The Dukes have some hardcore first aid supplies.
I guess it makes sense. Everyone knows the true role of a Duchess is to piece her men back together after their fights, and not all of their battles are as structured and self-contained as Friday Night Fury. I pilfer through the cabinet, which I’d spied earlier in my snooping, and begin pulling out what I’ll need, glancing behind me every few seconds to make sure Remy’s still in his room.
My hands still have a subtle tremor.
Because of this, I detour to the kitchen, swiping a bottle of bourbon from the counter before looping back around to the main living area and crossing to his door.
If I’d been curious about what he was doing, holed up in here for three days, then being inside doesn’t give me any answers. He’s obviously destroyed every drawing—and a couple canvases—he’d been occupied with. The floor is covered with torn bits of paper bearing black smudges and smears. The bed is unmade. Art supplies are strewn about like a bomb’s been detonated. I have to step around a mangled canvas to get to him.
Luckily, he’s still on his tattoo bench—the most sterile place in the tower—one leg stretched out on the foot of it as he waits. The bold mania in Remy’s eyes has dulled to an aloof sheen as I dump the supplies onto his drafting table. The difficult thing about Remy—I mean, aside from the fact he’s completely guano—is that he looks so disaffected. It’s easy to believe he’s too preoccupied to pay any mind to other people, plus, he’s hot. Like, attractive in the sort of way girls like me write off as too complicated to fuss with, because there are probably other girls, and anyone who can be picky usually is, and Jesus, that’s just way too much work.
He’s got his uninjured arm thrown back, tucked beneath his head as he watches me, eyes following the bottle of bourbon to my mouth. He waits until I’ve taken a swig to inform me, “That was a gift from Saul. Vintage, I think.”
I look at the bottle. “Really?” At his nod, I take a longer drink, feeling the heat descend from my throat, to my chest, settling heavy in my gut. “Good. Fuck that guy.” I bury a cough into my wrist as I pass the bottle to him, nodding. “Might want to hit some of that. I haven’t stitched someone up in years.”
He doesn’t react beyond a brief twitch of his brows, tipping the bottle to his mouth. “You said I could draw on you again,” he says.
“Yep.” I grab his wrist, pulling his hand into my lap to finally get a good look at the gashes he’d made. I’m relieved to see the cuts are clean, if deep.
“You’ll take off your clothes.”
“No.”
His eyes narrow. “You’ll be a good girl. Tell me about the stars.”
My lips press into a tight line. As a rule, I don’t mind lying. Actually, I sort of count on it as a way of life. And despite the fact I’m being gentle and even considering getting naked for the man who might have shoved me off a tower an hour ago, I don’t actually give a shit about this guy. Let him lose his mind for all I care. This is survival.
But one glance at his dark, intense eyes tells me that this is playing with napalm. If I’m trying to make Nick my weapon, then Remy is an unguided ballistic missile. Powerful, but too unstable to harness. Playing into his delusions is all risk and zero benefit.
I spot a box of black, disposable, sterile gloves, and help myself to it, tugging them over my fingers. “The stars would want you to know how to find them,” I begin, cradling his fist in my hand. “You see them in your dreams, right? So I’m going to teach you.”
Ignoring the dark, too-aware tingle of his eyes watching me, I grab a pile of gauze and antiseptic wipes and get to cleaning the blood away. The fine lines of his tattoos appear more clearly with each pass and I let myself appreciate them in a detached sort of way, how they cover his veins and shift with the tendons. For a second, his whole speech about considering curves and flesh begins making sense, as if the mere flex of his fist is suddenly bringing a sparrow on his forearm to living, breathing sentience.
“I used to get these… I don’t know, nightmares, I guess,” I begin, applying pressure with the gauze as I rip open the wipes one-handed. “They were so real, sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of running away, or beating on the inside of the—” The words slam into the back of my throat and then scurry back inside me, but I can still hear them throbbing in my ears.
I’d wake up beating the inside of the chest.
The issue was that sometimes it wasn’t real, but sometimes it was.
I clear my throat. “It got to a point where I just couldn’t know what was real or dream.” Possibly the only good thing to come out of being handed over to the Lords is that I haven’t had one of those nightmares in ages.
Not until Nick threw me into that elevator.
