Something else? What is it?
Rough fingers grab at the back of my head, yanking on my hair as Roger grins down at me. “Couldn’t have you fight’n back like ya did my boys,” he says. His boys … the guys Patricia had tried to sell me to. They were his guys.
With one hand on the back of my head, Roger's free hand reaches down to the zipper of his pants and lowers it. I jerk back. Holy fuck. No. Not this. "Damn," he says, "that mouth of yers, girl. Been dreamin' bout it for years."
His zipper is down and the button is undone and out flops his dick. Short and thin, it's a pathetic excuse for equipment. Whatever he shot into my system makes every movement I make seem slower and weaker. Like my body weighs ten times its normal amount. It's a struggle to rear back, but I manage it. Casting a scowling glare so full of disgust, I can taste the emotion on my tongue, I look up at him.
I bare my teeth at him. "You try to put that thing in my mouth," I hiss. "And I swear I'll bite it off, Roger."
He scrapes his fingernails against my scalp, locking onto my hair once more before shaking it in my face. "You do that," he growls, "and I'll punch out all yer fuckin' teeth, bitch, and face fuck you."
I laugh, my head sinking back on my shoulders. "Try it," I warn him, forcing myself to enunciate past the throbbing in my head and body. My throat feels like it's on fire as the words come up. Shivers skate down my spine and I blink hard. Fuck, this isn't good. My stomach cramps. I’m gonna puke. But it’s been hours since I ate, so even if I do all that will come up is bile. I hadn’t once stopped except to get gas using the cash I’d found alongside the gun in Abel’s glovebox. The gun. I wish I’d brought it in with me now.
Roger looks down at me with a frown and suddenly, his hand is gone. "Maybe you need another dose, eh?"
What? I think dumbly. He turns and leaves me where I am, striding back to where he dropped the syringe and then—as if I'm watching a character in a movie—he withdraws a small glass vile from the back pocket of his sagging jeans. My eyes follow the movement of his hands as he sticks the needle into the top and withdraws more of the murky liquid.
No. Nonononono. NO! Then it hits me. This is really happening. I'm really well and truly fucked. What have I done?
"Don't worry 'bout nothin', li’l runt," Roger coos as he comes nearer. I slide back, my hand shooting out from beneath me and my head cracking into the tiled floor. Stars dance in front of my vision as the needle presses back into my arm and more fire coats my throat as I let out a scream—except it only echoes in my head. Loud. Too loud. And then silent. As if my eardrums have ruptured. The sound in the room cuts in and out just like the light as a second wave of the drugs hitting my veins overcomes me. Nausea curls in my stomach—a stomach that I turn over on as I try to get away.
My breath saws in and out of my chest as I scramble to find something to hold onto. My fingers lock around the table’s leg and I grip it, using my hold to pull myself towards it. I can’t let this happen. But my body remains where it is. I’m not fucking moving. My arms and legs are limp, useless. And my grip? It isn’t even tight. I hardly feel the wood beneath my palm. In fact, I hardly feel anything. Not the cold of the vinyl floor against my cheek. Not the heat of his hands as they grab my hips and drag them upward. It feels as though there’s a wave of water surrounding me and I’m only brushing against things rather than touching them. I’m floating.
A harsh bark of laughter ricochets in my eardrums, sounding louder than anything should when you’re underwater. It hurts. It pisses me off. Red drips in front of my vision and I realize that despite my inability to feel it, I’ve ripped a nail back as I claw at the table in an effort to get away. Blood pools against the bed of my nail and