Precious Gems - Sierra Hill Page 0,7

from behind into Hulk’s chest, my head yanked back forcefully by my hair and my scream muffled by a rough hand clamped over my mouth.

My vision is taken away from me when a hood, smelling distinctly like male musk and sweat, is thrown over my head, shrouding me in darkness.

I struggle to breathe, my anxiety and panic creating a whirlpool of fear cresting through me descending down my stomach, triggering the rise and swirl of bile up through my throat. I force myself to focus and breathe through my nose, in and out, and keep my shit together to avoid embarrassing myself.

My fight or flight instinct is great, but fighting is pointless against the massive rock in front of me and whoever is behind me, now using some plastic binder to cinch my wrists together, cutting into the sensitive flesh there. With my hands bound and my sight completely blocked out, I’m forced to my knees with a strong pair of hands on my shoulders.

Tears sting my eyes as I crumble to the floor in a heap, but I will myself to remain tough and resolute.

You’re here to do a job. You can do this.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The voice. It’s sharp as a knife and cuts through my panic that is now settling into a low simmer.

While the words are terse and meant to intimidate, the sound somehow has the opposite effect. The voice is very male, rich and radiates heat, sending tremors through the air and settling over me like an elixir to a sore throat.

It penetrates my fear and somehow bolsters my confidence. Challenges me to speak up and push out of this captive shell of mine.

But as I fumble to find my voice through my parched throat, the voice barks at me again.

“You’re not fucking Mudd. So, I ask again. Who are you?”

My voice trembles and betrays me. “I’m his daughter. Mudd sent me to deliver the product.”

There’s some shuffling nearby, and while I’m still completely blinded, my head moves toward the direction of the sound. Two pairs of shoes tread over the floor to my right. And in front of me, the man’s voice. Close.

“Here you go, boss.” It’s Hulk’s voice.

It’s the sound of a zipper and my bag being opened. My backpack. They’re looking through the contents of my backpack.

There’s a low murmur and grunt.

“Gemma Lynn Phillips. Born February 16, 1999. 3416 Washington Street, Hoboken, New Jersey.”

Silence.

There’s a faint tapping noise, as if the man asking me the questions is thrumming my plastic driver’s license against something hard in an inpatient manner. As if he’s thinking or waiting for some revelation.

“Tell me, Gem-ma,” he says, extending the syllables in my name to punctuate the end. “Why is it that I have the twenty-year-old daughter of Mudd Phillips in front of me, who looks like she should be in a college classroom instead of this club, and not her father? Hmm?”

Suddenly, I’m blinking past the flood of brightness emitting through the room as the hood is whipped off my head and the room – and people in it – are revealed to me.

I scan the room quickly, noticing Hulk and another man, just as large, standing off to the side, and then the man who is obviously in charge and grilling me in front of me. And then I carefully assess my exits, developing an exit strategy should I have the chance to take it.

My observations aren’t covert enough, however, because the man snicks out an amused laugh.

“Give up that idea, little girl. There is no way out unless I let you out.”

Flicking my attention back to the man now sitting at a desk in front of me, I notice several things all at once.

Where Hulk is big and burly, this man is sleek and lean under a dark, tailored suit. From what I can tell, he is a little over average height, maybe six-foot, with strong, broad shoulders that pull back into a posture that is cultured and refined. As if he was reminded as a child to sit up straight and not slouch.

He sits back against a leather-back chair, the black wool of his suit draped in a tapered fashion to fit snugly against his chest and torso. Tight enough to illustrate the well-maintained and toned muscles pronounced underneath. A crisp white shirt is adorned by a bright azure colored tie that is knotted so tight I wonder how he can even breathe.

My eyes track upward as he slowly stands again, and moves