“But dreams are never as exact as we think. Like reading, for instance.” He doesn’t flinch when I run the antiseptic over the wound, even though it has to sting like a bitch. “If I can read, then I know I’m awake. When I’m dreaming, it’s all just a big, confusing jumble of gibberish. But there are all kinds of tests. Counting your fingers, stopping your breathing, checking a mirror…”
Ironically, Leticia taught me that. “So you’ll stop screaming in your sleep,” she’d said, eyes narrowed into an irritated glare. Reading has always come easy to me and has more uses than one. ‘Gifted’, my teachers used to call me, as if I’d go on to be some amazing academic prodigy. Instead, I’ve found more practical uses for it. I only need to read something once, and then I can remember it, and re-read it in my head later.
When I’m locked up, I think, trying to shake out of it.
“What I mean is that there are a lot of ways to make sure you’re awake,” I say, twisting to retrieve the suture kit.
“I’m not crazy.” The words emerge quiet but decisive enough that I freeze, glancing up. His cheeks have found a little more color with the bourbon, and his eyes bore into mine with an intensity that borders on uncomfortable. “With all the people fucking around inside my head, everyone should be grateful I’m not rocking in a goddamn corner. Have you ever been told you’re not allowed to think of something?” There’s a beat of silence where I shake my head. Firmly, he repeats, “I’m not crazy.”
I give a skeptical hum, tearing open the sterile needle and thread. “I’m going to assume you’re not skittish about needles. Just stay still.”
Stitching up wounds is sort of gross, but fairly straightforward. I watched a doctor do it once. Some guy my father used to pay to work on his soldiers when they got in a pinch. Someone discreet enough that he had no problem bringing him to my room, showing him my injuries from a particularly rough night inside the chest. When I got old enough to make myself ‘useful’ by saving my father the expense, I ended up being the one brought to bloody people at two in the morning.
My stitches aren’t as intricate or sophisticated as his, but they get the job done. We’re both quiet as I work, pulling the skin taut with each knot, but from the way his other hand starts tapping on the vinyl of the chair, I can tell he’s still agitated, growing restless. This becomes even more evident when his fingers wander over to my thigh, pushing up the hem of the hoodie I’m wearing.
“Wait.” I shoot him a stern look.
He rolls his eyes, sinking back into the seat. “You said I could draw on you again,” he repeats as I finish up.
I squint as I cut the thread free, surveying my work. Not too shabby. “Under one condition.”
His lips tip up into a cold smirk. “You don’t get to make conditions. You’re mine. I can do anything I want with you.”
Nodding, I reply, “True. You could tie me down and have your way. But you won’t. Want to know why?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Why?”
I start bracing myself for the task ahead. “Because I’m going to prove that you’re awake and I’m real.”
I watch the top of his head as he fills in the snake on my calf.
It was the only way he’d agree to following my orders, so I lie here, just like last time, and let him have his way. The ‘way’ apparently involves a lot of black and red markers, and I allow myself to watch the design itself come to life. Last time, he’d turned it into a three-headed dragon, but this time, it’s an intricate vine of flowers. The head of my snake appears from a bed of thorns, and for a moment, I’m incredibly fucking annoyed. I spent hours agonizing over this half-baked snake tattoo and twice now he’s just shouldered in and created effortless masterpieces out of it.
Fucker.
Unlike last time, I’m still fully clothed—or as ‘fully’ as I can be in the tiny little cutslut shorts I’ve been given. It’s still enough skin for him to rise to my knees, my thighs, his fingers grazing over flesh in a way that still evokes a sense of heat and restlessness.
“Don’t tell Sy what happened up there,” he says without stopping. “He’d get the wrong idea.”
The wrong idea? What the hell does that mean?
I don’t speak the words aloud, but Remy answers anyway. “He just overreacts sometimes.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, twisting to get a better look. “But sure, I can keep my mouth shut.”
Although I do add this little piece of information to the list of secrets and lies these ‘brothers’ keep from one another…
“You should be naked,” he mutters as I fight down a shiver. His eyes rise to my center, marker pausing. “I can’t see the stars when you’re in all these clothes.”
“Tough shit,” is my response.
His fingers tighten around the marker, but he goes back to drawing, jaw tensing every time he bumps into the hem of my shorts. I think I do a pretty good job of suffering through it, but when he begins pulling my knees apart to get higher on my leg, I jerk it away, eliciting a grunt of frustration from him.
“Time’s up.”
