Chapter Eight
Billy and My Wild Ride
That was the end of Hank and me.
Even though I thought it was the beginning, what happened next would keep Hank further away from me than any flimsy shield I could throw up.
* * * * *
Now, I’m sitting curled under a sink in a filthy hotel, gagged and handcuffed to the drainpipe. I hurt, everywhere. I’d never hurt so much, my body hurts, my face hurts, my heart hurts.
Everything hurts.
I hurt but I wasn’t scared.
Bil y’s gone; the men took him away. I don’t know who they were, I don’t know where they were going and I don’t care. Someone would find me, the maid (if they had one in this f**king place) or the manager when we don’t check out. I just have to wait. I wasn’t going to die cuffed to a sink.
Though, it was debatable if something important, something deep inside me, something precious, hadn’t already died.
* * * * *
Bil y kidnapped me. There was no other way to put it.
It wasn’t an easy kidnapping for him; I fought it.
It was violent, it was destructive and it was ugly.
After I opened the door and the smile died on my face, he surged into Hank’s living room, hands on me.
We went back… back… and then he slammed me into the wal . My skul cracked against it and I hit with such force, one of the New Belgium Brewery prints (the Fat Tire one) fel , crashing down, glass flying everywhere.
“Hank f**king Nightingale,” Bil y spat in my face, tel ing me how he found me. He’d looked up Hank.
Shit.
I couldn’t talk, Bil y’s hand was at my throat and it was squeezing.
“I saw him running with his f**kin’ dog. A f**king cop.
Detective Hank f**kin’ Nightingale,” Bil y snarled.
I pushed hard, kicked harder and somehow got him off me.
We wrestled standing. I broke away, starting to run. Bil y caught me, whipping me around. More wrestling. a lamp fel , crashing to the floor, tables overturned. Bil y got me on the floor, rol ed on top of me, his angry face in mine.
“You f**k him?” he asked.
I didn’t answer, too scared to speak. I pushed against him, my heart racing, frightened out of my wits, hoping with everything that I was that Hank would come home and soon. I tried to think of how long he was gone. He’d said forty-five minutes, an hour. It had probably only been twenty minutes, twenty-five, tops.
“I said, did you f**k him? ” Bil y shouted in my face when I didn’t answer and then he moved.
Then I heard the snap of a switchblade and he rol ed off me, and before I knew it, the blade went into Hank’s sweater, slicing through it. I pushed away, Bil y caught hold of me by the sweater and it tore more, hanging on me in tatters. I pul ed free, got up, tried to run but Bil y caught me by the ankle and I went flying, landing hard on my knees.
I twisted around as he yanked me toward him by my ankle and tried to fight him but he was too strong, he hit me in the face, one of his silver rings tearing my flesh open at my cheekbone. I saw stars and tried to shake my head clear when he got up, pul ing me with him and dragged me through the house, into Hank’s bedroom.
“He f**k you here?” he demanded, pul ing me up, slamming me against a wal , pushing his body against mine. “Did he f**k you?” he repeated, pushing my face to the side, pressing my bleeding cheek against the wal . “Did he make you come? How many times did he f**k you?” He pul ed me away from the wal and slammed me against it again. “How many times did he f**k you!” he screamed.
No smooth talk now. No fast-talking, silver tongue.