Page 190 of Boy of Ruin
I open the door.
She’s wearing a red, silk robe, and nothing else.
I see the swells of her tits, her plump lips pulling into a smile.
My stomach plummets.
Later, when she’s riding my dick and I’m staring at the ceiling, I think about the Forgues. What happens there? What are they doing?
When Pammie kisses my forehead, tying her robe and telling me goodnight, I’m thinking about what I’m going to find.
When she flips off my light, and closes my door softly behind her, I wonder what it would be like to kill myself.
I tried before, but it was a false alarm.
A flinch.
I wonder if all women are this fucking depraved. Ophelia seems to care about me, but she ran her fucking mouth to her dad and now…
Fuck.
“There’s someone waiting for you downstairs,” Mr. Forgues says. Francis is his name, but my dad insists I call all of the 6 by more “respectful” titles. I’d like to fucking break Mr. Forgues neck the way he’s looking at me right now, fucking gloating, but I clench the keys to my BMW in my fist and only nod.
“Okay,” I tell him, glancing into his big ass house. Bigger even than mine, even though we live on the same private street.
I marvel at the fact Ophelia’s family can live here and not know what the fuck is going on.
Ignorance truly is bliss.
“When you get down there, Lucifer,” Francis’s hand clamps down on my shoulder and I nearly stagger under the weight of it. He’s not a small man. I’m taller than he is, but I’m skinny too. Something Pammie likes to tease me about.
I swallow down the bile rising up the back of my throat.
“Look, but don’t touch. If you do,” he leans down close to me and I want to fucking rip his throat out, “you’ll switch places with my son.”
My blood runs cold, and I hear my shoes echo on the polished tile floor as Francis releases me and I head through the entranceway, to the first door on the right.
I turn toward it, see a keypad beside the door, but Francis says, “Go on, it’s unlocked,” and I twist the knob, darkness greeting me.
Silence as well, and the smell of something foul.
Gritting my teeth, I head down the stairs.
Only the light from the doorway at the top spills down the steps, and I can’t make out much of anything.
But then I hear something that’s like a whimper.
A word.
“No. N-no.”
My skin crawls. It sounds like it’s coming from a wild animal, the voice hoarse and the word almost unintelligible. I keep going, glancing over my shoulder, seeing Francis looming in the doorway now, a strange smile on his face.
The foul smell—like urine—hits me harder in the coldness of the basement.
I reach the bottom step.
That plea grows louder.