I’m fully expecting him to ignore me at best, hold me down at worst, but to my astonishment, he just frowns, stepping back. “It’s shit. I told you, I can’t visualize!” He gets the same look in his eye that I’m betting preceded all the sketches being ripped to shreds like confetti on his floor.
I’m in no hurry to see how such an impulse translates to human flesh, but it’s the only thing I think can work with him. “I want you to ink me—for real.” I tug my hoodie up and point to a spot on my hip. “Right here.”
When he shifts his frustrated gaze from my leg to the patch of skin I’ve designated for him, his jaw loses some of its sharpness. “I don’t ink bitches.”
I parrot his words from before. “But you already marked me. I still have the Brass Bruin, remember?” His lips press tight, brows furrowing, and I get the sense that he’s having an argument with himself. I add, “I drew it. It’s not your art. It’s nothing, just a few lines.” At the curl of his lip, I offer, “Or just give me the needle and I’ll do it myself.”
“Nobody touches my gun.” Wordlessly, he walks to the drafting table, glaring at the design I’ve drawn in a half-destroyed sketchbook while he worked on the snake. He taps at the simple outline of a seven-pointed star with his marker. It’s not good, but it doesn’t have to be. “This is supposed to prove you’re real.” It comes out a shade sarcastic, but he’s also pulling on a pair of gloves, mouth slanted wryly as he inspects the drawing. “How the fuck is a shitty star going to do that?”
“Because we’re here. This moment between us is real. The tattoo proves it. It won’t wash away or disappear.” I’m worried the instant I say it out loud that it sounds trivial and add, “Whenever you’re confused, you can check.”
He frowns, clearly displeased with my display of logic. “And you want it here.” He hooks his forefinger into the waist of my shorts and wrenches it down.
“Not that low!” I snap, tugging them back up.
He pulls it down again, easily overpowering me. “If you’d take off your clothes, then I could see the fucking—”
I growl, “Draw the goddamn star, Remy!”
His head snaps back, eyes filling with fire. I had him pegged from the first moment I stepped in here. I can absolutely believe he is Remington Maddox, because Remy is clearly a spoiled little rich fuck. I bet no one’s ever yelled at him before, told him to shut his mouth and get down to business.
“Look,” he says, tone clearer than I’ve ever heard it, “If I’m going to break my code of not tattooing bitches, then I need you to cooperate a little. I’m not half-assing it. My art is a gift and I decide where it goes and how the process is going to happen.” Ironically, he’s looking at me in much the same way I’m looking at him. Like I’m the spoiled little Lucia bitch who’s never been told what to do. “Pull down your shorts and let me find the right spot.”
I shimmy the tight shorts lower, revealing my hip and most of my pubic area. His fingers brush over the skin, like he’s reading the fine lines on a map. He stops on a smooth swath of flesh an inch from my hip, closer to my bikini line, and presses down. “Here.”
“It’s a little lower than I’d like—” He glares at me. “But it’s fine. Fine!”
He turns away and opens a tall cabinet, revealing a complete set of tattooing instruments, including the autoclave for sterilization. Methodically, he pulls out everything he needs.
The intensity of his focus returns when he starts sketching the star on my skin, quick and sure, even though he glances over to the sketchbook every now and then for reference. The artwork is a million times better than my own, thank god. I already have one shitty tattoo to regret.
The sound of the gun buzzing to life is enough to transport me back to that night, pressed face-down into the Hideaway’s mattress as he pricked their insignia into my shoulder. My hands curl, muscles going taut as the needle makes its first touch.
There’s a perverse pleasure in this pain, the needle stabbing in and out like the barb of a stinger. I hate it at first, but the sensation spreads across my flesh. I almost regret that it’s fast work, the design small and simple, because I feel the desire to sink into the vibration. Maybe I’ve spent too much time around this psycho, because the second he pops up, forehead creased into a sharp frown, I can tell he’s itching to make it better.
Instead, the gun goes silent.
There’s a long moment where he cleans the excess ink away, soothing the sore skin with something both astringent and good smelling, and I get the sense this is a bit ritualistic for him. As I watch the crease in his forehead slowly ease, I wonder how many times he does this. How many times does he tilt his head in contemplation of someone else’s skin?
“Count them,” I order, watching the way his platinum hair falls into his eyes. “Count the points.”
Limply, he says, “Seven,” and I shake my head.
