my most current version of hell?
While I ponder my options, Bossman goes to Shelly's body and kicks it. The first kick is a light tap of frustration. The next is harder, more irritated than anything else, but then Bossman loses his cool.
He rears back and kicks Shelly’s body in the head, the face, and the gut. He stamps down on Shelly’s head, over and over again, until the bones crunch and brain matter oozes onto the floor. Bossman keeps it up, fists clenched, jaw bunched, and spit flying, as he lets the expletives fly.
“Fucking putz.” Bossman’s lips twist with distaste and his rage runs its course. “I told you what would happen if you touched the girl.” Bossman stands over Shelly's body and props his hands on his hips. He pulls at his chin as if thinking through what comes next.
Well, I want to know what comes next too. As far as I can see, Bossman is down two men. Is this something he can do on his own? Deliver me to whichever monster ordered a sex slave to-go? Hell if I know, but right now, that’s the only thing protecting me.
Bossman’s a professional. Shelly was a goon. It’s a vital distinction.
Fortunately, I know how to handle professional men. Goons aren’t smart enough to accumulate the kind of wealth which allows for the luxury of a personal sex slave. Bossman isn’t at that level—he’s a step or two above a goon—but he understands what it takes. More importantly, he knows he’s not there yet.
And I understand him.
Every now and again, his attention shifts to me. Each time, I cower and curl into a tighter ball.
I can’t make myself look any more wretched. I’m terrified, weak, and female. Oh, and I just survived a near rape. These are things I don’t need to pretend, but I’m also cold and calculating.
Bossman doesn’t know that. From here on out, he’ll see, and know, exactly what I want him to see and know.
I will figure a way out of this. With a sniff, I snivel like a woman terrified beyond words.
Bossman takes a step toward me. He glares and then turns away. This happens several times, until he heads to the door and slams his fist into the unforgiving metal.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
With each strike, I whimper. He expects it, and I give him everything he expects, and more.
He shakes out his fist, examines the blood on his knuckles, then stabs his fingers into his hair, smearing the blood everywhere. Bossman looks down at Shelly’s body again.
“This is just fucking great.” He kicks Shelly’s body a few more times, then turns his attention to me.
His expression, equal parts irritation, concern, and fury would make the strongest man piss his pants. Yeah, I don’t like that mix at all, but I’ve learned one crucial bit of information.
Seducing Bossman is off my exceedingly short list of things to do next.
The first thing on my list is hiding the knife I snatched from Shelly.
My shorts gape and practically fall off my hips. The button is gone, ripped off in Shelly’s lust-blinded fury to rut and fuck. The zipper also gapes and appears to be broken after a very quick exploration with my fingers. I won’t know if I can salvage it until I can get my shorts off and take a closer look.
That’s not happening.
As for the knife, it’s wedged between my ass cheeks right now and won’t stay hidden for long. I’m thankful for the leather sheath protecting my backside from getting sliced and diced, but it’s not something I can hide.
Right now, Bossman can’t see it with my back to the wall, but if he does, I’m toast. The only thing keeping me alive right now are two things.
The first, Bossman is a businessman. That means while he has no soul, or shred of human decency, there are certain ethics which hold him to a standard, like not damaging the merchandise.
I’m far more valuable than the two men he killed who dared to damage the merchandise. The second, and far more important reason when it comes to my survival, is that he doesn’t see me as a threat. That’s my leverage right now.
It’s my only leverage.
So, what am I going to do about the knife?
There’s no way I can rush him. By the time I get to my feet, and remember anything Four taught me, Bossman will plant a bullet square between my eyes. He’s far too dangerous to approach directly.
Think, Moira, think. What would Four