Page 5 of Misery
Blood on the kitchen floor—myblood.
The counter where they slammed my head.
The wall where they pressed me.
Phantom hands tearing at my clothes.
Hot breath on my neck.
Voices telling me what they'd do.
How they'd make me pay for what the Raiders of Valhalla did.
Stop. Don't go there.
But my body remembers. Seven months later, and my body still fucking remembers every second.
"Elfe, grab more Jack from storage?" Hakon, one of the prospects, calls out. "Running low."
Most of the prospects pick up shifts here at the bar to help out with the club.
I nod, grateful for the escape.
I need to get away from the crowd.
From the eyes.
From whoever's sending these messages.
The storage room is through the back, past the hallway that connects to the clubhouse.
My hands shake as I punch in the code. Emil made me memorize it. Along with a dozen other protocols that seemed paranoid at the time.
Now they feel insufficient. Locks only work if the threat's on the outside.
The storage room is cold, quiet, and gives me immediate relief from the noise, heat, and press of bodies.
I lean against the wall, trying to slow my racing heart.
Whoever’s texting me is just some asshole.
Some random asshole who saw me here.
Who thought he’d have fun.
It doesn't mean anything.
Doesn't mean they're back.
Doesn't mean Los Coyotes found me again.
But they never found the people who did this to me.
My phone buzzes.
Do you still have nightmares about that night? About what almost happened?
Bile rises in my throat.
