Page 29 of The First Cut

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He crosses his arms over his chest.

“If you’re waiting for a different answer, then I’m sorry to tell you—you’ll be waiting a while. The last phone I had, Driller smashed, and I didn’t bother getting another one. Besides, they’re a luxury I can’t afford.”

“You won’t mind if I check, then.”

I lift my arms straight out beside me and spread my legs, pretending I don’t care that he doesn’t believe me. What’s one more name on the list?

I need to remember that this isn’t a love story. It’s an arrangement—one that gives him a built-in babysitter, and me a break from being a human punching bag. Assuming, of course, Hannibal’s true to his word. In my experience, most men lie as easily as they breathe.

I suck in a sharp breath as his hands glide from my wrists, up my arms to my armpits, then down along my ribs. He drops to his knees and runs his hands slowly up my legs, pausing at the apex of my thighs before sliding his fingers over my pussy so smoothly, I’m almost sure I imagined it.

Then he’s standing again, his hands moving up to my chest—probably to check my bra. Only I’m not wearing one. And I know he knows that because he was staring at my boobs in the damn clinic.

He’s quick. I’ll give him that. I should be freaking out, but I’m mostly numb to it all right now. There’s already too much going on in my head for me to dissect the man’s actions.

“I’ll get you a phone when we leave.”

But not before. Not until he’s absolutely sure I’m not a spy for Khan.

I almost laugh at that. If Khan were on fire, I’d pull out a bag of marshmallows and watch him roast.

I don’t say anything, though. I just nod and wait for him to leave. It doesn't bother me no not having a cell phone. I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t have anyone to talk to. Hell I wonder if anyone even knows I’m missing yet? Driller said he had people watching but usually means watching the house. They won’t come inside to check on me. Heck, I wouldn’t be surprised if they only ones who’ve noticed I’m gone are Smokey and Bandit and I’m not exactly going to call them and let them know I’m okay now am I? God, I’m pathetic.

He opens his mouth to say something else but shakes his head before he heads to the door. I stay where I am until he leaves, pulling the door closed behind him. I wait until I hear the lock click before I take a deep, shaky breath. The tears I’d mostly managed to hold back finally break free, running down my cheeks as I make my way into the bathroom. Gasping, I grip the counter with both hands and stare at myself in the mirror, my reflection mocking me.

“So fucking stupid, Lola. Why don’t you ever learn?”

Rummaging around, I find a couple of washcloths and a pack of toothbrushes, as well as a huge box of condoms. Ignoring the condoms, I grab the washcloths and use one to gently wash my face, careful of the bruises.

Driller usually likes to keep the bruises in places most people won’t see—or that are easy to cover up. I often wear skimpy clothing even when I don’t want to. But the more skin I show, the less he can mark without raising questions. Of course, that forces him to get creative and hurt me in other ways, but I’ll take the small victories where I can. Every once in a while, though, he just lets go of that rage, not giving a fuck where he hits me. That’s when I’m stuck at home or forced to wear that awful stage makeup.

Once my face is clean, I take the other washcloth and run it under cold water before wringing it out, folding it into a square,and pressing it against my eye. It’s going to look worse tomorrow without icing it, but this is better than nothing.

I use the bathroom while I’m in here, then wash my hands and hesitantly walk back into the bedroom—my new prison for the foreseeable future.

I eye the bed warily. A huge part of me wants to climb under the covers and find solace in sleep—the only place I feel safe. But the other part of me feels horribly vulnerable doing so. Wouldn’t it be like offering myself up like an all-you-can-eat buffet?

I look around and bite my lip. I’m being ridiculous. If Hannibal wants to fuck me, avoiding the bed won’t make a difference. He could take me against the wall or on the carpet, even bent over the chair in the corner.

I place the damp cloth on the dresser and open the top drawer. Finding a stack of boxer shorts, I pull a pair out before moving on to the next draw. After rummaging around for a bit, I find the softest T-shirt I can find and close the drawer.

I glance at the door, wondering if he’s out there, waiting, ready to pounce if I… “Jesus, I’m losing it.”

I sit on the edge of the bed and toe off my shoes, thankful I didn’t wear socks. I’m not that big, but getting socks on and off is ten times harder than it used to be. I might have to give up wearing them altogether, because I’ll be damned if I ask Hannibal for help.

I quickly strip off the rest of my clothes and pull the extra-large and super soft T-shirt over my head. It falls to mid-thigh and covers everything. I decide to skip the boxers for now and save them for later, so I have something clean to put on after I shower. Even if Hannibal does send one of the girls out to shop for me, I’ll still need something clean to wear. Sure, I can wash out the underwear I’m wearing, but I’ll need the boxer shorts while they dry.

I pull back the comforter and climb into the bed, staying as close to the edge as possible. I snuggle under the covers and try not to think about the danger I’ve put myself—and my baby—in by coming here. If Driller finds out I’m not just here but being claimed by Hannibal, he’ll kill me.

Surprisingly, given the dumpster fire that is my life is right now, it doesn’t take me long to fall asleep—everything finally catching up with me. Once upon a time, sleeping in a strange bed would’ve been impossible. Now I find comfort in any bed that isn’t my own. The irony’s not lost on me.

When I wake up, I feel a steel band wrapped around my waist, just above my bump. Panic makes me tense. I’ve tried everything to keep Driller away from my baby, knowing that anything could set him off. He plans to use the baby against me, but his temper is a volatile thing. He reacts before he thinks and all it would take is one blow to?—

No. I won’t let that happen again.

As sleep fades and reality returns, I remember that I’m not back home with Driller. I’m not home at all. I carefully ease myself out of bed and quietly walk into the bathroom to pee. My son might be on the small side, but that doesn’t stop him from using my bladder as a trampoline.

My head pounds, and my face throbs. I forgot to put the washcloth back over them after I changed earlier. Grabbing another one, I wet it with cold water before wringing it out and pressing it to my face. Sighing as the pain starts to ease, I head back into the bedroom and stare down at the bed.