Chapter Six
“Morgan... oh God, Morgan, baby... you’re so tight.”
His voice is nasally. So damn nasally. He sounds like a character off of South Park. Everything dries up at the mere sound of it, all desire withering away, dying an unfortunate death.
Why does he always have to talk?
Grimacing, I shove my face into the black leather couch cushion, unable to stop the cry that escapes my throat. Ugh, it hurts, like being fucked with a knife, pain stabbing at my insides. He probably doesn’t hear the sound I make, though.
The music is too loud.
“You love that, don’t you?” he asks, his hands grasping my hips as he thrusts, leaning over and shouting so I’ll hear him. “Love the way my cock feels?”
“You know I do,” I grind out, nearly choking on the lie. I hope he makes this fast.
He won’t, though. No, I’m not that lucky. He’ll savor every second of ignorant bliss, oblivious to the fact that I’m not into it. Stubby fingers explore, searching for a sweet spot he’ll never find. I could draw him a map and it would still evade him, like the Holy Grail exists somewhere between my thighs.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to detach, try to not think about the fact that a sleazy middle-aged jackass in a cheap suit is pounding into me from behind, sweating and panting and having the time of his life, while I’m just desperately waiting him out.
Waiting... and waiting... and waiting...
A red glow covers everything. The red room. It’s a cliché, I think, but it’s a favorite here at Mystic for some reason. It feels like an eternity passes, each slam of his hips driving my face further into the couch. His overpowering cologne clings to the air, smelling sickeningly like pine, swaddling my senses until I gag. Gross. It’s stifling. It’s suffocating. I just can’t seem to breathe. My chest aches for a deep breath I haven’t taken in a long time, my heart locked in a steady, dull rhythm.
His grip on me tightens. I open my eyes when I feel it, knowing he’s close to finishing. Finally. A few more hard thrusts before he grunts, stilling, dropping his body weight over on top of me. An exhilarated laugh escapes him, his warm breath ghosting across my skin. I shiver from disgust when his lips find my neck, his tongue drawing a path toward my ear, before he whispers, “I wish I could fuck you all night long.”
“Me, too,” I say, another lie, because hell no. I can hardly stomach a fifteen-minute rendezvous.
“Maybe next time,” he whispers before moving away to stand up.
Exhaling, I slide down flat against the couch, relieved to have him not touching me. For now.
I watch as he gathers his clothes to get dressed. He’s classically handsome, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing—dark hair, bronzed skin, eyes the color of an afternoon sky, deep dimples and perfect teeth. He’s even got the most adorable freckles.
His phone rings as he pulls himself together, discarding the condom in the small trashcan behind a small bar on the left side. Pulling his phone out, he frowns. “Sorry, hate to cut this short, but I have to take this call.”
Sorry? I’m not sorry. Pfft, bye.
He jets out into the hall, heading for the back exit. As soon as he’s out of sight, I breathe a sigh of relief and get up. My pussy throbs but not in the good way, not in that thoroughly fucked, fully satiated way. No, it screams angrily at me for allowing the intrusion (I know, I know… ugh, ick, gross…). I’m pretty sure the man doesn’t know the definition of foreplay, and quite frankly, the thought of his mouth on me, the thought of him caressing my body just makes me queasy, so painfully dry it will forever be.
I make my way to the changing room, the last door at the end of the hall by the exit. It looks like a middle school locker room. Smells like one, too. Hell, even feels like one sometimes. Uncomfortable. It’s empty, all of the women working, but I’ve had my fill of this place for the night.
I’m getting out of here.
I go straight to my locker on the end, opening it and grabbing my black duffel bag to gather my things. I strip out of the skimpy black lingerie, changing into a pair of yoga pants and tank top, putting my coat on over it. Running my fingers through my hair, I pull it back into a ponytail as tingles creep along my spine, an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I glance around the vacant locker room.
It’s strange, the sensation that flows through me. It’s one I’m all too familiar with. It’s the feeling of being watched, the feeling that I’m not alone, even when I know I am.
Paranoia is a bitch.
Grabbing my bag, I slide my feet back into a pair of cheap black heels before leaving. My footsteps stall outside, and I glower. I hoped I could skedaddle out of here without enduring an awkward goodbye, but no such luck.
