Page 9 of Pretty Lies & Ugly Truths

Some guy comes up behind Susannah, putting his hand on the small of her waist and they begin sway to the beat. As they roll their hips and grind against each other to the sultry bass beat, I feel a stirring low in my belly, an ache for something…but for what, I don’t quite know.

Forcing my eyes away, I turn and exit the club, stepping out into the brisk night air, letting it cool my overheated skin. Taking my phone out, I open the ride-share app, relieved when I find a car nearby. I place the order before sliding my phone back into my purse.

It’s as I am walking through the tunnel, almost to the stairway that leads back up to the main road, that that familiar prickle starts on my nape again, and I get the sense I’m being followed. But just like every time before, when I look, there is no one there.

I do a quick once over, searching my surroundings, but nothing seems off. It’s quiet for a Friday night, but the streets are far from deserted. There are a few groups scattered about further up the road, but no one close to me.

I’m probably just being paranoid, but my gut is screaming at me to get out of there, and I am never one to ignore that shit.

Now eager to get back to the safety of my home, I pick up my pace. My low-slung heels clack against the brick pavement, the sound echoing loudly off the arched walls.

Rounding the corner quickly, I come up short when a dark figure steps directly onto my path, and though I try to stop, I’m not quite fast enough, and I slam into them.

“Oh—I’m so sorry,” I apologize, taking a step back to try and put a little space between us, but they don’t allow it. Instead, a meaty hand reaches out, grabbing hold of my bicep, forcing me to press close against them.

“Hey—” I start to push them away, my hands againsttheir chest, but I stop when the feel of something cold and hard pokes into my right side.

“Don’t move. Scream or try to run, and I will blow a hole straight through you,” a sinister male voice speaks low into my ear.

My chest turns to ice, and I stiffen. My mind is yelling at me, demanding me to scream, run, anything to get away from this man, but something holds me back.

It’s the way he said it—almost as if it was a dare, like he wishes Iwouldtry, if only to have an excuse to shoot me.

“Very good,” he croons, and I shrink in on myself at his praise, something oily slithering through my chest.

He stills when we hear light footsteps on the cobblestones close by, the sound of soft female laughter carrying to us on the wind.

My attacker spins me around, pushing me up against the brick wall now positioned at my back. He covers my body with his, and I’m sure to the couple passing by, we look like two lovers caught up in a romantic embrace. Little do they know, I am over here trying not to gag at the smell of stale sweat and musk that cling to his clothes.

“Shh…” he breathes into my neck, and a small squeak escapes when he moves into me further. I shudder with revulsion, choking back the bile that rises in my throat as the full length of him presses against my front.

“Quiet, or I will shoot that lovely couple over there instead. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Without moving my head, my eyes dart to my right tosee a middle-aged couple holding hands, love evident in their eyes. I shake my head. No, of course I don’t want that.

I watch as they pass by before disappearing into a pub across the road.

Once we are alone again, he finally steps back, and I get my first good look at him. The man is big; not in height—because he is actually not much taller than me—but in sheer mass.

His dark, soulless eyes regard me with sheer disdain, as if I am little more than an inconvenience to him, and I can’t help but wonder what I could have done to warrant such hatred from this stranger.

“Now here’s what we’re going to do. You and I are gonna walk up these stairs. You are not to scream or try to run. If you do, I will splatter your brains all over the concrete. Understand?”

I nod shakily.

“Good girl. Let’s go,” he says, turning me around and positioning the gun at the small of my back.

When I go to walk, my heel gets stuck, caught in the grooves between the uneven cobblestones.

I fall, landing hard on my knees.

“Get up!” he commands, snatching me under one arm as he tries to haul me to my feet. And I try. I swear, I try, but my legs are shaking so violently, they refuse to cooperate, something that obviously pisses him off. The next thing I know, he rears back his boot-clad foot and lands a heavy blow to my ribs.

“I said get up, you stupid bitch,” he hisses at me.

Pain erupts in my side, and I can no longer hold back my vomit. A mix of sickly-sweet strawberry mixer and rum spews from my mouth, splattering on the stones, splashing all over myself and the toes of my attacker’s shoes.

“You filthy wh—” he starts, and out of the corner of my eye, I see his foot rear back again.

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