Page 95 of Riot's Thorn
Whatever Melville sees in my eyes must spook him because he loses his attitude. “You said her dad was part of what Bart has going on?”
“Yeah, but Parker didn’t know about it. She only found out after her dad was killed. Considering she’s known Bart since she was a little girl and can remember him cracking jokes about taking her to the basement, I can safely say she was freaked the fuck out by him.”
Melville removes his stupid wide-brimmed hat. “I may not know anything about Bart specifically, but I’ve been around long enough to know how guys like that work. He’s arrogant and entitled, so if he’s been wanting her since she was little, he’ll feel it’s his right to sample her before passing her off.”
I growl and take a menacing step closer. “Say that again, motherfucker. See what happens.”
He holds his hands up. “I’m just telling it how I see it. If I were you, I’d find out where their next little get-together will be. Find that, and you’ll find her.”
“Thanks, Sheriff.” Satyr positions himself between us.
“For what it’s worth, I hope you find her.” Melville puts his hat back on and leaves.
“’Preciate it.” Rigger walks outside with him, probably to make sure things are copacetic. Owning a brothel means we’re constantly under a microscope with the county, and things could go bad for us quickly if the law decides to take issue with the Honey Pot.
“So, what now?” Satyr asks.
“We keep combing through the security feed. We need to know who took her.” I run a hand through my hair. “And I guess we need to find out where the next damn party will be.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
PARKER
My head is pounding. Did I drink that much last night? I cover my eyes with an arm and curl up on my side. My stomach hurts too. Did I throw up? Maybe if I can just get back to sleep, things will be better when I wake up. College taught me that.
Patting the mattress, I try and find my comforter I must’ve kicked off at some point, but my fingers land on a blanket with a texture I don’t recognize.What the hell?Slowly, I pry my dry eyes open and curse myself for not taking my contacts out before falling asleep. I peel them off my eyeballs and toss them on the floor, giving zero fucks.
This hangover is awful, and even though my eyes feel a little better, I’m thankful the room is still dark. I love the cabin, but all those windows and no window treatments mean I’m up with the sun no matter what, so it must still be nighttime.
“Oh, good. You’re awake.”
I freeze, my headache forgotten because that was a man’s voice I don’t recognize. Or maybe I do? I don’t know. Everything is fuzzy. Did I go home with someone last night?
The lights flip on, and I realize I’m not in my cabin or anywhere else recognizable. The bedroom I’m in is luxurious,but old money luxury, Grandpa’s mansion luxury. I’m on a four-poster bed with maroon and gold bedding in a damask pattern. No wonder the comforter didn’t feel like mine; I’d never own anything this tacky.
Next to me is an antique nightstand with a brass lamp and a stack of old books on it. There’s also a glass of water, a couple of pills, and my glasses that had been in my clutch. I snatch them and shove them on my face. I want to grab the pills because this is the worst hangover I’ve ever had, but first, I need to figure out where I am and who just spoke to me.
“Go ahead. It’ll make your head feel better. Rohypnol tends to give you a nasty hangover.”
Rohypnol? Oh, god. What happened to me?
Dad told me when I was a baby, I’d cover my eyes and think he couldn’t see me because I couldn’t see him. It’s an adorable anecdote, but in this moment, I wish it were true. The second I know who’s behind me, whatever this is will be real, and I won’t be able to pretend I’m simply at home with a hangover.
“Don’t turn around. Just sit up and take the pills like the good girl I know you are, but keep your back to me,” the man says. He seems to be masking his voice by speaking in a quiet, lower tone.
“Bart?” I say, but my throat is dry, making me sound raspy.
“It would only make sense, wouldn’t it?”
I pull the ugly blanket over my body. This dress felt like a good idea when I was getting ready to go to the club, but in a strange room with a strange man, I feel naked.
“What happened? Why am I here? Why the cryptic answer?” I fire off all the questions in my foggy head.
He ignores my question. “I have to hand it to you, you’ve done a good job at protecting yourself. Between the bodyguards and that white trash biker, it took some time to get you alone.”
Everything in me wants to scream and shout, demand to be released, and slap him across the face on my way out, but it won’t get me what I want. “So you brought me here just to talk?”
He chuckles humorously, and I swear, I know his voice. It’s Bart. It has to be. “I think we both know I don’t just want a chat.”