He’s hanging up from his call when I appear.
“Sorry again,” he mumbles, shoving the phone away as he eyes me. “You off work now?”
Technically, I had the entire night off, but this is the only place I’m willing to meet up with him. “Yep, heading out early.”
“You, uh... want me to walk you home?”
I force a smile. “Nice try.”
“It’s just an offer,” he says, raising his hands defensively. “Just looking out for you. It’s late, and dark, and—”
“And I can take care of myself, thanks,” I say, cutting him off.
“You ever going to trust me, Morgan?” he asks. “I’m here to help you.”
“I know,” I say. “But trust, well… it’s not easy for me. And it’s not that I don’t trust you. I just don’t trust anything. You know how it is.”
“I do,” he admits, frowning. “Anyway, I should go. You okay? You need some money or, uh…?”
He goes to reach for his wallet.
I want to hit him in the nose for it.
“I don’t want your money,” I say. “I’m not a prostitute.”
“Of course,” he says. “I just figured…”
“That I needed money,” I say, finishing his thought, “but I don’t need money from you. What I need is for you to actually do your job, detective.”
He grimaces. He doesn’t seem to ever like that reminder.
Detective Gabriel Jones with the 60th precinct.
“Look, I’m going to talk to them again,” he says. “First thing tomorrow, I promise.”
“Thank you.”
Gabe leaves, getting in his unmarked black Ford with tinted windows. I wait until he’s gone before I start walking, keeping my head down, my steps hurried. My gaze flickers along the road, making sure he isn’t circling and following.
He’s done it before.
I’ve caught him every time.
There’s no sign of the black Ford, but I still can’t shake that feeling, the one that tells me something is off. I run the last block to my building, darting inside and pausing by the entrance, staring out the square glass window, waiting for somebody.
Nobody’s around.
“I’m losing my mind,” I grumble, padding up the stairs to my top floor apartment.
First order of business is a hot shower. I scrub every inch of my body, washing it all away. Every touch, every kiss, and every thrust—I purge it from my memory as if it never happened. Afterward, I dry my hair and grab a too-big, plain white t-shirt from my closet, not bothering with any other clothes.
I head for the steep winding metal steps in the corner of the tiny living room. Scaling them quickly, I push the door open at the top and step out onto the rooftop.
The frigid winter air slaps me, stinging my face and assaulting my bare legs, but I ignore it. Pulling myself up onto the concrete ledge along the side, I peer out into the city. Nine, maybe ten o’clock at night, a Sunday in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, not far from the East River. I can see for blocks, a bustle all around me as cars fill the streets and people walk along the sidewalks.
I’m barely out here for a minute before that feeling rolls through me again, so intense my stomach clenches.
I hate the sensation.
It’s like being haunted, like there’s always a ghost around me, following me, taunting me, not ever letting me be in peace.
I don’t move, don’t bother to look, as a chill ripples down my spine. Despite my best effort to stay composed, I tremble, goose bumps erupting along my skin as my hair stands on end, my reaction having little to do with the coldness outside.
“What do you want from me?” I whisper, staring out at the city.
“My money.”
The voice rings out behind me, so close… too close. The gravelly deep tone hits me like a punch to the chest as it unexpectedly answers my question.
Someone’s here. Oh god.
A shaky breath escapes me as I turn to look behind me on the roof.
The second I see the face, every muscle inside of me seizes, my heart even skipping a beat, hesitating, like it hasn’t in a long time. My eyes scan him in the darkness—sharp features, strong jawline, sturdy build and a long scar that cuts through the side of his face, the jagged groove glowing in the moonlight. His eyes are opposite shades of blue—one damn near midnight, while the other is more of an early morning skyline.
Classically handsome, maybe not, but something about him is mesmerizing, like watching him is hypnotizing. It’s not enough to overshadow my fear, though, because he’s just as alarming as he is alluring, maybe even more so.
Scratch that. Definitely more so.
He stares at me, not a flicker of emotion showing on his face. There’s almost something inhuman about it.
I’m not sure what to say or what to do, so I just stare back, but he doesn’t seem to like that. No, his cheek twitches, his eyes narrowing, so I avert my gaze, scanning the rooftop around us.
Think. Think. Think.