“Use your fingers. Count.”
His green eyes ping to mine, flashing in annoyance through the strands of hair, “I’m not a Count, I’m a Duke.” Despite this, he aggressively obeys, jabbing his glove-covered fingertip into each point. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. How the fuck is this supposed to prove anything?”
I scowl back at him. “It doesn’t, asshole. You have to do the second part.”
“What second part?”
Rising from the bench, I ignore the way his eyes instantly drop to my thighs, darkening. “Now, we sleep,” I say, gesturing to the bed. “And when you dream—if you see me—you won’t be able to count the points. So when you wake up, you’ll know.”
“Assuming I’m not already, what makes you think I’ll even have a dream?”
I have no way of knowing he will. If nothing else, it’ll go a long way to easing the shadows beneath his eyes, and maybe some rest will help him see reason. I give a helpless shrug. “You did last time, didn’t you?”
Tilting his head, he notes, “Last time you were naked.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter, hands slapping angrily against my thighs. “You know what? Fine. I’ll get naked… if you take your pills.”
His eyebrows rise hopefully and then crash into a scowl. “You think a lot of yourself. What makes you think your tits are worth me dosing myself into oblivion and making shit eleven times more confusing?” His words lose a little of the effect, seeing as how half of them are yelled from the bathroom next door. He walks back into his room with three bottles, not even sparing me a glance as he pops them open, one by one, and sets them on the table in a neat little row. He picks up the bottle of bourbon and finally looks at me, leaning back against the drafting table to pin me with his eyes. “Well?”
I point at the pills. “You first.”
“You first.”
Rolling my eyes, I shimmy my shorts down my legs and fling them with a kick of my ankle, arching a brow.
Eyes locked on my bare thighs, Remy picks up one of the pills and puts it into his mouth, swallowing it down with a swig of bourbon. “More.”
I reach beneath the hoodie to slip off my panties, my awareness prickling at the way his eyes track their descent.
He takes the second pill. “More.”
Sighing, I grab the hem of the hoodie and lift it over my head, wishing I’d thought to wear a bra today. The moment it clears my head, sending my hair into a wild cascade, Remy is already pitching forward, licking his lips. “Take it,” I say of the third pill, my arms still in the sweater sleeves.
He obeys absentmindedly, and I’d had this whole plan to make him open his mouth and lift his tongue, but I know he’s swallowed it when he takes a couple more sips from the bottle, throat bobbing as his dark eyes take me in.
I gesture to the bed. “After you.”
I’m an idiot for not expecting what comes next.
Remy begins undressing, just like last time. “I told you before, Vinny,” he says, smirking when I turn away. “I can only sleep naked.”
“Great,” I mumble, crossing my arms over my tits as I shuffle to the other side of the room.
The bed is messy, but I’ve been sleeping up in the loft, on the cold, hard floor, for so long that it’s annoyingly inviting. Remy doesn’t stop to clean it off, just falls into the bed, grabbing me on the way down.
I dive quickly beneath the twisted blankets, covering myself, but he’s already doing the same, slotting right up against me. Remy’s a touchy fucker, so I’m already tense in anticipation when his palm covers one of my breasts, thumb sweeping over my nipple.
“You know,” his erect cock brushes the outside of my thigh, “last time I made you come.”
“Forced me.”
I’m looking pointedly away from him, but I can still see him in my periphery, propping his temple on his fist as his other hand squeezes my tit. “I could make it quick.”
“I could make you a eunuch.”
“I could make you scream.”
I turn to him, finally meeting his hooded gaze. “Remy. Aren’t you tired?”
“No.” It’s a lie, and from the way he drops his gaze, he realizes how obvious it is. He heaves out this long, beleaguered sigh and finally lets me go, collapsing to his back. I watch as he pushes his hair away, staring up at the ceiling for a long, silent moment. “Vinny?”
“What?”
“I don’t think I’m awake.” His voice is a rumble that’s almost as grim as the lines around his mouth.
I turn on my side, drawn to his profile in some inexplicable way. A single slant of noon sunlight is cutting through his blinds, casting an eerie glow over the curve of his cheek, and I’m swept with the notion that he’s asking me for something. Something only I can give him. Not an order, but more of a plea.
Maybe that’s why I ask, “Why not?”
