Page 66 of Queen Of WildCards

I'dshove one of these stilettos through his black heart beforeIspread my legs for him again after that little performance.

Iwas pretty sureBlackJackgot an eyeful of what was going on underneath the table, too.

Talkabout embarrassing.Thepoor man couldn't get out of that restaurant fast enough, but bless the fact that he was a man of few words because that meant things were onlysilentlyawkward between us.

JokerandSpadesat in the front seat of the car, much toSpade'schagrin, becauseIlifted my heel and promised to grind it into his dick if he so much as tried to sit next to me in this car.Andhe'd be otherwise occupied withAcewhen they delivered me back to the compound, soIwouldn't have to fight his dumb ass off after this car ride.Idid not doubt thatBlackJackwould do his damndest to avoid the fuck out of me after this debacle, so he was out.

Thatleft my jailer,Joker, who was currently carrying a massive tally in the 'asshole' column, thanks to his fucking closet full of random women's clothing.

Whothe fuck keeps shit like that as a trophy from one-night stands, anyhow?

Iwas all too eager to rip this fucking torture device from my body soIcould fucking breathe again, and the minuteJokerput it in park,Iwas on my feet and click-clacking all the way up the stairs, down the hall, and into his room, whereIfell to the floor at my bag and rapidly rummaged around foranything elseto wear.

Fuck, the girl who owned this black ensemble must've starved on a regular basis.Poorthing.

Theseams practically split apart asIpeeled the fucker off, not even caring that the door was wide open and anyone could just walk by and see me naked as the dayIwas born, save for this red thong that was soaked and about worthless now.

Ipeeled it off, too, flinging it to the nether regions ofJoker'scluttered room.Ifhe found it later, he could sniff it and jerk off, for allIcared.

Ibriefly debated taking a shower but passed on the opportunity, realizingIwanted to do something far more thanIwanted to dothat.

Iwanted to fucking get off, scratch the itchSpadeput underneath my skin.

Theonly problem was,Iwasn't eager to be walked in on.

Iclosed the door almost all the way and peered into the corridor, trying to crane my ears for any sign of the menIstaunchly avoided.Thewhole hall was silent, soIclosed the door and cautiously padded over to the opposite side of the room and climbed ontoJoker'sbed.Afrown crossed my face whenIrealized there was something square and hard beneath the mattress itself.

OfcourseIinvestigated that shit.Youcan't expect a bitchnotto.Andthe fruit of my labors?

Afucking laptop.

Aconnection to the outside world.

Iwas nearly giddy with excitement.Icould contact the police;Icould get ahold ofGem, maybe see if someone had filed a missing persons report.

Itwas sheer luck, then, that whenIpowered the thing on and clicked onJoker'sicon, there was no prompt for a password.

Almosttoo good to be true.

Almost.

Iquickly opened the internet, pleased to find it was connected to a wireless router with a signal.Fingersflying across the keys,Iwent to the search bar and entered my name, ready to see scores of articles about me, missing persons, or what have you.

Soimagine my surprise whenIfoundnothing.

Thenational database for missing and exploited persons returned no results for my name or social, and neither did the local precinct's search engine.Mysocial media was dead in the water, but there were no comments about 'hey, where'd you go' or 'sure has been a while since you posted last', and it was like someone had poked a hole in my sails, deflating the wind and leaving me still, empty, sad and pathetic.

Nobodywas looking for me.

Ididn't even want to see my phone now, sure thatI'dfindGemmahad sent me some generic apology about ditching me at the club, and she'd assume my failure to respond meantIwas mad at her.She, too, would move on ifIsimply failed to ever speak to her again.Andmy boss, my landlord—they only saw me as a dollar sign, one in the red, one in the black.WhenIstopped showing up to work, the calls would still be accepted.Weweren't on any sort of contract.Ifthe bills kept being paid, my landlord wouldn't have shit to say about the apartment being a glorified cat kennel.

Iwas nothing, nobody, in the grand scheme of things.Byisolating myself,I'dmade it damn easy for them to steal me and get away with it.

Andsomething in me clicked.

Someonemoved down the hallway, heading for the stairs, andIheld my breath, certainI'dbe found out, butIlistened for the sound of his footsteps going down the metal stairs, and then,Ipulled the laptop into my lap and logged into the therapy site.

I'dbe damned ifIsat here and suffered while the world went on around me—lost and forgotten, but still a woman with needs.

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