Page 23 of House Rules
“What if I can get you the money?” I break in desperately. Sweat slides down my spine, pressed against the table. I will welcome death before I become their whore.
“We’ve already been over it, sweetheart. There’s no way to come up with that money.”
“What about information? What if I can get you information that is worth far more than just what my father owes?”
“You don’t know shit.” Pedo-stash sneers at me.
Words pour from my lips in a panicked, disjointed babble. “No, I swear. I was just offered a job watching the Titans. I’ll be part of their inner circle as staff. People think they’re killing people. I could spy on them. I can get you information. Women have been disappearing from the resort. Mostly workers, after they sleep with one of the Titans…they go missing. I could find out what’s happening and you can tell your boss, and he can use that against them?—”
“Shut the fuck up, you lying bitch.” Baldy slaps me across the face, and this time I taste blood.
“What if she’s right?” Pedo-stash asks. “You know what a hard-on the boss has for those privileged little bitches. If he finds out that she said something like this and we didn’t at least tell him?—”
“Fuck,” Baldy says, pissed off. “Fine, call him.”
Pedo-stash lets go of my arm and leaves the room. I try to rise, but Baldy slams me back down, and Baldy takes the opportunity to hit me again, hard enough that the room spins. I can’t fight back as he wrenches my skirt up and yanks my underwear down.
All I can do is scream inwardly, the sound deafening in my brain but nothing in the silence of the trailer.
No. Please. Nononono.
Click.
Click.
I hear it—slow, deliberate—accompanied by the occasional grunt.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but I still feel the flash of exposure. Shame washes over me, thick like sludge.
Before he can do anything else, Pedo-stash walks back into the room and stands over me, his hand coming to grip my throat again.
He leans in close, the sour smell of his breath making my nose wrinkle.
“You’re lucky our boss thinks you might be useful. Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to do whatever the fuck you have to do to get as much dirt on those little bitches as possible. He will decide if and when it’s enough to pay your father’s debt. If you don’t make good on your father’s debt, then we’re going to whore you out and then sell you to some South American cartel as a pet. They’re goingto fuck you until you die, and then probably keep on fucking your corpse after. Is that understood?”
I nod my head as much as I can, and after a hard shove as he pushes himself away, both of the men just leave.
Bringing my legs up, I curl into the fetal position there on the table, and I cry.
Thirty minutes. I give myself exactly thirty minutes to purge away the tears, the rage and the fear, and get myself together. Then, as best as I can, I clean myself up. I wrap an ace bandage around my hand and wrist, testing the movement of my fingers and joints. They’re stiff and hurt like hell, but I can move everything. I think that means nothing is broken.
I take one of the sandwiches out of the fridge, lay it on the floor in case Scrappy returns, and then I pack the few clothes that I have.
I’m not running. Not really.
I’ll play the mob’s game.
But I’m going to level the playing field first.
8
Phoenix
It’slate by the time I leave the trailer and start making my way back to the resort, the fading sun leaving streaks of fire in the sky. I catch glimpses of horizon between the dark hulk of buildings as I stride with purposeful steps down the sidewalk, my old flip phone clutched in my hand.
Inside my bag is the card that Mr. Masterson’s assistant gave me. The thick cardstock is embossed with his name, not hers, and a phone number. I have no doubt that any calls made to this number go straight to his assistant, though, and not him.
He’s too busy to be bothered with details. He made that much plain by his dismissive attitude.
