by Kent, Rina
He drags me backward before I can recover my balance. A gust of wind drives against him, bringing me his smell as he drags me off the path.
Crisp aftershave. Sweat. The mintiness of fresh mouthwash.
What the fuck? Killers aren’t supposed to smell good!
I struggle, land an elbow in his washboard stomach, and completely fail to break free.
I guess he’s not taking any chances this time. As soon as we’re well and truly in the shadows, he pins the front of my body against a broad tree trunk and leans into me. He’s powerful — even pushing against the trunk with everything I’ve got, I barely rock him.
He grabs my wrists and locks my hands against the bark above my head, leaving the other free to roam.
“Bad decision, angel,” he murmurs into my ear.
Angel?
A sudden swell of anger leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I struggle furiously, but all he does it press harder into me. Then he grabs the scruff of my neck. “You made me angry, having to chase after you.”
“Yeah?” I snap. “Sounds more like you’re out of breath.”
It’s the pent-up rage inside me talking, of course. He struck a nerve. Mom used to call me her little angel. What the fuck gives him the right to call me that?
When he laughs, his chest vibrates against my shoulders. His hand slides down my side as if he’s trying to frisk me for more knives. And don’t I fucking wish I had more?
“Chasing a little thing like you? Please.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter, wriggling furiously under him.
“Yeah, keep struggling,” he murmurs into my ear, his warm breath tickling my skin. “It’s getting me hard.”
“You fucking sicko, get off!”
“Oh, I’m planning on it.” His hand glides over my ass and dives between my legs.
I go stiff, my eyes squeezing shut as he brushes against my pussy. There’s a lot of fabric in the way — I didn’t bother trying on these jeans before I bought them, so they’re super baggy — but still his fingers manage to make contact with my clit.
A dark thrill chases through me.
Then a whimper tumbles out of my mouth, timed perfectly with the ring of a mobile phone.
He ignores it, and it goes silent after a few rings.
“Not such a big shot now, are you, angel?” He presses into me at a different angle, and it takes me a second to realize why.
It’s so I can feel his rock hard dick against the curve of my ass.
Fuck. Fuck!
My breath comes faster, my heart picking up speed.
I’m terrified — I know I am — but my body’s doing its own thing. For some reason, some sick, fucked up reason, I’m getting wet from this monster touching me.
“Just let me go,” I say, turning my head so I can look at him from the corner of my eye.
I’ve been avoiding eye contact. If I can’t identify him, I don’t pose a threat, right? But as soon as our eyes lock, I realize none of that matters. There isn’t much light, but there’s just enough to make out his features.
Eyes the color and warmth of a melting glacier fix on mine. Immediately, my willpower drains away because that wide, smiling mouth beneath his strong nose tells me everything I need to know.
I’m a rabbit, he’s a wolf that enjoys playing with his supper.
Chapter Three
Briar
All it takes is me pinning her to a tree and putting my dick up against her before she finally stops squirming. I won’t lie, I kinda wish she’d keep at it. I love how it feels when her body writhes like that. Almost as much as I love watching her plump mouth spit out those dirty words.
“All out of fight?” I croon, grinding against her.
“I don’t know who you are. If you let me go, I won’t tell anyone—”
I stop rubbing her pussy through her baggy jeans and twist her around. My fingers go around her throat, my other hand keeping her wrists pinned above her head. “And just who you planning on telling, Angel?”
“The police,” she says through gritted teeth as she scans my face.
I hope she’s not looking for some sign of humanity. Anyone who knows me, knows I’m the furthest thing from a saint.
“Yeah?” I squeeze her throat, but all that does is make her eyes flare. Her eyelashes tremble, but I get the feeling it’s anger, not fear. “Well, do me a favor and let the Sheriff know Briar says hi.”
Her dark, unruly eyebrows draw together. “You’re pathetic if you think that’ll stop me,” she says, voice dripping with disgust.
I laugh as I abandon her throat and instead run my hand down her chest, grasping first one breast, then the other.
In an instant, fear darkens her eyes.
Seems she couldn’t care less if I strangle her, but using her body for my own depraved pleasure? Suddenly, I’m crossing a line.
My smile lifts as I rake my fingers down her belly and grab her pussy through her jeans again.
She lets out a hiss and stands on the tips of her toes. Even then, she doesn’t reach my chin.
“I’m on my period,” she says hurriedly, eyes filling with venom.
“Hmm…” I murmur, and lean close enough that my lips brush her ear when I speak. She turns her head away, but I just follow. “Guess I won’t need to lube you up first.”
When I straighten, her mouth is open in shock.
I run my thumb over her bottom lip, and she moves her face away from my touch. So I grip her jaw and force her head straight. Her eyes try to burn a hole through mine when I dip and rub myself against her so she can feel just how hard I am for her.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” she whispers furiously.
I pause, my smile going crooked. “I told you, I’m—”
“Yeah, I’m sure you gave me your real name.” She pulls her face free, red marks on her skin how I gripped her. “Well guess what, Whoever-the-fuck-you-are?”
I blink at her. How the fuck can she think talking back to me is going to make this any easier on her?
“You’ll be pissing blood for a week.”
