Page 7 of Freaks
My father must have told me? My father must have told me what? Sixsmith had woken me up at two a.m. and informed me I was to come here today, that I was to be downstairs and waiting for Peter at eleven a.m. sharp. Uncharacteristically, he’d left my bedroom without so much as sneering in my general direction. He’d been sober, too, which had come as a shock. Once he’d gone, I’d laid in bed, unable to get back to sleep, thinking about what Sixsmith must have traded for me this time. I’d paid off his original outstanding debts with my pussy about six months ago. Now, he mostly used me as a line of credit on a weekly tab at the bar, but sometimes I was good for the occasional bit of help with the authorities, whenever Sixsmith found himself in trouble with the law and he required Sam’s influence to get him out of trouble.
Other times, Sixsmith traded me for cash, so he could fix up his car. The Beretta broke down more often than it ran; I must have blown Sam enough times to pay for an entirely new engine block by now.
Sixsmith hadn’t shared what he was getting out of today’s visit, though, and I hadn’t asked. I’d simply thanked my lucky stars that he hadn’t been in a more volatile mood and I’d waited for the dawn.
Grunting with the effort, Sam stooped down beside me, crouching by my head. He brushed my hair back out of my face, and then he cupped my cheek tenderly in his hand. Fear stabbed at me, sending a spasm of electricity through me; when Sam was gentle, it meant he was going to beextrarough later. “You come from weak, sullied stock, Sera,” he said in a monotone voice. “Your father is bottom feeding scum. A liar, and a cheat. Did you know? Did you know what he was planning to do?”
A thousand thoughts reeled and cartwheeled through my head. What the fuck had Sixsmith done now? How had he upset Sam this badly? The man hadneverliked my father, was always cursing him and calling him every name under the sun, but this level of hatred was new.
Out of nowhere, Sam slipped his hand around the back of my neck and grabbed a fist full of my hair, yanking my head back so hard that I yelped. He shoved his face into mine, his teeth bared, breath reeking of rye as he yelled,“Did you know he was going to take the bar? Did you know he was going to fucking clean me out? Huh?”If he wanted an answer from me, I’d never know. My teeth crashed together as he picked up my head and smashed it against the floor. My field of vision shrank, darkening around the edges, like the screen of an old television as it powered down. For a second, I thought I was going to pass out, and relief hit me like a fist in the gut.
Then I realized that, no, I wasn’t going to lose consciousness. I was going to remain wide awake. And it wasn’t relief hitting me in the stomach. It was Sam. He pulled back his fist and then drove it forward again, putting so much force into his punch that I bowed, curling inward, my body curving itself around the unexpected pain and shock.
“Who was he?” Sam hissed. “Who was that fucker Sixsmith brought to the game last night? Where the fuck did he find him, Sera? He told you, I know he did. That drunk moron can’t keep a secret to save his life.”
He was right: as a rule, my father couldn’t keep anything quiet. But this time, I had no idea what Sam was talking about. I was still fighting to pull in a much-needed breath when he launched himself at me again, this time rearing back so he could lay into me with his feet. He didn’t kick me. That would be too kind a term for what he did next. Hestompedon me—my stomach, my chest, my head. Over and over again, he stomped down as hard as he could while he screamed at me, demanding answers I couldn’t supply.
“How did he beat me? How did he fucking do it? How did he get that guy to play for him? I mean it, Sera. Tell me now!” He was gone, lost in a sea of hysteria, and there was nothing I could do but ride it out.
The pain consumed me.
The pain…becameme.
I was made up of it. Every part of me. Every fiber. Every molecule. Every cell.
Bones broke.
Skin split.
I bled.
I bled.
I bled.
And then…everything stopped.
“He thinks he’s a big man now, huh? Thinks he can make me feel small? Gives me a week to get out of my own goddamn house, and he thinks he’s going to fuckinggetawaywith it?” A flat, eerie calm replaced Sam’s fury. His words were whispered, and worried me far more than the violence he’d just inflicted upon me.
I needed to get up. I needed to get the fuck out of here. I had no clue what had happened last night, but it sounded like my father had pulled something incredibly dumb and incredibly dangerous at a poker game, and he’d somehow won Sam’s bar. If I stayed here, Sam was going to kill me. I was going to end up too broken to crawl my way out of this apartment, and then I would be well and truly screwed. I had t—
A sound stopped me dead in my tracks.
A sound I knew very,verywell.
The scrape of metal on metal.
The sound of Sam’s favorite handcuffs.
Oh god.
I cracked my eyes open, and...fuck. Sam had dropped his robe to the floor. He stood naked at my feet, his gut bulging, his cock hanging flaccid between his legs, his eyes filled with pure fire. He scissored the cuffs back and forth in his hand, a brutal smile blossoming on his face.
“Your daddy knew what would happen to you if you came here today. He doesn’t care if I cut you up. He doesn’t care if I make your ass bleed. He doesn’t care if I strangle the last ounce of life out of you while I come inside your bruised cunt. That’s the kind of man Sixsmith Lafferty is. I hope you’re fucking proud of him, girl.”
Even as he talked, his cock was growing harder and harder. He was emasculated and angry as hell, that much was clear, but the idea of causing me so much pain while he fucked me was obviously tempering the sting. I looked into his eyes, and I knew he was going to do it. Every dark, sick, perverse, fucked up thing he’d ever wanted to do to me and had held himself back from…he was going to do them all. Panic hit me, a tidal swell of terror that made the roof of my mouth prickle and tingle.
Move. Move, damnit!