He’s blocking the way back inside, so I glance behind me, over the ledge, at the busy city street below.
Ugh, that drop would hurt like a son of a bitch.
“I don’t recommend jumping,” he says, “unless you want to go splat.”
I turn back to him. He’s right. The odds of surviving that fall aren’t in my favor. “What do you want?”
“I just told you what I want.” He takes another step toward me, and another, and another, until he’s close enough to reach out and shove me, if he wants, since I’m still sitting on the ledge. “I want my money.”
“What mon—?”
His hand darts out, snatching ahold of my throat, long fingers wrapping around and squeezing, literally cutting off my words, silencing my plea of ignorance. I gasp, startled, panic flowing through me as the force of the blow thrusts me back.
I damn near lose my balance.
The only thing keeping me from tipping over the edge is his strong grasp, but it’s also cutting off my flow of air, so…
Reaching up, I clutch tight to his wrist, but I don’t fight. If I fight him he’s liable to throw me right over the side, so I just hold on, clinging like he’s my life raft, because if I go over, I’m taking him, too, not a shred of doubt about it in my mind.
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” he says. “If you had enough balls to steal from me, you shouldn’t have a problem owning up to it.”
He jerks me toward him, yanking me onto my feet on the roof. I inhale sharply when his hand leaves my throat, my knees weak, dizziness obscuring my vision. I’m half a second away from collapsing, my legs buckling, when he moves closer, pressing into me, pinning me against the concrete ledge, keeping me upright. He wedges between my legs, prying them apart, trapping me in place with his body. I’m hyper-aware of the fact that I’m nearly naked, damn near straddling his leg right now. I’m not sure if he realizes it, if he knows his knee is pressing into my crotch, but I hope not, because ugh… let me find some dignity here, will you?
“Let’s try this again,” he says, staring me in the face. “I say I want my money, and you say…?”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He cocks his left eyebrow, like he finds my answer curious. “Okay?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to say you’ll give me my money.” His hand grasps my chin, tilting my face further toward him. “And then I want those pretty lips of yours to beg me for mercy, because depending on how fast you pay me back, I might be inclined to take it easy on you if you ask.”
Before I can say anything, much less what he wants me to say, the man steps back, removing himself from my personal space, like just expects me to comply.
I suspect he’s used to getting his way.
“I’ll give you your money,” I say quietly, taking a deep breath.
He nods. “Good girl.”
I cringe at those words as I shove past him, heading for the rooftop door leading to my apartment. I don’t exactly know who he is, or what he’s capable of, but if he’s ballsy enough to threaten George, I can’t rule out him being some kind of monster. My mind’s a flurry of thoughts, none I can seem to get a firm grasp on. Scar, they called him. I don’t even know how he found me, which is most concerning of all.
How the hell did he get here?
The man walks in step with me, not letting me out of arm’s reach. It isn’t until I hit the warmth of my apartment, heading back down those metal steps, that I realize how cold the outside is. My teeth chatter, my skin flushed, body trembling. My hands are like blocks of ice, and I flex my fingers, trying to loosen them up again.
I head for the kitchen, having only a few seconds to pull myself together and do something.
He steps into the room behind me.
The moment he does, I lunge.
Throwing my body against his, I knock him back a few steps, catching him off guard with the force of the hit. His shock buys me enough time to put up a fight, to swing and kick and flail, kneeing him in the nuts.
BAM.
He flinches, hunching over from the low blow, giving me the chance to shove him into the stove. Reaching into the sink, I frantically feel around, blindly snatching up a dirty steak knife. I hold it up to his neck when he comes at me, the jagged blade pressing against his Adam’s apple, digging into the skin.
“I’ll slit your throat,” I tell him, my voice steady, even though my hand is shaking so hard I almost accidentally cut him. “I swear, I’ll—”
He reacts fast, so fast I don’t anticipate it. Grabbing my wrist, he twists my arm, gripping tight, damn near pulling my shoulder out of socket. I grit my teeth to stifle a cry, pain ripping up my arm. His fingers dig into the underside of my wrist, jagged nails tearing at the skin as he presses against the pressure point, forcing me to loosen my hold. He rips the knife away with ease, still clutching my wrist, staring at my tattoo.
Which he scratched.
