Pound of Flesh

As soon as I was old enough, I got a job at the yogurt shop and started paying half the mortgage, while keeping my grades above average in school. I’ve busted my butt to make up for Roger’s shortcomings, and now here I am, paying for them once again. This son of a Cyclops is kidnapping me, intending to use my body as a placeholder for the money he’s owed…and he’s bent out of shape?

In the words of my ancestors: fuck that.

“Yeah. I am scared of you.” Death must seem like a viable option for me at this point, because I reach over and poke him in his rock-hard side. “Does that make you feel like a big man? Scaring an innocent girl who’s done nothing to you?”

His cheekbones…darken? No way. My eyes must be playing tricks on me. “I don’t have a choice when it comes to scaring people. I just do. All I have to do is walk into a room, like I did tonight.”

“You kicked the door down!”

“It was standing between me and you.” I start to respond to that growly, confusing statement, but he rushes to correct himself. “Between me and your brother, I mean. The money he was supposed to hold on to for me.”

Something about the tight set of his lips makes me suspicious, but I let it go. “Still think you should pay for the damage to the door,” I mumble, crossing my arms.

“Fine.” His voice softens. “Roger can take the repair cost out of my money.”

“Wait. Really?” Victory tingles along my spine, but it’s short-lived. “Are you just pretending to be reasonable because you don’t believe Roger can come up with the money?”

“Yes.”

“That was very mean-spirited to get my hopes up like that.” I ignore the pressure behind my eyes. “And my brother is going to find the cash. You’ll see.”

Oddly, Raider doesn’t seem to like that possibility, which makes no sense. Isn’t the whole point of this felony kidnapping to line his pockets? Maybe that murderous scowl is just his version of resting bitch face.

My musings are cut short when Raider takes a sharp right, burning rubber as we pull onto a block I recognize as somewhere my brother has repeatedly warned me against venturing into alone. We live in a poor part of town. But this section is downright dangerous. The streets are empty except for blowing garbage, dumped furniture and appliances people didn’t want anymore.

The dumped bodies are probably better hidden.

Am I about to become one of them?

“W-what are we doing here?” Discreetly as possible, I unlatch my seatbelt and prepare to make a run for it as soon as the van stops moving. Thank God I’m still wearing my sensible work sneakers. “Were you lying when you said Roger could have two days’ grace?”

He starts to answer, but snaps his mouth shut. Confirmation that he lied?

I grip the door handle. “Look, I’m really sorry I poked you, but…” We turn into a dark alley behind an abandoned building, and the vehicle jerks to a stop. “Please. You don’t need to do this.”

“Yes I do. Need.” Raider reaches out, tracing the curve of my breast with a fingertip. An unwanted tightening starts between my thighs, but I don’t stop to examine how I could be attracted to my murderer. Hell no. Fast as possible, I shove open the passenger door and dive out of the van, trapping a scream in my throat when Raider’s bellow of anger ricochets off the alley walls. “Delilah!”

If I were in any other neighborhood, I would run my ass into the nearest store and beg for help, but attracting attention from anyone in this neighborhood isn’t wise. Getting out first, finding a place to hide second, is the plan. Followed by the close third of figuring out how to keep my brother alive, too, now that I’ve made the decision to run.

My feet pound on the pavement, my hoarse, fearful inhales rattling in my ears. It’s dark outside, and barely any of the street lamps are lit—and the working ones are flickering. In the distance, there’s a low hum of music and shouting. Dogs barking. Televisions blaring.

A man steps out of a car to my right, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Hey, sweetie. Need a ride?”

I sprint faster.

The man curses, tossing his smoke away in a flaming arc, and gives chase.

Shit, shit, shit. The streets are unfamiliar and winding. Every turn I take seems to lead somewhere worse and more deserted. The man is gaining on me, laughing, hooting. Why didn’t I grab my backpack before running? My cell phone was in the front pocket, dammit.

An arm snags me around the waist and I’m pulled into a stairwell, just off the sidewalk. It’s deep, and the man crowds me into the cold metal, his face still hidden by shadows. Sour breath smacks me in the face, his hands going right for the zipper of my jeans, prompting me to lift my knee and connect with his balls. But my resistance only seems to excite him.