Page 15 of Tormented
You can’t help what you are . . . .
Maybe not. But I can aim for what I want to be. And an asshole that exploits people’s weaknesses isn’t it.
Not your fault she has so many . . . .
Probably not hers either.
“Yeah, just what I thought,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s below you to even consider apologizing to a weirdo like me.”
She tries to leave, heading for the far end of the bar. I narrowly avoid spilling my drink as I launch across the counter and grab her wrist. “Wait.”
Wrong move . . . .
You don’t say.
She squeals like a stuck pig and folds in on herself, slapping my hand away. “Stop fucking touching me!”
Game on.
I let go, and her eyes go wide as I step around the stool and join her on the far side of the bar. “Let’s get something straight,” I say, crowding her against the counter. “Ain’t no bitch around here who’s been able to tell me what to do, and that isn’t about to change now.”
“Is that so?”
“It is,” I reply, reaching for her face.
She just needs someone to show her that the right attention isn’t something to be feared.
And that’s you . . .?
Abbey slams my hand down with the kind of force I wouldn’t have thought her capable of. “Touch me again,” she dares. “Touch me and see what I do when I get really uncomfortable.”
Oh, I’ve heard what she does. Seen the aftermath. “I already know, Abbey-girl, and you don’t scare me one bit.”
“Back up. Please.”
“Or?”
She closes her eyes, swallowing hard. “I can’t breathe very well.”
“I have that effect on some people,” I tease.
“I’m serious,” she whispers. “I need—”
Oh, my . . . .
Her eyes roll back and she crumples at my feet like a damn accordion. Shit. She wasn’t kidding. I give her a nudge with my boot, but the girl’s out cold.
Well, well . . . the things we could do . . . .
Fuck off, asshole. Past me might have taken advantage of this, but the new me is trying to ignore the fact I could touch her, photograph the evidence, and use it to fuck with her when she wakes up.
I look around the common room—equal parts for help and to see if anyone noticed—but the young guys from earlier have disappeared, and Ramona’s still in the kitchen, at a guess.
Just a little bit . . . she won’t know . . . .
Maybe not, but I will. I’ll know.
She doesn’t stir as I pick her up and hold her to my chest. Do I put her over on one of the sofas? What if she stays out to it and some of the assholes from down south roll in? Maybe King’s lot has clear ethics, but I know Hooch’s boys can get a bit dubious about consent.