Page 66 of Unspoken

Bollocks.

My pulse skyrockets. All I hear is a whoosh-whoosh-whoosh in my ears. I despise that my native tongue—my mother's language—makes me feel this way.

"Hey, cocksucker!" one of them—in a bright red beanie—hisses as he grabs my arm and I'm forced to spin around.

Anger bubbles inside me. "Did you wash your mouth before speaking to me?" I ask, unable to stay put.

The tension in the air becomes palpable as the Beanie Man inches closer. It’s clear he didn't like that I talked back. Without warning, the first man, who is a lot taller, slaps me on the side of the head where my ear is. My brain rings. My eyes darken. Along with it, my fury swells, threatening to burst free.

"Such a delicate little fairy, aren't you?"

Someone laughs.

I blink, trying to get past the initial shock of the unwanted, rude physical contact. My fear turns into a surge of adrenaline,and I throw a punch to protect myself. The force of it catches the man who just assaulted me off guard. He stumbles back, cursing loudly in Russian.

"Get 'im!" someone else bellows, and the others close in on me.

I’m in the circle of death, I realize. My heart hammers in my chest as I scramble to avoid the meaty fist that swings into my face by ducking.

My successful dodge is marked by the guttural roar of the man standing behind me who's just been hit in my place. He's a bystander who doesn't belong to this group and he's obviously pissed.

Next, there’s the sound of shattering glass and I’m pushed from multiple angles by people I don’t know. Someone scratches my face. An elbow hits me in the stomach too. A fight is brewing now all around me, which is no doubt my cue to leave. I spot an opening in the chaos of bodies and dash toward the exit with my heart pounding like a jackhammer.

Fuck this shit.

Each breath feels like fire in my lungs as I burst onto the noisy street. Wincing at the burning sensation across my face, I fumble for my phone with trembling hands, desperate for some safety because my brain can’t think clearly anymore. The screen seems to blur as I finally manage to dial Logan's number, silently praying that he'll pick up.

"Hello?" His voice is groggy and thick with sleep.

"It’s me," I mutter through my panicked breathing, stepping around the corner of the bar to hide in the shadows of its walls. In case I’m followed. "I think I fucked up. I need help."

Logan’s voice is instantly filled with concern when he hears me. "Sasha? What's going on?"

"Logan," I gasp out. "Can you… can you pick me up?"

"Where are you?"

"Outside Downers."

"That place off the Strip?"

"Yes."

"Shit, Sasha." His tone shifts, becoming more alert and serious. If he was asleep a minute ago, he’s not asleep anymore. "That bar is no place for you. Are you safe?"

"I don't know," I admit, glancing around nervously. "Some arseholes were picking on me. A fight broke out."

"For fuck’s sake."

"I just need you to come get me, please."

"Alright, listen carefully," Logan instructs, his tone steady despite the situation. "Cross the street and go into the nearest casino or restaurant. Make sure you’re around people. Not assholes but decent people. Find a group of grandmas or something. Wait there until I arrive. Understood?"

"Y-yeah. Got it." My response is all cracks, betraying the fear that surges within me.

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you," I whisper, making my way across the street as fast as my shaky legs can carry me. The bright lights and noise of the casino up ahead are a huge contrast to the dark and volatile atmosphere of the bar, but I find little solace in it. My heart continues to race. My thoughts are an incoherent mess as I wait for Logan's arrival.

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