The bed’s four times the size of the little cot I have at home, and from where I’m lying, the door to the jacks is wide open. I can see gleaming tile, though it’s covered in more of his—or my?—discarded clothing.
Someone snaps open a shade, and I jump, blink, and bring my hand up to my eyes to stop the light from making the pain worse.
“Get up.”
His voice is harsh and cruel, and I try to remember who he was.
“One of our best clients,” Vivian said the night before, that much I remember. I squint at him, trying to place him, but all I remember is his limp dick that he made me suck.
Who the fuck have I become?
“My head bloody hurts,” I protest. “Give me a minute.”
“Get the fuck out of my bed. You have exactly two minutes before I haul you out by your fucking hair.”
Jesus. I blink in surprise at his sudden and vicious fury. I don’t remember anything about the night before, but I think I’d remember if he was a prick.
I get to my feet, wobbling, and the world spins. I fall to my knees, clutching my stomach. I’m going to be sick.
“Get out,” he says. He stomps over to me, and to my utter horror, kicks my stomach.
I scream, bend over, and retch all over his floor.
“You fucking bitch!” he howls, rearing back to strike me. I duck, just missing his blow, and grab for my bag.
“Don’t you fucking touch me!” I unzip my bag and remove the pistol I carry for times like these, tucked into a secret pocket I sometimes use for lifting things.
His eyes go wide but only for a second, before his face splits into a sickening grin.
“As if you know how to use the fucking thing. Do you have any idea who I am, you stupid girl?” If he wasn’t such an arse, I’d think the guy was kind of hot, in a thin, sinewy way, but he isn’t even the littlest bit familiar.
“I don’t care who you are,” I say, my voice wavering and my stomach rolling like waves on the shore. I wave my pistol at him. “You touch me again and you’ll lose your fucking bollox.”
And I mean it, the fucking wanker.
He shakes his head and shoves his hands in his pockets. He jerks his head out the door. “Thirty seconds left, slut.”
I should be immune to this by now. It shouldn’t affect me like it does, but hell, it does.
I make it to the door before I flip him off, and slam it before he makes it to me. I run, but he doesn’t pursue me. Christ, I must look a wreck, but I don’t much care at the moment. I need to get away from that bastard.
I stumble down the long hall and make it to the lift. Thankfully, it opens immediately. I step inside and slam the button, afraid the arsehole will pursue me. It glides downward, and I groan when it opens on the next floor instead of the landing at the first floor. Goddamn it.
An older, well-to-do couple dressed in impeccable clothing steps onto the elevator and gives me disapproving looks. God, I must look a sight, wearing the same dress from the night before painted on me, my hair a wreck, my makeup smeared. I turn away from them to hide my shame, too sick to really care much beyond getting out of here and getting to my bed.
My phone falls out of my bag when I exit the elevator, clattering to the gleaming marble floor in the lobby. I bend and reach for it, and my head feels like it’s going to literally fall right off my shoulders. I swallow hard.
I don’t cry. I haven’t cried in years. I bloody won’t now.
Something inside me wants to question how I got here, who I am.
I used to be a good girl.
I hail a taxi and gratefully slide into the back. The door shuts with a bang.
It’s then that I begin to tremble. Christ, I need a fix. I need a fucking fix. Now that I’m more awake, withdrawal symptoms hit me so hard I feel faint.
I don’t realize I’m rocking on the seat until the taxi driver gives me a concerned look in the rearview mirror.
“Y’alright?” he asks warily, real concern in his eyes. He looks like he could be someone’s grandfather, and for one weak, brief moment in time, I wish he were mine. There’s a bit of kindness in his eyes I don’t see often, and I need a little kindness right now.
“I’m fine,” I say. Even my voice is shaking now.
The edge of my phone peeks out of my bag where I shoved it in, and a pang hits my chest.
I wish I could call a friend. I could call my roommate, but I can’t bother her. Not again. She’s got class and work of her own.
I just wish I had someone to pick me up. Someone I could confide in. Long ago, I had friends, and honestly, a good friend, too.
One really good friend. But I fucked that up.
My hands tremble as I shove my phone further in my bag, and I watch outside the window as we move steadily past the luxurious apartment buildings to head further into the city where I live.
I miss Ballyhock. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose as the car stumbles over the broken pavement. The streets here are neglected so badly that people break rims and curse them out.
For one moment, I imagine myself back in Ballyhock.
I can see the rollicking waves of the Irish Sea stretched out before me, the fathomless blue-green mesmerizing. When I was little, I’d imagine myself a mermaid that lived beneath the depths. The color of the sea and whimsical white foam made me feel as if it were magical. I’d sink beneath the depths, my sleek body swimming below