“I can’t be,” is his sleepy-slurred answer. “Because if I’m awake, then it means… this is just how it is. It means it doesn’t get better.” His eyelids dip low on a slow blink, cloaking something lost and hurt. “I’m probably asleep.” His hand becomes limp, a sign he’s finally drifted off.
Tucking my hand beneath my cheek, I trace the lines on his face with my eyes. He’s callous and cruel and volatile, and right now, I’m not sure if I’ve ever resented anything more than the creases etched into his sleeping face, because it stirs something inside of me. This is the face of a person who’s been hurting for so long, his face has forgotten the concept of slackness.
Turning away, the lie comes easily. And why shouldn’t it?
I tell it to myself every day.
“It’ll be better when you wake up.”
Banging pounds in my head, loud and disruptive. My eyes fly open, and I jolt up at the same time the door swings open. Nick consumes the space, jaw tense, fists balled, gaze roaming over my body.
“What the f—” I start, voice scratchy from sleep.
“Jesus Christ! Don’t fucking move!” Remy shouts and I freeze. I dart a look across the room where I see him perched on a stool in the corner. He’s buck naked, holding a marker in his hand, with a thick pad of paper propped on his knees. “The door was closed, motherfucker,” he barks at Nick. “We made a deal. I don’t lock it if you don’t barge in!”
“It’s been eighteen-hours,” Nick replies through clenched teeth. “I had to make sure the two of you were alive! What the fuck are you even doing in here?” He marches over to the bed and I see it. That dark, defiant flash of possessiveness that’s always made me want to strike out. “And for god’s sake, at least give her a blanket,” Nick adds, lifting one up off the floor and tossing it over my body.
I still haven’t moved, not exactly sure what’s going on here. The last thing I remember is watching the noon sunlight peeking in through the blinds as Remy breathed deep and even beside me, his skin warm and electric against mine.
“Son of a motherfucking—” Remy’s muscles ripple, cock swinging heavily between his legs as he dives for the blanket. He catches the corner and yanks it off. “I’m in the middle of something and you’re ruining it! Why do you always have to ruin everything?!”
It’s a loaded statement—the whole exchange is full of them, from the locked door to Nick’s shuttered expression at Remy’s words. There’s so much history between these two—these three—that it’s getting harder and harder to position myself outside of the line of fire. These are old wounds, but they’re also fresh. Re-opened. Chafed raw. Normally, pouring some salt into them would be a good time, but I spent hours yesterday calming Remy into the dark-eyed, naked mess of fixation that stands before me right now. I don’t need Nick coming in here and riling him up again.
“Nick,” I say, trying to move as little as possible. “Remy obviously needs a little more time. Whatever you came in here for can wait until he’s finished, can’t it?”
His eyes meet mine and there’s a tension there, like he wants to fight me. “I got something for you,” he says, reaching into this pocket. He pulls out a rectangular plastic card and holds it aloft. “It’s for the University library. You can go with one of us while we’re on campus.”
A rush of emotion hits me. It’s too tangled up to put a name to; part surprise, part trepidation, and a spike of longing so intense that my reply emerges softly and choked. “What do I have to do?”
I know it’s too big before Nick’s mouth can even form the slow, malicious smirk. “I haven’t decided yet.” Ignoring us, Remy bends to roughly arrange me back into whatever position he had me in before. Nick’s gaze moves to him, flickers of jealousy sparking underneath his stone mask. “What the fuck is that?”
Remy pauses, following Nick’s gaze to the tattoo, and he flinches at the sight of the star. “She made me do it,” he answers, and when he begins pressing his fingertip to each point, lips moving soundlessly with his counting, I find an odd sort of relief. “Seven is good. It’s four, but also three. The tower has four sides but three faces. This is… it’s empirical.” His eyes meet mine, wide with a strange, energetic sort of awe. “I get it now.” Remy’s warm hands grip my thighs. I blame Nick and that library card for not expecting what comes next. Remy’s finger dipping between my legs and parting my lips. My body stiffens at the first brush of his fingertip against my clit.
I try to slam my knees shut, squeaking, “Wait—!”
But he easily forces them apart. “You’re real, Vinny. That means you’re nothing. It means you’re ours. Do you get it yet? Have you learned what it means to belong to us?”
I fight the shudder that threatens to roll across my skin. These fucking Dukes. Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile.
“What are you doing?” Nick asks, jaw tight.