Her knee lifts, but I twist away just in time. If she hadn’t said anything, hadn’t put me on my guard, I’d probably be writhing on the floor in agony right now.
My phone rings again. Just two rings, then it goes silent.
Time to go.
I release the girl, and drag my fingers down my jaw as I give her a long, slow once-over. “Run, Angel,” I say quietly.
She slips away from the tree and backs up as if expecting me to rush her. Honest to God, I should…but I need to check my phone; I know it’s important. So I just keep grinning at her until she turns tail and disappears into the night.
I lean against the tree and take my phone from my pocket. I toy with the girl’s switchblade, turning it over in my hand as I wait for my call to connect.
“Hey…uh…” A voice breathes in my ear. I straighten, pressing the phone harder against my ear.
“Marcus?” I can barely recognize his voice.
“Yeah, ‘s me.” He sounds short of breath, exhausted. “Can you…could you—?”
“Be there in five.” I put down the phone without bothering to hear his response. Then I’m sprinting, my encounter with Angel already forgotten.
Marcus needs me.
Indi
I stop outside Marigold’s house to hack up all the spit that’s gone thick in my mouth. I stay bent over for a few panting breaths, and then straighten and haul icy air into my lungs.
Run, Angel.
And boy, did I obey.
On the plus side, I not only survived being murdered, but also the run back here. That must be some kind of miracle, right?
I push back my shoulders and stride toward the house. I have to give myself a mental shove before I can get myself to open the door.
Who’d have thought I’d be more reluctant to go inside this house than wait out here, in the dark, where a monster roams?
Marigold is nowh
ere to be seen when I let myself back inside her house. In fact, the house is so dark and quiet, I think she may have gone to bed already.
Crap, what time is it?
My legs quiver like jelly as I sneak upstairs, taking those unfamiliar steps one at a time because I have no idea which of them creak.
Turns out, all of them do. I give up on sneaking three-quarters of the way up, turn into the hall, and yell out when my gran materializes in front of me like the Mayflower looming from a fog bank.
“Holy crap, you scared me,” I say, laying a hand over my thumping heart.
Marigold stares at me, nonplussed. “You do know you start school tomorrow?”
My throat tightens a little. “Of course.”
“You should be in bed, not roaming around in the woods.”
“But I wasn’t—”
Marigold’s hand lashes out. I instinctively close my eyes, expecting a slap. But all she does is tug gently on my hair. I open one eye, and then the other. Then my shoulders drop.
She’s holding a pine needle between her fingers. “While you live under my roof, you will do as I say, young lady.” Her eyes bore into me, merciless.
My stomach twists. “I’m sorry, Gran—”
“Marigold,” she snaps. “Now get to your room. We’ll talk about your lack of respect in the morning.”
She strides down the hallway, bristling.
Uh, gran, I was assaulted and damn near murdered in the woods? No? Not interested?
I slink into my room and press the door closed behind me. Eyes shut, I lean my forehead against the smooth wood. For a moment, hot tears press against my lids, but I will them back as I head for my bed.
All of this shit, I brought it on myself. I deserve nothing less. I should just have let that guy do whatever the fuck he wanted with me out there in the woods.
If I’d been at home last Saturday and not out partying, then Mom would still be alive. Or we’d both be dead. Either way, my life would have been so much better than the pig-shit swamp I’m wading through right now.
My backpack is beside the dresser, my two sets of just as ill-fitting clothes as the ones I’m wearing neatly stacked on top.
So I guess I don’t have any privacy anymore, either? I have a feeling tomorrow’s talk is going to involve a set of rules as long as my arm. And a nearly exhaustive list of the penalties I’ll face for breaking any of them.
I head to my backpack, and spend a few seconds rummaging around inside. I’m far from the naive, idealistic innocent I was. My eyes have been opened these past few days. Opening up a hidden pocket inside my backpack for what I consider valuable seemed as good an idea at the time as buying that switchblade.
I’ve lost my knife, but thank God I haven’t lost the flat, velvet-lined box I hid inside my bag.
After a quick glance over my shoulder, I hurry to my door to turn the lock.
Obviously, it doesn’t have one.
So I grab the chair from the dresser and ram it under the handle. Not a sure-fire way to keep someone out if any of the hundred horror movies I’ve watched are anything to go by, but at least I’ll have enough time to stash away my secrets before Marigold can come inside.
I perch on the foot of the bed and rub my thumb over the soft velvet case in my hands. It’s a champagne gold color, and almost too heavy in my palms.
Bringing it up to my nose, I inhale deep.
Before long, it won’t smell like her perfume anymore. But for now it still does, and I can’t get enough of it.
Tears prick my eyes as the comforting smell of vanilla and sandalwood fills my nose. I lever open the lid and stare down at my Mom’s favorite necklace. The heart-shaped sapphire seems to shift and dance as light falls on it. Through it.
I adjust the delicate chain so it hangs just right, a sad smile tugging at my lips. Then I snap the case closed and squeeze shut my eyes, refusing to let a single tear slip out.
It takes a great effort of will to stand and put the case back into my secret hiding place, but I make myself do it.
