Page 26 of Slaughter

“Living room clear.”

I open my eyes again and blink. Is someone else in my house? No. I dreamed it. The alcohol is making me hear things. I close my eyes, and seconds later, I hear my bedroom door open.

I scream as a man walks into my room. He rushes my bed and grabs me, but I shove him off. He hits my nightstand and knocks over my lamp, shattering the bulb. “Get off …” I scream, but a hand slaps over my mouth. I bite down on it as hard as I can.

“Fuck.” The guy who had hit the nightstand moans from the floor. “Fucking bitch,” the guy who I bit growls, and then he slaps me across the face.

Two hands grab my shoulders, pushing me onto the bed. “Hold her down,” another demands.

“Trying …”

I scream, kicking one in the face, and then I jump up and run toward the back sliding glass door. Glass shatters behind me, but I don’t stop.

“She ran out the back door,” I hear one say.

I run barefoot through my backyard toward the trees. I can climb one and hide until they give up.

My heart races, and I trip, scraping my knees on tree branches. The world tilts from my drunken state, and I cuss myself. Gunfire goes off, and it has me looking backward, causing me to trip once again. I cry out, standing just as one of them leaps for me, taking me to the ground.

“Drug her,” he orders

“No …” I scream. I’ll never make it if they do. “Don’t …” I get out just as I feel a prick in my neck. And everything goes black.

I throw the covers off me when I feel bile rise. I stumble to one of the doors in the bedroom and fling it open. Thankfully, it’s the bathroom. It bangs, hitting the interior wall. I run toward the toilet and fall to my knees just in time to spill all my contents into it.

No. No. No. This can’t be happening.

I hug the toilet as more memories flood my foggy thoughts.

Where am I? I can hear the roaring of what sounds like engines and feel vibrations. Am I on a plane? No, I can’t be. I don’t fly.

My body jerks, and my eyes spring open. The first thing I see is a row of empty seats facing me. My chest starts to tighten. My head snaps to the right, and there’s a window. All I see is a red blinking light out on a wing. My breath comes quicker.

I’m on a plane.

My palms start to sweat, and my stomach knots.

I’m on a fucking plane.

I don’t fly. Preston knows that. All of my friends know I have aerophobia—a fear of flying.

I undo my seatbelt with shaky hands and stand. I see the back of three male heads about five rows ahead of me. I run toward them, not knowing what I plan on doing but needing to get off this plane.

“Shit!” one says when I near.

The other two turn to face me right as I approach. One stands and grabs my right wrist. I go to open my mouth, but he yanks me down to the floor.

I scream and try to push myself up when the third stands. A plate falls to the floor along with a fork. I grab the fork with my free hand. When a guy bends down to pull me up, I lift the utensil and jam it into the nearest piece of flesh I can find.

I’m screaming, thrashing around on my stomach, when someone grabs my hair and slams my head into the floor. Then everything goes black.

I continue to hug the toilet, retching all the alcohol I had last night along with whatever they gave me. My vision is still a little foggy, my body still drowsy. It not only knocked me out but also left me with a pounding headache. Or that could very much well be the hangover.

I hear the sound of shoes clapping on the hardwood in the adjoining bedroom before they enter the bathroom. I stay on my knees with my head down, refusing to look up.

Out of my peripheral vision, I see a pair of shiny black shoes stop beside me. Whoever he is, he doesn’t say anything and just stands there looking down at me as I continue to vomit so much I start to dry heave.

“Go away,” I order roughly, knowing it’s my brother. He said he’d be back for me. He probably realized I wasn’t going anywhere with him after he dropped me off at home. He’s such a fucking ass.

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