Sell My Soul (Sixty Days 1)

For the time being I had to keep my cool, and bring my shit back together.

Eric was reclined in his seat, monitor blaring out some crap about off-road racing while he pressed an ice pack to his swollen jaw. I didn’t feel even a smidgen of guilt as I stared over at him.

The morning moved quickly. Lunch came and went.

I didn’t have a care for any of it.

It was afternoon by the time I ventured upstairs to check on Annabel. She was awake when I stepped inside, flashing a glare over her shoulder as I approached the bed.

Her ass was still a mess. Stripes swollen and crusted with blood.

“He won’t be touching you again,” I told her as I took a seat on the mattress.

“I don’t want anyone touching me again,” she cried, and her tears came hard and fast, her body a wracking mess as she broke down without restraint.

Once again, I didn’t feel a smidgen of guilt. The girl would survive.

She’d leave on her merry way in a matter of weeks. Body healed and ready to resume regular life, even if her mind wasn’t quite up to par.

“You knew what you were signing up for,” I said. “The terms are still the terms and the pay day will still be the pay day. You’ll be looking back on this through a whole new lens when you’re flashing the cash all over the place, believe me.”

She shook her head. “It’s not worth it. No pay day in the world is worth it.”

She’d be rethinking that stance soon enough, I had no doubt of it.

“I’ll be aware of last night’s misfortune this evening,” I told her. “Your ass can sit on the subs bench for the next few days.”

Her eyes were filled with hate when they met with mine. “Such a nice guy,” she spat. “Thank you, sir.”

I turned a blind eye to her tone.

“I never claimed to be a nice guy. Quite the opposite, in fact.” My laugh fell on deaf ears.

“Just let me go,” she whispered. “Please, sir, let me go.”

“I’ll get your food sent up,” I said, and rose to my feet.

She didn’t beg. Didn’t scream. Didn’t attempt a dash to the door and a desperate bid for freedom.

I had to give Eric credit for something at least – her resolve had taken a decent beating along with her backside.

He was still pressing ice to his face when I arrived back in the office.

“She alright?” he asked, and I shot him a glare before I took my seat.

“She’ll survive. You pelted her ass cheeks, not her jugular.”

“I liked it,” he said, and his eyes flashed with something I hadn’t seen there before. “I felt like a fucking god up there.”

“Not so much like a fucking god with my shoe in your ribs,” I snapped.

“I want to do it again,” he continued. “I want to do it all, learn everything. When that Paige Emmerson bet comes good for me, I want in on every girl who comes through here.”

“When that Paige Emmerson bet comes good for me, you’ll shut your mouth and do what you’re fucking told,” I countered. “You know fuck all about what we do here, not when it comes to it.”

He shrugged and turned his attention back to his monitor.

Just as fucking well since the urge to give him another shoeing was rising up pretty damn fast.

I turned my attention to regular business, clicking my way through the proposal screen. The bids were rocking in fast for whining little Annabel Fisher. If she could only see the flavour of the offers for her poor battered body, she’d be sobbing a whole load harder.

I clicked to accept a bunch of them, firing back the scheduling form to the successful bidders.

And then I showered. Long and hard. Steam cleansing me of tiredness as I battled the urges to check out more of Miss Emmerson’s college schedule.

I shouldn’t do it. Shouldn’t want to do it. Shouldn’t want to do anything with the girl besides making a fortune on the back of her torment.

That didn’t stop me pinging my telephone network contact with an increased urgency payment for her revised phone records.

I sent a ping through to Lance shortly after, wanting an update on Rebecca Lane’s whereabouts, and his response came back in an instant.

Still outside her place. No sign of her. Her sister’s been and gone twice, and she looks like death. I’m doing some digging, think we may have come too late.

My gut did a weird fucking lurch. Weird enough that I called up our most encrypted of message portals.

My message to Drake was concise, rinsed of expletives three times over.

Where is the Lane girl? I told you I had it in hand.

The bastard’s reply came back in an instant.

The Lane girl is no concern of yours. The girl upstairs is the only thing you need to concern yourself with. Tonight’s broadcast better be good enough to make up for the mid-scene blackout last night. I’ll be watching.