Page 72 of Mastered By Desire

Leah

The men carry me into the hotel room. I grip the edge of the doorframe. I know it’s pointless. They’re stronger. What can my knuckles do when these guys are strong enough to carry me through?

My grip breaks after only half a second.

The men don’t speak. The one guy is still covering my mouth. His hand smells like cinnamon and sugar and for the first time ever, the scent makes me want to gag.

I want to ask them why I’m here, but I already know. It has to do with Mick.

A strange calm comes over me. They haven’t shot me. They don’t want me dead. If I die, they can’t get their money.

I bet Mick had the same idea. They killed him anyway.

My throat tightens, but I force myself to breathe through the impending panic. I can only breathe through my nose because my mouth is covered. The breaths are too fast. The last thing I want to do is pass out. I force myself to count, to slow down my breathing, as the men bring me the rest of the way into the hotel room.

If I can’t control what they do, I can at least control my breathing.

For now.

The room is decorated the same way mine is upstairs—gray carpet, gray curtains, blue bedspread. This is a larger room, though, with a small sitting area and two king-sized beds.

They carry me to a chair and set me in it. My clothes are all twisted from my struggles, my hair never dried after my shower, and I didn’t put on a bra because of the fire alarm. My discomfort and disarray are the least of my worries, though.

The fire alarm shuts off. An eerie quiet replaces the shrieking wail. My head pounds with the echo. Or maybe that’s the panicked thudding of my heart.

The men step back. I eye the door, but I would never make it. One of the men moves in front of it, anyway.

I try not to look at their faces. If I see them, I’m a witness. Isn’t that how it works? It’s too late. I already know the guy in front of the door has a giant brown beard. His buddy who helped carry me in wears a baseball cap. He has a wispy attempt at a goatee and a pointy, upturned nose.

The third guy has stepped behind me. He’s blond, I think. The room isn’t well-lit, so I can’t make out any details. Probably for the better.

A lock clicking makes me quickly turn back around.

A door leads to the adjacent hotel room. It opens.

A man steps through. White-blond hair. He’s in his fifties. Artfully torn jeans, a punk band T-shirt. He looks vaguely familiar. He’s one of Mick’s older friends, but I never caught his name. He came by the apartment a few times. He always stared at me in a pervy way. I told Mick I didn’t like him and didn’t want him around. Mick shrugged and said, “Too fucking bad.”

“Randy,” he says, pointing a thumb at his own chest. “You recognize me?”

I nod.

“You want to know what’s going on.”

I find the courage to speak. My voice is hoarse after trying to scream on the way in here. “Yeah. As long as that knowledge isn’t going to get me killed.”

“Kill you? We wouldn’t kill you.”

“You killed Mick, didn’t you? Never mind, don’t answer that.” I don’t want to know anything.

He smirks. “It started off that you and Mick owed us money.”

“I didn’t owe anything,” I say. “I never borrowed from you. Andwhydid he owe you money? He’s a gamer.”

“A gamer? No. He’s a gambler. The two of you gambled on our online platform. And sometimes he came to our hall. He put you up as someone who would pay if he couldn’t.”

“I never gambled,” I say. “Not once. This is bullshit, and you know it.”

“It doesn’t matter whether you did or didn’t. He used you and your assets as collateral.”

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