in an attempt to conceal her crotch. I’m curious to see more of her body, but she hunches over and continues covering as much of her legs as she can with gold beads. They clatter against each other as she struggles for modesty. It’s such a contrast to Oksana next door.

The man takes a step toward me, and I cock my gun. “Did I say you could move?” I ask, putting a hint of granite in my tone.

He dusts his hands over his denim-clad thighs and tries for a practiced smile as he walks toward me, but his eyes shift nervously from side to side. “This is a private room, and I think you’re in the wrong place, friend.”

“I’m not your friend, friend.” I move the barrel of the gun between them before settling the sights on the man. I look back at the golden songbird, who stares directly at me now. “As I said, I’m just checking that everyone is having a splendid time in our beautiful city. Are we?”

This time, the songbird shakes her head, slowly and deliberately, her gold-streaked curls catching the lights surrounding the dressing-table mirror. She looks directly at me and mouths, No.

“I think that the little songbird here might like to come with me,” I say, raising my eyebrows at her.

She nods and steps toward me as I hold out my hand. The beads rattle as she walks, flashes of thigh appearing with each step. The less I can see, the more enticing it is. She places her hand in mine, and I twine my fingers around hers as I imagine those delicate fingers wrapped around other parts of me.

“I think there’s some mistake,” the man says, taking a step toward me.

I point the gun at him and he stops. He’s big enough to bully someone smaller, but not man enough to even try to defend his territory. I know this kind of pathetic worm. He might be a big man in the US, but in Moscow, he wouldn’t last a week.

“I don’t think so,” I say.

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