Page 45 of Ends of Being

Toni

Icomebacktoconsciousness in stages.

First, only unintelligible words are being muttered, random laughter, and broken shouts.

Then, it’s the smell. Acrid, bitter sickness and smoke incorporated with old blood.

Then light attempts to prick through, and my eyelids flutter as I try to raise my head from the uncomfortable position of my chin against my chest.

I remember the van. I remember making a move to get into the van, but then everything becomes blurry. I have no idea how long I was knocked out, but the jackhammering in my skull and the sticky crusty stuff on my face indicate that it’s been a fair amount of time.

I flick my tongue out, licking at the gunk that settled into the corner of my mouth, and I’m relieved when I taste copper. There’s no telling if these people have done anything to me while I was out, but upon a quick review of my person, it seems safe to assume I haven’t been violated.

I manage to turn my head slightly and pry open an eyelid to see what’s around me. I’m facing a wall, and the first thing I notice is the number of people surrounding me. Surely, having this many people standing guard over one woman who is very securely bound to a chair seems a bit overkill.

So, this means either they’re worried I have exceptional abilities as an escape artist and assassin, or they’re worried about who might be coming to find me.

Obviously, it must be the latter, which makes me snort to myself a bit, considering I have asked myself the same question repeatedly for what feels like ages now.

Who the fuck is that guy?

I snort again, annoyed with myself for failing to clarify this very important question before fucking him, but sometimes, that’s just how things turn out.

I give a little start when I realize a dark-haired man is staring at me, and he nudges a bearded man beside him, motioning in my direction as he says something I can’t make out. The bearded man turns his head to look at me, and the smile on his face sends shivers down my spine. I attempt to wiggle in the chair to confirm I’m truly stuck, which I most certainly am. No amateur rope skills this time around.

The two men move closer to me until they’re standing directly in front of me, and one of them leans over close and says, “No point in pretending to be passed out. We can see you’re awake.”

Painfully, I lift my head and look at them but don’t say anything. The bearded guy looks me up and down and sneers, “We don’t usually get the pretty ones.”

It takes all of my self-control not to gag at the implication of his words, and I have to force the anxiety and fear back down into my guts. I’ve always been a big believer in every person having a time to die, and when it’s your time, there is nothing you can do to change it. It doesn’t matter if you die of old age or illness, by accident or at the hands of another person—your time is your time. And that will have to be my mantra through this ordeal. If it’s my time, then it’s my time, and if nothing else, I’ll be taking a piece of them with me.

A shout on the other side of the room draws my attention, and sure enough, all eyes are on me. I scan the various faces in hopes I’ll find one that doesn’t have the predatory gleam of someone just waiting their turn, but no such luck. Every last one of them is leering at me, and I may as well be naked in this chair, waiting for them to queue up.

I try to remind myself that I just have to live through it, regardless of what happens here, regardless of how it all ends. If I can make it through to the other side with a heartbeat and brain function; that’s a win.

So, scared as fuck, I steal my spine, raise my chin and laugh. I laugh, and I laugh, and I laugh. Because it all really is preposterous. A few weeks ago, I was a bratty accountant who got off on torturing a coworker, and now, here I am, tied to a chair, potentially waiting to be gang raped and murdered for reasons that are beyond me.

Eventually, I run out of breath, and I attempt to get control of myself. I sit there, letting the occasional giggle escape, and now they’re all staring at me like I’m certifiably insane, which seems to be pretty accurate, given how life is going.

I’m feeling just a tad unhinged. I’m 100% sure if given the opportunity, I’ll chew out the throats of anyone that comes near me. The problem being chewing out throats takes time and strength, and there are far too many of them for me to get very far.

A door creaks open behind me, and I attempt to crane my head around so I can see, but it’s too far away.

A voice barks out through the silence, “You all better keep your hands off the goods ’til the order comes down, then she’s free game.”

I make a face, unable to stop the flinch that goes through my body at his words. Footsteps echo in the bare room, letting me know this asshole is approaching behind me, and when he comes into view, I recognize him as one of the men who took me off the street. Not the one who grabbed me and spoke to me, but the one who opened the van doors, and I’m assuming throttled me when I didn’t move fast enough.

He gives me a blank look and says, “You look like shit.”

I guffaw, and my lip curls as I parrot in a completely childish tone, “You look like shit.”

He scowls at me. “Don’t you think it would be in your best interest to keep your fucking mouth shut?”

I level a bland stare at him and retort, “Seems to me I’ve got fuck all to lose at this point.”

“True. And it’s not like anything you say will sway us from taking you apart when the time comes.”

My eyes widen, then I glare at him before saying, “And why is that? I feel like everyone is in on the joke here but me. Do I even fucking know you?”

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