Blood to Dust

Happy thoughts.

Iowa fields.

White summer dress, cold against my warm skin.

Chocolate covered cherries.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t. Cry.

“Farewell, little rascal. Next time I see you, I’ll tuck you in goodnight before your eternal slumber.” Seb kisses my bleeding forehead gently, licking his lips—and my blood—with a smirk.

Ink’s mouth drops into a stunned O through his ski mask.

Beat’s smiling mask is trained on Seb. They don’t know that last time I met him, I pushed Seb from the rooftop of a barn.

He was lucky he fell straight into the arms of his boss, otherwise, he’d be as broken as Godfrey.

Beat slingshots Seb against the wall, twisting the collar of his crisp shirt into a heap of wrinkles. “Hitting girls now, Sebastian?” he hisses, grasping Seb’s jaw and squeezing so hard, the impending sound of a bone breaking fills the air. “And here I thought you couldn’t get any worse than you were in San Dimas.”

Seb laughs and pushes the big guy away.

“A girl? She’s the f*cking devil. Her ex-boyfriend calls her Diabla. That’s Diablo with a cunt. All yours now. Have fun, mate.”

The ricochet of Godfrey and Seb’s laugher dances against the naked walls of the warehouse as Ink leads me to the door by the arm. Beat is hot on our heels, and panic takes over my feet, making me stumble like a drunk.

I don’t want to leave.

I don’t want to stay.

Not that it matters. I’m screwed either way.

“We need to search her for potential weapons.” Ink tugs at the fabric of my dress. Beat grunts from behind us. We pour into the thinning summer night, the stars above me dimmed by pollution and the coat of tears I resist shedding.

My stress ball. I need it. Now.

“I volunteer,” Ink snorts, his palm stroking the curve of my ass hesitantly. Scared.

My brain kicks into action and I realize what’s about to happen.

“I’d like Beat to search me.”

We stop in front of a rusty Toyota Tacoma—I think it was red at some point—and Ink fumbles for the keys in his coveralls.

I don’t want to f*ck my way out of a bad situation. It’s always been a hard limit for me. But this time, I just might make an exception in order to save my life. Godfrey wants me untouched. The minute one of them sleeps with me, I have leverage over him. The master plan would be to run away, but considering their physical advantage, it’s wise to have a plan B.

Now, I’m not sure which one of these idiots is more likely to hand me the Out-of-Jail card. Ink seems affected by my looks, but too mortified by Godfrey and his crew. Beat, on the other hand, isn’t intimidated by the English gangster, but doesn’t look like a guy who is struggling for *. Offering him sex would be like selling STDs to a street hooker.

“You don’t get a say in this shit,” Ink announces with borrowed authority. I can hear the uncertainty leaking from him. He’s what I call an easy job. If it were just him watching over me, I would have been dancing in Iowan cornfields far away from here by now, Sebastian and Godfrey’s heads tucked in that Nike bag.

“You make me uncomfortable.” I yank my arm away.

“What, and the other guy makes you warm and fuzzy?” He sounds genuinely offended.

Beat inches closer behind me, and I feel the heat of his body drifting into mine. He’s close. Hot-jock-leaning-against-your-locker close. It’s going to be hard to bypass someone his size.

“You think I’m nice?” His breath moves through the plastic of his mask, tickling my ear. I shudder down to my toes. His mouth smells like peach. How bad can a guy who smells like a peach be?

“Nice-r.” I clear my throat, my eyes still trained on Ink in front of me. Ink shakes his head, indicating that I’m dead wrong. The air becomes chilly. Why hadn’t I noticed it’s so chilly?

Because it’s not. It’s August in California, and I’m cold because I’m frightened.

“Let’s test your theory. I’m going to touch you now. Move without permission, and I’m breaking your arm.”

My busted lower lip splits open again as I scowl. He definitely looks like a guy who makes good on his threats.

“Okay.” I lick my bloody lip, my voice tender.

Beat kicks my legs open and brings my arms up, patting me down dryly, like airport security. His rough fingers stroke the curves of my shoulders as he moves down from my skull to my outer breasts, circling them lazily. Down to my stomach, lower to my tensed inner thighs, then he pushes the fabric of my mini dress away to make room for his warm paws.

Every muscle in my body is ready to plow forward, to run away, to try and hurt him; the memory of every experience I’ve had that started this way demands for me to take action. But this. . .it doesn’t feel like a violation. The sour taste of bile has yet to explode in my mouth.

His hands move down my legs, stroking my ankles. . .then he stops.

“Got something inside?” He squats down, hooking one of his thumbs into my ankle boot. His masked face is eye level with my pelvis, and warmth spreads along my bones like hot wax.

“No,” I lie. There’s still a slight chance he won’t check.

But he checks.

Beat jerks my boot off and a Swiss army knife falls with a clank on the concrete pavement. I let out a sigh and drop my head. Shit.