Page 35 of Rushed

“Cunt! I’llmakeyou love this.” The one holding my hair pulls my head back and slams it into the wall so hard I see stars. After biting number two’s hand, he gets more aggressive, shoving his fingers in and out of me painfully, while the other one squeezes my breast. I scream as much as I possibly can. It’s New York! Someone has to hear me.

“Hey, you don’t get her to yourself. Give me a turn at this bitch.” Number one says as he turns his hand, gripping my hair tighter. I can feel the cool air of the night as my skirt is lifted high against my back. I know I’m about to be raped, not just by number two’s dirty hands, but by his nasty fucking friend too. I hear number one’s zipper go down. He groans, just as I feel his dick touch my ass.

“Keenan! Where are you!” It’s Linc. I hear his panic-stricken voice bouncing off the brownstones. Thanking anyone who’ll listen, I shout as loud as I can, just before number one lets go of my hair. Two punches me in the head, causing my head to ricochet off the brick, again, but this time, it feels like my skull cracks.

“Time to go, man.” One says to Two. “We’ve gotta leave you, love, but this was fun. Tell your man he better not default on this fight. Mick expects him in full form. If he pulls out, we’ll know it was you, and believe me when I say, we’ll visit you again.” Zipping himself back up, his leering grin is the last thing I see before he hits me once more. Yanking my hair so hard, I fall into the snow, scraping my knees and hands on the ragged pavement. The two drunkenly sprint back down the way we came, as I lay there bleeding, violated, beaten, and cold in the snow.

“Keenan, where are ya, honey? Call out!” Lincoln still sounds far away, but he’s closer. I can hear him in the streets and on my phone.

I pluck it from my pocket, holding it to my sore ear. “Lincoln, I’m here.” I reach a hand out of the alley as I try to stand. The blood is running down my knees as I move, staining the pure white snow. I can feel every little scrape as the blood trickles down my chin, my cheeks, and onto my hands as I try to rise.

I hear the rush of feet on the street as he skids to a stop directly in front of me. The sharp intake of breath as he takes in the sight of me tells me I look worse than I feel.

“Lincoln,” I squeak out, as he lifts me off the ground.

“I’ve got ya. Don’t worry, I’ve got ya,” he says gently.

That’s when I pass out.

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