Page 62 of Wild Card (Advantage Play 1)

“See ya later, doll.”

* * *

The streets are still quiet as I hand the driver my money and get out of the cab. The road is blocked near my building, but I can see the entrance only a hundred yards away. I’ve walked this route a thousand times, but it doesn’t stop the hair on the back of my neck prickling with awareness. Releasing a slow breath, I remind myself that everything will be fine before heading toward the empty parking lot.

Other than the occasional squeal of tires in the distance, my feet scuffing against the damp pavement is the only sound accompanying me on my lonely walk.

Kingston wasn’t kidding about his men being discreet, I note to myself with a quick peek over my shoulder. I haven’t seen anyone all night. Breathing in deep, I look up at the dark sky that promises morning in a few short hours when I feel like someone’s watching me.

I look over my shoulder, but the parking lot is still empty. Rule #3 screams at me to make a run for it. But I don’t. Keeping my head down and my senses on high alert, I scan the dark shadows lining the street while tightening my grip on my backpack that holds a cashier’s check for more money than I could have ever dreamed of winning.

Why the hell do I live in such a crappy neighborhood?

After squeezing my eyes shut in self-deprecation, I pop them open and scan my surroundings again before picking up my speed to a fast walk. The light near the entrance has been broken for months, so I’m not surprised to see the main door blanketed in darkness, but it doesn’t stop my palms from sweating.

Usually, I sneak through a back alley and between a chain-link fence that’s close to where Eddie likes to hang out, but I was dropped off by the main road which means I’m on my own.

With another glance behind me, I listen for the sound of footsteps but only hear my own. Gripping the straps of my backpack like it’s my lifeline, I keep a clear gap between me and the bin that’s tucked away near the front of the building.

A soft scratching up ahead sounds like a siren, and my heart jumps in response. I lick my lips and search the area casually as a prickling sensation races down my spine.

A damn cat pops up out of nowhere, followed by a dry laugh from me at how ridiculous I’m acting.

“Come on, Ace. It’s a parking lot, not a horror movie,” I mutter to myself in an attempt to point out how outrageous I’m being.

Still, it doesn’t stop me from hastening my steps as I approach the front door and tug it open with as much strength as I can muster before darting up the stairs until I’m out of breath.

Digging through my backpack, I grab my key and place it in the lock before twisting the doorknob and slamming the door behind me.

Phew. You’re safe.

I flip the switch on the wall then round the corner into my tiny kitchen in search of a drink. Reaching onto my tiptoes, my shaky hands grab a glass from the cabinet when that same prickling sensation slides down my spine. My entire body freezes as I turn around to see a dark figure emerge from the shadows. The glass slips from my hand, shattering into a dozen pieces on the tile floor beneath my feet as I lurch backward and fall on my ass.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

As I scramble like a sand crab against the old flooring in hopes of escaping the nightmare stalking toward me, every damn rule flickers through my mind for a solution to the shitstorm I inadvertently just walked into. Unfortunately, I come up empty. When a shard of glass pierces the palm of my hand, I collapse onto my elbows in agony. The sharp sting from the laceration shoots up my forearm, spreading like wildfire as that same dark figure inches closer.

Rule #7: Never leave something of value out in the open. And this time, in my own apartment––alone––I’m reminded that I just failed epically. I might not have left something of value out in the open, but I’m still going to pay dearly.

“Please,” I beg, cradling my injured hand to my chest. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Sorry, darlin’,” the shadowed behemoth mutters under his breath. The sentiment does nothing to calm the adrenaline racing through my veins. Bending down, he tangles his fingers in my loose curls. The bite of his hold as he hauls me to my feet is enough to elicit a panicked scream from my lips.

“Help! Please! Somebody help me!”

I know my plea is meaningless. In this building, you keep your head down and your nose out of other people’s business. But I have to try.

Hastily, he grapples for my mouth, covering it with his giant hand as I claw the exposed skin on his forearm. When the familiar X tattoo comes into focus through my blurred vision, I know I’m done for.

Like Kingston said, I screwed with the wrong guy, and I’m about to pay dearly for that mistake too.

With tears streaming down my cheeks, I beg for my life, mumbling against my attacker’s palm in an attempt to convince him to show mercy. I doubt he can understand a single syllable, but it doesn’t stop the words from tumbling past my lips. Seconds later, he releases his hold on my hair, but his other hand is still covering my mouth, preventing me from pleading for my life. His grasp is brutal as his fingers dig into my jaw and cheeks. If there’s any chance of me surviving this encounter, I know that his punishing grip will leave bitter purple bruises on my pale skin.

Wiggling back and forth, I try to find a way to break free, but it only seems to bring him closer. The harsh light from the lamp beside my couch reflects off his face, making him appear almost demonic as he raises his fist. My breath catches in my throat as I watch him. However, it’s his eyes that haunt me. They show the potential for another life. An alternate reality where he could make his own choices instead of being forced to fulfill someone else’s desire with an iron fist. He’s in as much of a prison as I am. And it’s all because of Burlone. In this instant, I feel sorry for him because he’s not a big, strong man. He’s Burlone’s bitch as much as I am. Hell, he’s nothing but a coward who’s been given the task of hurting an innocent girl who happened to bruise Burlone’s ego.

My body goes limp in his hands as if I’m a ragdoll, giving up the fight he expects. With pinched brows, my attacker shows his confusion for a split second before remembering his purpose. I just hope it doesn’t end with me in a body bag.

But maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part.

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