Page 6 of Power
He chuckles, and suddenly his disgusting tongue is on my face, licking the side of my face like some kind of animal. I freeze, repulsed. This is what I get for being out here tonight, for listening to my husband.
But damn it, if he asked me to again, I’d do it. I always do.
I’ll do anything for him, even if it makes me sick.
I’ll do what’s necessary to make him want me again—to make him see me, even if it means enduring moments like this. I know he’ll come through when it counts. He always does.
But it has to be on his terms. It’s always been that way. This messed-up version of love we share. One where I have to please him first. I wonder if I’ve been conditioned to believe this is how it should be—how it has to be. Maybe that’s what we’ve always been. Twisted. Inescapable. Our own kind of madness.
Buzz Cut Guy yanks me out of my thoughts.
“Come on now, don’t play hard to get, love. I’ve been watching you, my cock has been hard the whole night looking at you. You could make it worth my while. And I’ll... lick your pussy, if you’re nice enough.”
His grip tightens again, and my pulse spikes. My wrist feels like it’s about to break under the pressure.
I’m not sure how much longer I can maintain the charade of staying calm. This is real, and I hate it. My thoughts drift to the pepper spray in my bag, but I know I’m not quick enough.
That’s when I hear it.
His voice.
I look up and it’s him. The Pianist.
“Let her go.”
I whip around, my eyes searching the dark alley, and there he is—the pianist. Not the quiet, soulful guy I saw earlier, but someone different. He’s all sharp angles, and there’s a darkness in his eyes I didn’t notice before. His hand is already gripping the guy’s throat and pulling him away from me like he’s nothing more than an afterthought.
Buzz Cut Guy chokes as his face twists in disbelief, but he doesn’t get a chance to say anything before the pianist drives his face against the brick wall with a force that makes me wince.
I can feel the impact through the wall, the sickening thud echoes down the alley.
“Fuck, man!” Buzz Cut Guy spits and his hand grabs the pianist’s wrist, trying to pry his hand off, but it’s useless. The guy’s not budging. “What the hell is your problem?”
The pianist doesn’t say a word. He just slams him against the wall again, harder this time, and I hear the sickening crack of bone against stone. The guy gasps and his face turns purple as he scrambles for air.
“Please, man... don’t...” he begs. “I—I didn’t mean any harm... just... just let me go, okay?”
His words make my stomach churn, but the pianist just looks at him, his eyes dead. There’s no empathy in his eyes—nothing but cold, hard steel.
I step forward, my voice shaky as I shout at him, “Stop! That’s enough!”
But he doesn’t stop. He moves in, his fist cocking back, and the sound of it hitting the guy’s already disfigured face echoes in the alley.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I wince again, even though I know the guy deserves it. He crumples against the wall, his hands pressing against his bleeding nose, a cracked skull, and busted lips trying to shield himself from another hit.
“Stop!” I say again, but this time, it’s not just a shout—there’s desperation in my voice. This isn’t right.
The pianist finally pauses, turning his head just enough to look at me and his eyes narrow. He’s pissed, and it’s clear.
“You think I’m supposed to be polite when someone puts their hands on a woman?”
I open my mouth, but I can’t think of anything to say. He’s right.
I’m shaking now, and I can’t decide if it’s from fear or something else entirely. “You didn’t need to do this. I’m fine. You are going to kill him.”
“You didn’t look fine,” he mutters under his breath. “And I’m not asking for your permission.”
