I don’t even fight it. I just stop and look inside, desperate to see him so I can convince myself he’ll be okay. His outline is visible in his bed, his face obscured by his shoulder from where I’m standing.
“Leave him,” Gunter says from right behind me. “He’s not your concern anymore.”
“Can I sit with him for a moment?” I ask, pushing aside my initial reason for being here.
I cry out as my head is ripped violently backward, Gunter’s hand fisted in my hair. “No, you can’t sit with him. Whores don’t get the same privilege as family.”
And there it is—the true reason he’s loved me all these years laid out in a few simple words. I’m his whore, his prize, the toy his father left behind when he went to the slammer.
My neck pains as Gunter lets go of my head with a firm shove forward. I rub the ache away, turning from Tommy’s outline and heading for the bedroom. The damn dress glares at me from the bed, a reminder of the exact reason why I decided to leave and search out help in the first place. What the hell was I thinking I’d achieve by coming back alone? Why did I have to be so stubborn and decide to do this all myself? Still so young and naïve.
I round the foot of our bed to stand over the dress, staring down at it as Gunter pushes the door to. He steps toward me in those god awful acid-washed jeans, his entire outfit screaming white pride more than the disgusting tattoos on his face and neck ever will.
“Being you were my girl, I get first dibs with you before those sick fuckers get to live out their fantasy. Better commit this to memory, sugar, because as rough as I’ll be, it’s going to be as smooth as silk compared to what you’ll get after I’m done.”
My body stiffens of its own accord as he moves in behind me, placing his hands over my hips and bunching the hem of the T-shirt Sonya loaned me in his grasp. He yanks it up my body, struggling against my arms when I clamp them tightly against my chest to keep the cotton covering me. His grasp falls away, the fabric pooling around my hips once more, before a firm hand violently whips me around. I stare into Gunter’s hard eyes, letting him know I don’t plan on backing down any time soon.
“You don’t have to be like them,” I say.
His pupils dilate, and then expand before he lifts a hand and slaps me clear across the mouth. I fall backwards, landing on the bed with a startled cry. “Fucking do as you’re told, bitch.” He grips the hem once more, yanking the shirt over my head, and tearing one of the sleeves in his effort to get the garment off my body.
I push up on the bed with my elbows, shunting him out of the way with my feet as best I can in the process. Gunter stumbles back, and then dives forward with renewed purpose, tearing at my jeans and bra with frantic, messy hands. I swat him away, jamming my fingers inside his hold to pry him off, and slapping at him every chance I get. We continue the struggle for what feels an age, each of us gaining ground before the other rips it away. I’m not expecting to win—in fact, I know I can’t. He’s larger, stronger, and as my thumb and forefinger crack joints under the pressure of his hold, I almost give in. But that’s not what this struggle is about. It was never about keeping my clothes on and his hands off me. It was about position—about how far I can shimmy across the bed in our struggle.
I lean to my left, reaching out and praying like hell I’ve done this right. Gunter snaps the strap of my bra, leaving it hanging off my right side as I thrust my hand between the mattress and the footboard. My fingers lock around the target, and realization dawns on his face as I wrench my hand out, swinging around to jam the gun under his jaw.
He reaches for the Desert Eagle, stalling at the click of the safety. “Don’t be stupid, Ryan.”
“Oh, I won’t.” In fact, I’ve mentally prepared myself for this moment a hundred times over in my dreams.
“Put it down.”
“Why?” I ask. “So you can continue trying to rape me before you pass me around like a fucking joint between your friends?”
“You brought this on yourself, woman.” The gun presses against my hold with each word he speaks. “You fucked with the wrong people.”
“No, Gunter,” I hiss, pushing him to stand with both the gun and my body. “You did.”
The bastard laughs. “Look around, Ryan. It’s only you and me, and a few more men who’d like a piece of what you’ve got out there. None of your new ‘friends’ are here to save you. You know why?” His eyes grow wide, exposing every bloodshot line. “Because they don’t give a fuck about you, sweetheart. Nobody does. That’s why my old man found you huddled among the trash, where you belong.”
Don’t buy into it. He’s trying to make you act irrationally, slip up.
“You’re wrong,” I growl. “They do care about me, and that’s all I need to give me the courage to do this.” I brace.
Gunter’s eyes come close to bugging out of his skull in the split-second that passes before I give my trigger finger a little tension. The kickback takes me by surprise, my arms jolting with the force. The bullet tears clear through his jaw and out the top of his skull, painting the ceiling with bits of bone and brain matter. Gunter’s lifeless body collapses at my feet, his upper half folding over onto my shins and pressing me against the side of the bed. I squeal before I have a chance to stop myself, and kick frantically to get him off, only succeeding in covering my jeans with blood.
Fragments of him are fucking everywhere. My eyes roam over the mess and settle on a chunk of flesh still containing stubbly hairs that leaves tracks as it slides down the wall opposite me. The sight does me in. I gag, and fail to make it to the window before I lose the contents of my stomach, vomiting all over the carpet as I double over, weapon still in my hand.
The bedroom door flies open, cracking into the wall as it hits. I straighten up, turning to face the cavalry as they come to a sudden halt upon seeing the mess I’ve made of Gunter. Taylor shakes his head, turning from the room with a disgusted look. Easy’s cheeks balloon as he tries to suppress the urge to do exactly what I just have. Eddie, however, is happily smooshing little pieces of Gunter into the tread of his shoes as he strides toward where I stand.
I lift the gun, placing my finger on the trigger again as I point it directly between his eyes. This time I’m not so unprepared. This time I’m ready for the kickback. Eddie lashes out, attempting to knock the gun from my hold, and I fire, the shot going astray as Eddie’s hand connects with the barrel. He takes the hit to the shoulder, and re-align the gun. I have him in my sight; his face twisting in agony is the perfect image to take him out on.
But I never manage to fire the shot. My right breast burns with an indescribable fire, spreading toward my shoulder and down to my ribs as I crumple to the floor, dropping the weapon. Taylor’s re-entered the room, and he’s armed, too.
Eddie pushes off the floor where he’s bent down on one knee, and lunges the short distance between us. His meaty hands lock on to my throat, and I suck in as much air as I can manage before his hold locks me off. Eddie’s jaw clenches, his eyes crazed and focused as he quite literally chokes the life from me.
“You won’t die yet,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’ll pass out, and while you’re asleep, my sweet little princess, I’m going to ’ave some fun with that tidy body of yours. But don’t worry, you won’t miss out.” His thumbs press harder, and black spots invade the edges of my vision as I grapple at his wrists. “No, I’m goin’ to make sure you get to experience the best part. I’ll ’ave Taylor here bring you back around, right as I start carvin’ you up from the inside out.”
My mother always told me when I was young that every situation is what you make of it. You can either choose to cry about it and quit, or you can suck it up and press on, leaving the moment behind to focus on what’s most important.