Page 35 of Babydoll

“It’s shy two hundred because I reached my withdrawal limit today and our meeting wasn’t supposed to be until tomorrow.”

Slash ignores me, throws himself into a chair, hunching down, and pulls out his cell phone.

“So, uh, can we get this done or what?” I wave the bills in my hand and sigh impatiently. “I’m missing work and that’s going to short my pay.”

Slash’s eyes move up to mine and his lip curls. “Go fucking get me a beer. Make yourself useful.”

I grit my teeth, shove the bills back in my bag and storm to the kitchen. Slash comes up behind me, spins me and to my shock, backhands me. My head snaps to the side, and a burst of pain shoots across my cheekbone. Yelping, I grab my face.

It’s not the first time I’ve been backhanded. I did grow up in some very shitty foster homes. But it’s the first time by them. I’d forgotten how much it hurts. How the knuckles hitting the cheekbone bring tears to your eyes and makes your nose run instantly, not to mention the way the pain ricochets in both directions, up your head and through your jaw practically rattling your teeth. And the stars. I see fucking stars.

“Respect, bitch.”

Maybe they haven’t done much more than threaten me before now but it’s clear they’ll do more than that when provoked and suddenly my plan isn’t so appealing. I don’t want to die, and definitely not slowly at the hands of this bastard.

He grabs my hair and yanks me in an awkward bent-back position. I scream and whimper at both the pain and helplessness. The only thing supporting my weight is his fist in my hair and my hair in my head. I grab for his arm, my feet scrambling for purchase. My cries die on my lips as he gets in my face.

Slash is so close I can see each individual hair on his face, finer than they should be on a man his age. But the last thing I want to show is fear, so again, I harden my expression. Maybe it’s stupid and I should beg for mercy, but if I learned anything from living in the system, it’s that begging never works and showing no fear has a fifty-fifty chance.

“Don’t fucking think I won’t slice your pretty face to ribbons. Show me some fucking respect.”

I grit my teeth and tears slip from my eyes as he shakes me, yanking my hair so hard I’m sure he’s ripped more than a chunk out. My eyes go wide and I suck in a breath when his knife comes to my face. The handles sheath the blade but it’s no less terrifying because his cruel smile says it won’t stay that way. And I know he’s well practiced in using the thing.

His narrowed blue eyes search my face and my lips tremble despite my attempt to press them. I squeeze my eyes shut as he traces my face with the handle, the heaviness of it hurting my battered face. I whimper when I hear the telltale flips of the butterfly handles clicking open to expose the blade. My heart pounds and bile rises and I do something I swore I’d never do again… I beg.

“Put her the fuck down.” It’s Python’s voice, and one I never thought could bring such relief. He wraps a supportive arm around my back and lifts me up. The fist burning against my skull releases, although not gently. “You fucking lay a hand on her again without orders and I’ll fucking rip your head off.”

The big man’s arm is the only thing holding my trembling body upright, and Slash’s eyes flash hate. His nostrils flare like a bull’s but he finally backs down, shooting me a warning look that says we’ll finish this another time.

“There’s water in the fridge. Get yourself a bottle.” Python pushes me gently from under his arm toward the kitchen.

“Don’t forget my beer, bitch,” Slash adds as I move on shaky legs to the kitchen. “And bring the big guy one of his bitch-ass candies or maybe some of those fucking cheese puffs he’s addicted to, he needs to chill the fuck out.”

My heart is still pounding loudly in my ears as I get to the counter and lean on it to catch my breath. The heel of my palm takes my weight against the counter but nothing can stop my hands from trembling. I can’t quite make out their whispers from the next room. Or maybe it’s not that I can’t hear, but that my brain is too overwhelmed to listen, screaming ‘will I survive?’.

The kitchen is brown and yellow with faded, peeling linoleum and a speckled yellow and brown Formica table with chrome legs. The chairs match, although once they may have been more yellow than brown.

I glance at the yellow appliances, crocheted tea towels and potholders, and decide this must have been someone’s grandmother’s house. Opening the fridge, I look for the water. Beer cans fill the whole top shelf. It’s some off brand I’ve never heard of. Not that I really know beer. I don’t drink, not after growing up in places where it was more of a staple than bread.

I grab a can though, placing it gently against my cheek, which is throbbing like it’s got an elephant-sized heart in it.

A memory assaults me as I stand there. The breakfast table is scattered with mostly empty beer cans and ashtrays overflowing with butts. The stale smell of both lingers with the sick smell of sweaty bodies sleeping it off on the couches in the next room. Gage and I eat the crusts of last night’s party pizza left in the box, our bellies happy to have anything in them at all, even a stranger’s tossed-off crusts. The memory reminds me of Gage’s kitchen when I found him that night almost a year ago.

I shake off the imagery, reminding myself how far I’ve come from that moment and grab a bottle of water. The counter has food on it, but not like in the image my mind conjured. This place is neat and clean, and the food is still in grocery bags as if our arrival interrupted Python putting his haul away.

I peek in one of the bags, curiosity getting the better of me. There are a few bags of cheese puffs, a huge bag of those caramel candies old people like, and pudding—bloody butterscotch. I almost laugh but stop myself as Preacher’s voice rings out.

“Where is she?”

They must point because there’s only silence until Preacher speaks again.

“Get your skinny ass out here.”

I gather a breath, reminding myself again, I’m a vet tech, a taxpayer, and law-abiding citizen, better than these assholes, and I will make it through this. I’m a survivor. Then I walk out, back straight, head held high, handing Slash his beer.

“Gage is missing,” Preacher says with a deep frown and flashing eyes. “He took off from the rehab center.”

My jaw drops open at his words. They’d found out which rehab center he’d gone to?