I was wearing this the night Mom died. I’d stolen it from her cupboard because I wanted to impress my friends.
Now it’s all I have left of her. A constant reminder of her beauty. A never-ending testament to my betrayal.
You know what? Karma’s a fucking bitch.
Briar
I’m driving too fast, but I can’t make myself slow down. Fuck it, I don’t want to slow down. Baker’s house is five minutes from mine. Three if I floor it.
I slam down on my Mustang’s brakes a few yards before I reach Marcus’s gates. The Baker mansion is on a decent spit of land — several acres in each direction, their backyard disappearing into the tangled mess that goes up the side of the mountain. That’s how we met, back in the day. We ran into each other in the woods, and been mates ever since.
Jumping out of my car, I leg it the rest of the way to Marcus’s gates. I don’t bother with the intercom — I assume his dad’s home, and I definitely don’t want to land myself on that guy’s radar.
Instead, I climb the fence, and haul myself over using the thick branch of an oak tree. His dad’s got cameras all over this place. After that stint of violent robberies last year, everyone in Lavish does, even after police charged a suspect. But Marcus knows where they are.
Which means I know where they are.
I make it to the side of their French Colonial a minute later, and climb up the trellises with ease. I’ve been doing this for years, so most of it’s muscle memory. My actual muscles help, of course. Football’s great for building bulk…and getting a practically absent father to pay attention once in a while when I make the Lavish Times cover story every now and then.
Marcus’s bedroom window is open. I slip inside, whipping away the lace curtain that drapes my face, and stop to give my eyes time to adjust to the dark.
“Where you at?” My voice is deep and low. If his father’s still around, the last thing I want is to let him know I’ve broken in again. If it wasn’t for the fact that our fathers were friends, he’d have given me a beating too.
Still have to figure out why the fuck my father thinks Mr. Brandon Baker is the kind of person he wants to spend his time with. Honestly, I think he just feels sorry for the guy. Fuck knows it’s got nothing to do with Baker’s personality; Marcus’s father has a mean streak the size of the Mississippi River. I think they may have been friends when they were younger, but Dad’s never really spoken to me about it.
Especially after mom’s accident.
“Over here.”
My heart sinks at the sound of Marcus’s thick, rough voice. I hurry over to the bed, perching on the edge and reaching for the shape I can now make out.
When I touch his shoulder, he flinches away from my touch.
“Old man still here?” I whisper.
“No. Got picked up a few minutes ago.”
I let out a long breath and work my shoulders while I wait for Marcus to gather himself.
Sometimes it takes minutes. Sometimes days. It all depends on how empty the whiskey bottle was before Marcus’s father came to find him.
“You said you’d get out the next time he was here.”
I know I shouldn’t be blaming Marcus for any of this, but if he could have avoided another—
“I was asleep,” Marcus croaks. “Smoked too much, knocked me out.”
“Shit,” I mutter, and rake my fingers through my hair. “Is it bad? Do you need ice or something?”
“I need a fucking drink.” Marcus shifts, pauses, pushes up into a sit. His head is low, chin to his chest, as if it’s too heavy to keep up. “Bring me a bottle.”
“Marcus—”
“Please.” This time, he pushes the words through his teeth.
“All right, man. All right.” I stand and leave his room, closing the door partway behind me. I move quickly, but I’m not fast enough. I hear Marcus let out a tortured sob, and my jaw clenches so tight, the scratch on my cheek starts to th
rob. I finger it gently as I make for the stairs, grimacing at myself.
Can’t believe that little stray cut me.
I jog downstairs and head into the mansion’s large den. This room always reeks of cigarettes and whiskey, but it’s a stench I’ve gotten used to over the years.
There’s a laptop on the desk, but it’s closed. An empty crystal tumbler, an ashtray with a few cigarette butts inside. Evidence of Marcus’s father being home.
But for how long?
Just like my dad, Marcus’s father is away from home more often than not. You’d think he’d be happy to see his son, but all he does when he’s in Lavish is drink, beat up Marcus, and then go out on ‘business meetings’ until the small hours of the morning.
There’s a wet bar against one wall. I grab the bottle of vodka from it, not bothering with glasses.
I linger for a few seconds, mentally preparing myself to go upstairs, and giving Marcus enough time to pull himself together.
When I get back to him, he’s standing by the window, staring out at his garden as he leans against the wall. I hand him the vodka and he takes it silently by the neck.
His Adam’s apple slides up and down as he gulps vodka straight from the bottle. I can’t see a single bruise on him, but that’s one of his father’s specialties — he never leaves a mark that his kid can’t cover with his school clothes.
“Break anything this time?” I ask.
Marcus shakes his head. “Got a call. Had to leave.” Then he glances at me, his dark eyes black in the low light. “Roof?”
I nod, and trail him out of his room. He walks with stiff legs and a straight back, as if his ribs are sore.
He should fight back next time.
He should tell the police, social services, something.
But we’ve been through all of this, time and time again. It’s a never-ending cycle. Come morning, Marcus is always under the impression he somehow deserved the beating.
A low grade on a paper.
Fumbling a pass at the game.
Not hitting it off with the cheerleader he’s been chasing.
