Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“I don’t know,” I told him, glaring at him as he snarled down at me.
It was, you know, the truth. Partially. I had no fucking idea where those bricks of heroin that the Erion guy stole were. On the streets somewhere, most likely. Up the noses or in the veins of people who had an alarmingly low chance of ever getting clean.
It was going to take a fuckuva lot more pain to make me give up my mom’s address.
I was actually kind of surprised at how fiercely I wanted to protect her at that moment, considering how strained our relationship was.
I guess, at the end of the day, she was my mom.
And what I’d told Slash was the truth.
She hadn’t abused me.
She’d neglected me. There were times I went hungry and dirty, when the heat or air was cut off, when there was no water to bathe with or drink. Because all that money went to the liquor store.
But she’d loved me, in the way she could, the way her addiction let her.
As much as there was some bitterness and resentment for some of the shit I’d endured when I had no choice, I also understood the way addictions could turn people into shadows of themselves.
She didn’t deserve to have the fucking Bulgarian crime syndicate storming into her trailer, scaring her, hurting, or even killing her.
“Where, Nyx?” Chet growled after another strike, making my eye immediately start to swell, blurring my vision.
“No idea,” I said, bracing myself as his eyes flickered, the flames growing.
This time, his hand didn’t yank my hair up, it dragged it down, then released it, the momentum making my head slam back against the hard cement floor.
Sparks flashed across my vision, and I wondered if maybe giving into the darkness was the best bet. There’d be no reason to beat me if I was unconscious. He would just have to wait it out until I woke up.
The other part of me, though, knew how ugly some men could be, how they might see unconsciousness as an invitation for a different kind of torture.
My stomach twisted at that and I shook my head, trying to shake the sparks away.
It was the kick to my side that had them flying away as pain exploded through my ribs, making me feel almost immediately breathless.
I hated the whimper that escaped me then, but I couldn’t think past the stabbing sensation in my side.
“You could end this,” Chet said.
“Thanks for the reminder,” I gritted out between a jaw so tight my teeth were all aching.
Maybe smart-mouthing your torturer wasn’t the best bet. But pain made me angry. And angry me had no filter.
“Stupid bitch,” Chet snapped, cocking back and landing another kick, but I’d shifted just enough to take it in my stomach instead of my ribs again.
Though, yeah, it didn’t mean it hurt any less.
He was getting more and more pissed with each passing second. And I knew things were only going to get worse for me as he lost any shreds of affection or familiarity he felt toward me, seeing me only as someone standing in his way, someone putting his reputation and life on the line.
Before I could even catch my breath, he was coming down on me, his knees pinning my hips.
Even as I registered that pain-pressure, though, I could swear I almost heard the bike moving again.
Was it coming closer?
Or was that just my wishful fucking thinking?
There was another punch to my face, this time hitting me to the side of my mouth, making another flood of blood fill my mouth.
I’d cried out then, hating myself for it, but unable to keep it in.
The sound only managed to make him hit me harder the next time.
I was worried that he was enraged enough that he might beat me to death without ever getting the information he needed out of me.
It was that thought that had me yanking against the plastic binding my wrists, pulling until it dug into my skin, until it started to break it open, trying to stretch the space between the two looped zip ties, giving me room.
The focus made it possible that I barely even registered the next strike.
But before he could land yet another, I had enough give.
Not to get loose.
But to use the plastic as my own weapon.
I slammed my hands forward, catching him across the throat with the plastic, then wrapping my hands around his neck, holding on as hard as I could as he tried to gasp for air, but couldn’t get any.
There were things I knew thanks to having worked in this crime-ridden town for so long.
Like it only took ten or so seconds of pressure on the carotid to knock someone unconscious.
Not for long, but long enough.
To run.
To get out.
To scream for help.
Someone would come.
I had to believe that.