We stare each other down, menace and madness radiating from him in waves, his pupils shot from the drugs he keeps shoving up his fucking nose.
I shudder when his eyes drop down my body, appraising its worth.
He lunges forward, forcing me to take a step back. His fingers curl around my throat and he throws me against the back wall of his office, my head ricocheting off the plaster. “You fucking did something,” he threatens.
My palms hold his forearm, trying to crack at his strength as he keeps me pinned, crushing my windpipe. “Milo,” I choke out, a vibrating pulse throbbing through my skull.
“You must have done something,” he roars again, releasing my throat. Only to pull a knife from the sheath hanging on his belt.
“Milo…” I plead, my voice quavering. He’s never pulled a weapon on me before, and it’s terrifying knowing what he’s capable of.
The cold blade rests under my chin, tipping my head back. Tears bleed down my cheeks. “Take the dress off,” he grumbles.
No.
“Milo…” I sob.
“Stop saying my fucking name and do as you’re told,” he thunders, crowding in around me, pounding his fist against the wall beside my head. Plaster crumbles from the hole he made, dusting my shoulder in white powder. Curling his lip, he growls, “I won’t tell you again.” His spittle sprays my face as he presses the blade in further. I wince, desperate to get away, but I have no escape.
Swallowing the stone lodged in my throat, I take a breath before pushing the straps from my shoulders. The fabric slips down my body, catching on my hips.
“All the way, Willa.”
My fingertips travel the path of the material, aiding it over my curves until it pools at my feet. I can’t see through the tears cascading like waterfalls from my eyes.
His gaze assesses me, and my blood turns to tar, stodging in my veins. I’m dying. A black star in the night sky, the light already gone. I’m a shell.
The voice inside my head screams with broken lungs, “Wake the hell up, Milo. Look what you’ve become.” I need him to come to his senses. My body recoils with nowhere to go when his palm touches my chest and trails down my body, brushing my nipple, torso, hip, thigh.
This isn’t real.
He’s a demon trying to creep inside my skin. “Milo,” I choke on his name.
“You did do something,” he croaks, pained.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
“You turned into a woman.” He chuckles, shaking his head. Removing the knife from my chin, he places both hands on the wall, caging me in. Leaning down and resting his forehead against my chest, he lets out a long sigh.
“Damn. I’m so fucked up, Wil.” His voice is broken, almost childlike.
Every molecule of my being wants to flee, but without me, I’m not sure he would survive. I’m terrified he would rather kill me than ever let me run. My arms tremble as they rise to encase him. “It’s okay,” I assure him. “We’ll get through whatever it is together.”
Five
Gabe
Twenty-five years old
Stale beer and shit—that’s all I fucking smell in this hovel these street rats call a bar. Milo Hendrix is a wanna be gangsta who likes to think he’s some kind of big dog. He’s just a shitstain who lucked his way up the chain farther than he should have, and now he owes some money to people you don’t want to be due money to. Little fucker is going to learn playing gangsta and being one is miles apart. He’s in the big leagues now, and there’s no way he has what it takes to pull it off.
“This little bastard is blade happy, so watch yourselves,” a brother from Royal Bastards MC warns us before we step inside.
My best friend Jameson and I are hired muscle. We’re both out the army, six years in and one year inactive, with a year left inactive to wait out. Once that’s up, we’re hoping to prospect for the Royal Bastards, so we get to prove ourselves worthy of the fucking honor. The thrill of the road has always been something Jameson craves. A brotherhood is something we’re used to, and the Royal Bastards is a good fit for us.
A few patrons exit when they see us walk inside and head straight for the back room where this guy does his business. Apparently, he owns this place, and although it’s a shithole, it’s clout. If we have to, we’ll take it off his hands as a down payment.
“He’s got company, let me just…” some punk-ass fucker announces, trying to push past us to get to the door first. Jameson towers over him, giving him a quick nudge to get the fuck out of our way. The whole point of us showing up is to surprise this fucker. I push the handle down and waltz right on in.
He’s got his back to the door, his body pushed up against a naked woman. Her eyes clash with mine, terror gleaming from their depths. Damn, she’s a beauty. How the fuck did this loser get a girl like her? Through fear and dominance if her swollen eyes are anything to go by. I hate this prick a little more now.
Milo looks over his shoulder and turns, a blade already in his hand. What the fuck did we walk in on? His eyes blink rapidly as we move farther into the room, my senses on high alert, tracking his hand movements. His fingers twitch. He’s actually debating if he can take us. Fuck this. I move fast, grabbing his wrist, twisting until I hear a pop before he even registers what’s happening. The blade falls to the ground as he howls out in pain. I kick it across the room before grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket and shoving him into the chair behind his desk. My eyes flick back to the woman scavenging for her clothes. She pulls a dress up her body and tucks a curtain of dark curls behind her ear. Her cheeks are wet, eyes swollen with tears.
“Take a seat, darling,” I tell her, lifting my chin to an overturned chair.
She looks young, haunted.
“She doesn’t have to be here. Let her leave,” Milo spits through clenched teeth.
“I’ll decide who needs to be here, motherfucker,” Jimmy, the VP of the Royal Bastards growls. “You got something for us?”
“I need a few more days.”
Tsking, Jimmy moves around the table, sitting his ass on the lip just in front of Milo. “You think you can fuck us around?”
“No, no, it’s just someone fucked me over for money, so I’m short.”
“You will be short when my boys starting cut chunks outta you, starting with your feet,” Jimmy snarls.
This fucker doesn’t even flinch. He looks high on the product and spiraling. His eyes dart to the girl, then back to Jimmy, embarrassed she’s seeing this shit. He probably acts like he’s untouchable, the big bad wolf, a tormentor of all around him, and she’s witnessing how full of shit he is. The boogey man is nothing more than a weak, pathetic nobody.
“Can you just let her the fuck outta here? This shit is business she’s not part of.”
“This isn’t business, it’s a shitshow. You can’t be trusted to pay up what you fucking owe. The rate you’re going, you won’t make it past your twenties,” I scorn. He’s pathetic. Don’t get high on your supply—first rule of dealing. This motherfucker is using more than he’s selling.
“He won’t make it past the next ten minutes unless he tells us something we want to hear,” Jimmy interjects.