Remy’s eyes are fixed on my center, swirling with fascination. “Just enjoying the sights, Nicky.” Glancing at him over his shoulder, he adds, “You know how she looks when she comes.”
Nick’s eyes flare angrily, because he doesn’t. Remy’s the only person in the world who knows what I look like when I come. But even though there’s something black and furious in his stare, there’s also an eagerness to the way he watches Remy touch me. “How does she feel?” Nick asks.
“Warm. She’s already wet for us, Nicky.” Remy pushes his fingers inside, wrapping his other hand around my thigh to spread me wider. He glances at me and there’s a vicious mirth to his smile that wasn’t there yesterday. “You ever wonder what ouroboros tastes like?” Holding my gaze, he pulls his finger from my pussy, only to slip it between his lips.
My fists clench against the sheets as I attempt to remain still. “I helped you,” I remind him, as if that’ll spare me.
Remy hums, pulling his finger free from his mouth. “Tastes like honey and static.”
Nick’s blue eyes glaze over as he watches Remy poke and prod my cunt. “Lick her pussy,” he says, lids heavy, “make her come.”
“No.” It emerges from my throat in a low, decisive growl that makes Nick’s eyes narrow.
He lifts the library card. “If you want this, you’ll spread your legs and take it.”
But Remy’s already dropping between my thighs, tongue sweeping a wide, hot path up my center. Without really meaning to, my fingers grab for his hair, belly tight with the tension of wanting and hating them for it.
I wonder when they’ll realize I’ve won.
Maybe when I throw my head back against the pillow, toes curling as Remy’s tongue flicks my clit, Nick will realize this isn’t exactly the punishment he means it to be. Maybe when Remy dips low to plunge his tongue into my cunt, drawing a soft keen from my throat, it’ll occur to them who’s on their knees for whom. Maybe when my hips buck, back arching with a hitched breath, Nick will understand that he’s just a spectator to a fight he’s already lost.
My fingers clench against Remy’s scalp, and I don’t even try to push back the searing waves of pleasure that crash into me with every flick of his skilled tongue. My chest heaves with shuddering gasps and I guide his head, forcing him to my clit. I’m rewarded with a low rumble that vibrates through my core like an earthquake. Remy’s good at taking direction here. His hands curled around my thighs as he makes a mess of me and all my slickness. I know I’m close when I wonder how terrible it would be if he were to rear up and shove his cock into me. I sink my teeth into my lip, muscles coiled tight, just in case.
Just in case I’m lost enough to ask for it.
Ten days.
I make sure I look at him just before the band of tension in my belly breaks free. Nick. He’s watching with this slack, idiotic expression. Mouth barely parted. Blue eyes glazed. Hand shoved into jeans that have been hastily unbuttoned. There’s a divot in his forehead that so closely resembles pain that it makes my fists clench in Remy’s hair. Suddenly, I think I understand Auggy.
Because there’s power here.
It’s in the way Nick freezes when I moan. It’s in the clench of my thighs around Remy’s head, trapping him. It’s in the way Nick’s body seizes with mine, thick cum dripping over his fist, both of us diving off that jagged precipice with nothing but our own pleasure in mind. I cry out without really meaning to, back arching as Remy holds me down, growling ravenous sounds into my cunt.
My body falls heavy and slack, and for a long moment, I gulp in air, trying desperately to sate my lungs. The sweet aftershocks of my orgasm make my thighs tremble as Remy continues, uncaring of how sensitive I am. I try to pry him away, but it’s a weak, halfhearted gesture that he easily shakes off.
It isn’t until I hear the grunt ripping from his chest that I realize he’s been fisting his cock. I feel his release more than I see it, rocking through my center in a sharp burst of vibration. Sticky, wet semen coats my thighs.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the three of us catching our breath.
Nick is the first to compose himself, jaw going sharp as he shoves himself back into his pants. “Get your shit done and send her out. Sy is taking her to campus today. I’ve got to meet Saul.” He tosses the library card at me and it lands on my chest, right between my tits.
It’s probably meant to be demoralizing. Payment for my ‘service’. The whorehouse has churned out another worker bee. A commodity to be used. I suppose the shame is there, deep down, buried under the layer of armor I pulled over myself long ago. But I wasn’t on my knees. I didn’t have to take either of them into myself. If his goal was to make me feel like a whore, then he lost.
I pick up the library card, wetting my chapped lips.
To the victor go the spoils.