Which is now bleeding.
Ugh.
“Morgan,” he says, his face contorting. “I was surprised to hear that was your name. I expected it to start with an ‘S’. Makes me curious what this thing stands for.”
He shoves my wrist into my face, making me hit myself. I scowl, trying to yank free from his grasp. “I’d rather die than tell you about it.”
“That can be arranged,” he says, letting go of my arm before tossing the knife back in the sink. “I want my money, Scarlet. I’m not going to tell you again.”
I clutch my wrist, frowning, and stalk away from him, my heart viciously pounding in my chest as I head for the bedroom, not surprised that he follows.
He’s not going to let me out of his sight.
A few crumpled bills lay on top of the stand beside the bed. I grab them, my stomach gurgling. I feel around in my coat pockets before scouring through my duffle bag, grabbing every cent I have left to my name before turning to him. “I’ve got three-hundred dollars.”
He stares at me. “Three hundred.”
“Well, more like two-ninety-four, but close enough.”
“There was a thousand dollars in my wallet. Where is it?”
“I don’t have it.”
“What did you do with it?”
I don’t answer that, biting my cheek. I’m not telling him. It’s none of his business, and I need him far away from my situation. Far away from me.
“Look, can’t we just…?” I motion to the bed, bile burning my chest as it forces its way up my throat, punishing me for making this suggestion. “You know.”
“Fuck?” he guesses.
I swallow thickly, nodding.
He steps closer, invading my personal space once more. I have room to move away but I stand my ground, not wanting to recoil from his advances. I don’t look him in the face, keeping my head down, but I feel his breath against my cheek as he leans over, whispering, “We can fuck, absolutely, if that’s what you want. But you’ll still owe me afterward, because I don’t pay for pussy, especially pussy that has a habit of whoring itself out to cops.”
A shiver rips through me.
My knees go weak.
That weird feeling still lingers inside of me, and I realize, the whole time, it was him. He was there. He followed me. I don’t know how, but my gut says he did.
“I don’t—” I almost say I don’t whore myself out, period, but that’s a lie, technically. I’ve done it before out of desperation. Besides, life fucks me every single day, and I just bend over and take it. I whore myself out to life in an attempt to keep breathing. “I don’t know what else I can give you. So either fuck me or kill me, because I’ve got nothing left to offer beyond that.”
He stares at me as I drop down on the edge of the messy bed. He’s contemplating it. I know he is. I know his type. He’s debating whether or not that will be adequate payment, if I’m even worth the thousand dollars I stole from him.
“You don’t look like a junkie, so I’m assuming it’s not drugs,” he says. “Although, that would explain the prostitution.”
I grimace. “I’m not a prostitute.”
“You just offered to fuck me for money.”
“Well, yeah, technically, but…”
I don’t finish that because I’m not sure how I’m supposed to, if it’ll even make sense to him. Unlikely.
“Beg for your life,” he says after a moment.
I shake my head.
“Beg me,” he demands. “Get on your knees.”
I shake my head again.
Reaching beneath his coat, inside his shirt, he whips out a black gun, pointing it at me, pressing the muzzle against my forehead. “Beg.”
“No.”
The word sounds weak, but I know he hears it. I cut my eyes at him, everything inside of me taut, like a string close to snapping from being pulled in different directions, already threadbare.
He stares at me, his expression blank, his finger on the trigger.
Slowly, something in him shifts, the corner of his mouth twitching, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging his lips. The sight of it makes my heart pause for the second time tonight, losing rhythm for just a moment. I don’t know what to make of it. Why the hell is he smiling?
“You’re going to pay back every penny,” he says, “plus interest. An extra hundred for every day it takes you. You got me?”
“Yes.”
He lowers the gun, tucking it away, before snatching the money out of my hand. He turns then, like he plans to just leave, but my voice calls out, stopping him. “Wait.”
“What?”
“I don’t even know who you are. How am I supposed to pay you if I can’t find you?”
He shrugs. “Figure it out, Scarlet.”
* * *
“Figure it out, Scarlet,” I grumble mockingly as I shove the door away from the cinderblock at Mystic, back here for the second time tonight.
At work. On my day off. Again. Bullshit.
