Page 36 of Insurgent

But her ass is nice, and her boobs have that perfect droop, a handful’s worth. “Grab her.”

Trig walks over and snatches her by the arm. Her titties bounce, and her bare feet slide on the cement floor. The other girls shift around her.

“All right, back to work,” I say as Trig walks on with Sweep right beside us.

“What’s going on?” the girl asks.

“You tell us?” Trig says, gripping her arm tightly. He shoves her into the office and Sweep shuts the door.

“Have a seat,” I tell her. Walking over to the desk chair, I grab the button-down shirt off the back and toss it to her.

“Put this on.”

She quickly slides her arms through and pulls the front across her body instead of buttoning it.

I flip the TV on. “Show us,” I say to Trig.

He takes the remote and fast-forwards the tape. And that’s when I see her take a baggy and place it under her arm. It’s enough to where if she mixed it heavily, she’d be able to sell a shitload, plus how many times has she done this?

“Who’s working with you?” I ask, knowing the men check the women before they leave the warehouse.

She swallows.

“It’s better for you if you tell me now.” I take a seat on the edge of the desk, grabbing my cigarillos from a box. I snap my fingers at Sweep, and he tosses me his family heirloom. I flip the Zippo open and light my smoke.

“You know how Sweep got this?” I ask the girl.

She shakes her head and I see the tremble in her lip.

She’s scared.

She should be.

I run my finger over the scratched silver. “It was his father’s. But you see, Sweep didn’t have the type of dad who would pass this sort of thing down. Sweep’s dad used to burn him with the cigarettes he lit with this.” I stand up, bending down in front of her. I grab her arm, making her grip loosen on the fabric of my shirt. “Open your hand.”

She listens and I flip it over so her palm is facing down. “Know what we did to Sweep’s pops?”

Her fingers start to shake.

“Do you know what skin smells like when it’s burning?”

Her eyes grow wide.

“Tell me,” I say softly. “Who’s working with you?” I tilt my head slightly, looking over her face. She’s got a scar above her lip; it reminds me of the scar on Bexley’s jawline. I reach up, running my finger over it.

And then I grip her wrist tight, striking the Zippo.

She starts to whimper. “Sweep’s pops never saw it coming. He was asleep, passed out from drinking too much. He always did that, didn’t he, Sweep?”

The big man nods.

“All you gotta do is say a name.”

She pulls at her arm.

“Trig,” I say. He walks over, holding her in place. I bring the flame closer to her open hand. “We didn’t get to hear him suffer, but maybe hearing you will make up for that.”

The flame sits just below her skin and she starts to cry out, moving frantically.

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