Page 8 of Depraved
I ran.
Ran as far away as I could from that Boston ghetto, landing first in California, then Louisiana, Florida, Utah, Oregon, and now Chicago, Illinois.
It’s been eight years of changing locations every time they get wise to me. It always starts with calls and then they find my location.
But I’m a ghost each time.
New name, new look, but the same me. At least I hope she’s still in there…deep down, hidden under all the necessary survival. My eyes stare off into my office as my thoughts settle in—I haven’t stopped in eight long years.
A huge part of me hoped they’d forgotten or lost interest this time. Sooner or later, they have to give up. Whether it’s because they tire of this game or they’re behind bars, I just have to keep running long enough to outlast them.
The hard part to swallow is that I’d started to believe I’d really escaped this time. Found the one place they’d never find me. I thought I’d won. Despite my past, I’d let myself build a small life, making friends with people instead of living anonymously.
My biggest mistake was letting the one man I knew better than to touch, put his hands all over me.
Girls with secrets like mine don’t get a happily ever after.
I fucking know better. The cruelest thing I’ve ever done to myself was have a taste of a man that’s left me with cravings.
The landline on my desk rings, making me jump and a small surprised breath suck in between my lips. My hand instinctively reaches for the handle, but I draw back, chewing the inside of my cheek and staring at the phone.
There are only three people who have this number.
The three people who own this business.
One of which I’ve been thinking about all week.
I wait, staring at the phone as it rings and rings, then finally stops. Tapping my nails against the desk, I narrow my eyes, hating that I’m actually entertaining thoughts about Dante.
I feel like such a chick. And I hate it.
I don’t like feeling regret or hope or any of the bullshit that people who grow up in fancy houses with loving families feel. Each time I do, it just morphs into anger, which fuels my hate for everything I don’t have.
And right now, what I don’t have is time, but I’m greedy. The moment he finished with me, I wanted him to start again and never stop.
Thinking about it makes heat crawl up my skin, my arms erupting into goose bumps. I reach up to rub the back of my neck, tilting my head to the side.
“Fuck,” I breathe out, rolling my shoulders.
I’m a girl with secrets that need to stay buried and skeletons that have to stay hidden, and Dante—he’s the guy I can’t seem to keep a straight head around.
Not that he’s tried to pursue me.
I was just pussy to him. I made sure of that.
I can’t be mad. But I am…at myself. And maybe him, but I won’t admit that because that makes me way too weak.
I’ll never be that for any man.
Then again, the last time I said that, I ended up trussed up and spanked.
My tongue darts out over my lip remembering how he held me still and kissed my lips softly, whispering, “Good girl,” into my mouth.
“Look at you,” he croons “You were made for this.”
Dante runs his tongue over my neck, sinking his teeth into the curve of my neck where my shoulder meets, marking me again.
My ass stings from where Dante’s palm left me red and begging for him to fuck me.