I keep to myself, not bothering with anyone, until I reach the office and tap on the door, hoping George is around. I hear shuffling inside, breathing a sigh of relief until it opens and I come face-to-face with somebody who isn’t who I want to see. Ugh.
Slick Rick, the asshole named Ricardo, the one who clearly hasn’t yet succeeded in sending a message to the guy they call Scar.
“You need something, cupcake?” he asks, eyes scanning me. I’m wearing the equivalent of pajamas, yet he still gawks at me like I’m indecent or something.
“I need to see the boss,” I say, pushing past him into the office.
I don’t make it far before he grabs my arm to stop me.
“He’s busy,” he says. “Come back later.”
I yank away from him. “I can wait.”
George is sitting at his desk, on the phone. His raised voice echoes through the room, so enraged it keeps me from approaching. Instead, I linger by the entrance as Ricardo shuts the door and takes a seat, rubbing his hands along the thighs of his black slacks, like his palms might be sweaty. Not good.
“What the fuck do you mean they said nothing?” George yells. “How do you get robbed when they say nothing? Huh? What, they walk in and you just hand over the money, they don’t even have to ask?”
He pauses long enough to take a deep breath, long enough for whoever’s on the line to try to explain, but it does nothing to calm George down.
“I don’t care!” he yells. “There’s no excuse! Do something about it! Nobody steals from me!”
He doesn’t bother hanging up, instead slamming his phone down on the desk, over and over and over, shattering the screen. I don’t even think he notices me here, tunnel vision sending his attention straight to Ricardo. “Why hasn’t that thieving son of a bitch been dealt with?”
“I’m working on it,” Ricardo says. “I called him, trying to get another meeting, and his lackey said he was busy.”
“Busy robbing me!”
I’m almost inclined to chime in, to ask if they’re talking about Scar… because if so, he was actually busy stalking me to my apartment, but I remain silent instead. Not my problem.
“I’ll try again,” Ricardo says, “right now.”
Ricardo gets up, slipping out of the office. George’s gaze trails him but stalls on me. Shit. “You need something, Morgan?”
“I, uh... was just trying to see about maybe picking up some more work this week?”
That’s not what I wanted.
I wanted to get some information about Scar, but I’m pretty sure that’s a topic I shouldn’t bring up at the moment.
“Come back tomorrow,” he says, shoving out of his chair. “I don’t have time to deal with your schedule right now.”
“Oh-kay,” I mumble as he storms past me, leaving me in the office alone. I glance around. No cameras in here. I don’t know how long he’s going to be gone, so I make it fast, scooping up his discarded, shattered phone, muttering, “Please work.”
Ding. Ding. Ding.
It works.
Screen lights up, asking for the security code. Shit. I immediately try the usual combinations, repeating numbers and birthdays, before hitting 1-2-3-4 and rolling my eyes when it opens. I scroll through his contacts, finding a number listed under Scar. Opening the top desk drawer, I pull out a pen, jotting the number down on my hand before returning the phone to how I found it. I drop the pen back into the drawer, seeing the cash still just lying there that I gave him.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck it.
I snatch it up, shoving it in my pocket, before shutting the drawer again and heading for the door, running right into someone as soon as I step out.
“Whoa buddy,” I say as Ricardo appears in front of me.
That was close.
He narrows his eyes at me. “What are you doing?”
“Leaving,” I say, trying to move when he grabs my arm for the second time tonight.
“What were you doing?”
“Pretty sure I don’t answer to you,” I say, yanking away, “so keep your hands to yourself, cupcake.”
I leave, because there’s no way I’m hanging around here. The money feels like it’s burning a hole in my pocket, glowing like a beacon, screaming thief… thief… thief…
Once back in my apartment, I head for my black duffel bag, scouring through it to pull out my cheap little cell phone, flipping it open. Dead. Plugging it into the charger, I wait until it comes alive before punching in the numbers scribbled on my palm, calling Scar.
It rings... and rings... and rings.
Voicemail picks up.
“It’s, uh... me... whatever. I’m sure you know who I am. I’ve got your money, so come get it, I guess.”
I flip the phone closed, staring at it for a moment before tossing it back in the bag. I’m not sure how long it’ll take him to show up, but I hope he makes it quick.
I want to be done with this.
I have more important things to deal with.