“Why did you kill Trevor?” A distraction. That’s all this is. Keep him talking. Keep him away from the sound of metal shifting. “You shoved his own lip down his throat. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I wanted him to know how pathetic he tastes.” I gag. Not from imagination. From memory. “I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“No. No, I don’t.”
His fingers brush the edge of my mouth, and I jerk my head away. “That’s because,” he says, and I feel the key twist home, “you haven’t kissed me yet.”
“And I never will.”
That does something to him. His hand brushes the top of my shorts, dusting off a promise. He crowds the space between us, enough that his words slice into my ear.
“Will you deep throat my cock instead?”
Those words shouldn’t do anything except make me want to rip his tongue out and feed it to him. But they do. A shudder races through me, my body’s trying to purge the truth before I admit it to myself.
I’m not afraid he’ll hurt me. I’m afraid I’ll beg him to. That I’ll drop to my knees, unzip him with shaking fingers, and open my mouth, ready to take him in, to let him shove every inch down my throat while I whimper, cry, and come from nothing but that. I almost lose the lock. My fingers slip, slick with sweat and sin, and my palm smacks hard against the wood behind me.
Don’t fuck this up.
Then I shove the door open so fast it whips the air. I duck under his arm, slide out, and before he can react, I slam the door in his face with every ounce of strength I have.
I don’t move for five seconds. Ten. I keep my forehead pressed against the wood, hoping it’ll soak up the terror still rattling in my chest. My fingers tremble so hard I nearly drop the key. I slide it back into the pocket of my shorts.
Why do I have keys in my pocket? Because smart girls don’t leave keys on kitchen hooks. Smart girls know they need to lock their fucking doors even when it’s already too late.
My feet slap the hallway tiles as I run. I don’t look back. I barrel toward the third unit on the left, almost eat shit on the loose carpet edge, and slam my palm against the wood.
“Reese!” I bang. “Fucking open the door, Reese, please!”
There’s no light under the crack, no creak of wood, not even the whisper of movement.
I choke back the bile climbing up my throat and bolt for the stairs. I trip on the first one, catching the railing just before I smash my nose. My lungs burn. My thighs ache. My pussy’s still clenching around his phantom breath, too wrecked to recognize danger.
The hallway’s too quiet, every light in the stairwell is turned off, leaving only the dim green exit sign buzzing overhead.
I hit the lobby and shoulder-ram my way through the door to the front desk. My fingers fumble for the landline. The wiretangles around my wrist as I yank it free. I mash the keypad with sweaty fingers.
Dead.
I hang up and slam the receiver down. Pick it up again. Dial again.
Dead.
Again.
I shove the door open and sprint into the street. Gravel digs into my soles even through my shoes. The coffee shop across the street is closed and the lights are out. The bar beside it is silent with no sign of life. The entire block looks gutted and drained while I wasn’t looking.
Where the fuck is everyone?
I whirl around and check behind me. My heart knocks into my ribs, trying to punch its way out.
I’m alone.
Or I think I am.
Until I’m not.
Until I slam full-speed into something tall and warm.