Sell My Soul (Sixty Days 1)

My fingers were quick on the keyboard.

My broadcasts are always fucking good enough, jackass.

I resisted the urge to probe further into the Lane girl, keeping the cards of my interest close to my chest. My next message was to Lance.

Find her, I told him. Dig however deep needs digging.

On it, he replied, and I hoped so.

I didn’t send anyone else out looking, not for the Lane girl and not for sweet little Paige, either. I didn’t trust a single one of them, not where Drake was concerned. Feeding any further ammunition back to the cunt regarding my interest in tight little Emmerson pussy was the last thing I wanted.

Still, I checked for her updated phone records. Spying vicariously through her mobile network operator would have to cut it for the time being.

My inbox was empty.

My balls were not.

I’d jacked one off at the memory of her belted little slit by the time the evening drew in, cursing my own lack of restraint as I shot my load across the toilet cistern with a cigarette between my lips to mute the grunts.

There were two fresh items in my inbox when I returned to my office fully dressed for my evening appointment with Annabel Fisher’s soon to be brutalised tits.

The first was a follow up ping from that prick, Drake, like it was necessary.

No more fuck ups, it read. Tonight needs to be your best fucking game face. The stakes are high. Clients waiting. Ten p.m. fucking sharp.

My game face was on fucking point when I switched over to message two, the urge to beat the living shit out of something more than ripe in me. I was ready for it. Ready for Annabel Fisher’s pain. Ready to prove to that piece of shit, Drake, that I was the one who counted around here. The only one who counted around here.

I shouldn’t have opened Paige Emmerson’s updated phone records, not before my evening showing.

I shouldn’t have pinged back another bloated bastard tip at the push of a button and trawled the updated listings like a fool as Eric began the webcam setup in earnest.

And I most fucking definitely shouldn’t have bolted out of there like a man possessed at the sight of her sister’s fucking text message.Chapter ThirtyPaigeI didn’t go back to my dorm after college. I couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk Phoebe trying to talk me into taking her along – or talk me out of it.

I headed into the city on the train, hating the way the scenery changed from the calm of the beach front to the dregs of urban life. I was out of my comfort zone in this hellhole, associating it with nothing more than my poor sister’s trail of misery as I prepared to face down the scum who’d attacked her the night previous.

I was scared shitless. Hands trembling around a coffee mug as I killed the time in a late-night cafe.

It didn’t feel like I had all that much of it to kill at all before ten p.m. was looming.

I knew Warren Road. It was a few grotty street corners along from my sister’s grotty flat. I’d been there with her when she’d claimed to be out walking for fresh air, only to dip into some dingy garage and come out dabbing her nose in front of me.

I ignored her phone calls all the way to the meet up, determined to see this through on her behalf, no matter what, regardless what she had to say on it.

I did my best to keep my head held high as I stepped into the alley behind the garage block, eyes straining to adjust to the darkness as I ventured down with tiny steps.

They were waiting.

Three huge guys clad in bulky black overcoats, illuminated just enough by an overhanging street light to make them out.

It was only when I was part way in that I heard the footsteps of guy number four behind me.

I was trapped.

Caged.

Hemmed in in a tunnel of utter doom as I kept on moving.

I knew in that moment that this was a stupid plan coming to a catastrophic conclusion.

My flight or fight was at full force, but there was no way either outcome would do shit for me.

I clutched my bag like a shield as I approached the trio.

“I’m here for Phoebe,” I said, like it wasn’t obvious. “I want to talk about a payment plan.”

One of the three stepped forward. I guessed he was head honcho, the guy worth talking to.

I hated every little pigeon step towards him, but the bulk at my rear wasn’t any more appealing an option.

“Phoebe is done with fucking payment plans,” the head honcho grunted, and raised a cigarette to his mouth. “She’s had more than enough of them. It’s payment in full, or suffer the consequences. She’s outta fucking time.”