Never Love An Outlaw (Deadly Pistols MC #1)(19)
I lingered in the shower as long as I could, until I heard his fist pounding on the door. I mouthed something angry and flippant back. I didn't care anymore.
Maybe I could finally give the pimp a few barbs before he shipped me away.
He wouldn't hurt me now. Not seriously. I couldn't show up at the new man's place beat up and bruised.
I toweled myself off and slipped into a cheap white skirt and tank top. The skirt was slightly better than the crap he normally gave us to wear. Too bad the color made me think about the elegant summer dress decaying in my closet, the thing I'd have to leave behind today forever, the last piece of my old, happy life.
“Your purse is on the bed, Fresh. Pack your shit up. I threw in a bag of pretzels to hold you over. Sounds like it's gonna be a long ride to Charlotte for you, but you'll have friends to keep you company.”
Pushing past him, I dug into my purse, ripped the shitty snack bag out, and threw it on the floor at his feet.
“I don't want your f*cking sympathy, Ricky. You know what the best part about today is? I'll never have to see you or your crusty, yellow balls again.”
For a second, he stared at the bag, his eyes bulging. I watched him lift a boot and slam it down, crunching everything to smithereens.
He pointed a shaking finger at me. “Don't get smart with me, you vicious cunt!”
“Why? Are you going to beat me up again? Maybe shove your puny cock down my throat?” I started shaking as I said the words, but they felt so good, so empowering, even if I was risking the idiot flying into a fit of range and blowing his deal just to hurt me.
I had to fight. I had to distract him. I eyed my nightstand, and knew I couldn't walk out of here without taking the only thing anyone had given me that ever mattered – even if it couldn't save me anymore.
“You think you're pretty smart, don't you, girl?” He stepped forward and chuckled. I could smell the stink of whiskey on his breath, probably an early celebration over the sale. “The bastard who bought you is a friend to the Deads, and he's a pretty sick, rich motherf*cker from everything I hear. Give it a couple weeks. You'll wish to high heaven you were dealing with me again. I really treated you nice, Megan. The least you could give me is a sweet goodbye.”
Hearing my real name on his lips made me cringe.
The demon eyed my breasts, the cleavage peaking out of my tank top. I couldn't control it.
I lunged forward and spat in his face. He stood there, stunned, before slowly raising a hand and wiping away the mist I'd spattered over his nose and eyes.
“You're goddamned lucky you're down to your last hour here,” he growled. “I'll let you throw a f*cking tantrum and leave you to settle the hell down for a couple minutes. I'm Mister Nice guy compared to what your new owner's gonna do.”
He kept saying that, and I didn't care. Not one bit.
“Oh, and don't try any of this shit on the boys I hired to transport you. They won't take kindly to it like I will.”
I slumped on the bed and watched him step out, slamming the door behind him. Thank God.
The second I was by myself, I ripped the drawer open and gathered up the trinkets inside. Some lipstick, a small mirror, a half empty packet of birth control pills.
I'd gotten it by trading the loose change Ricky sometimes missed to the other whores for a steady supply. I took them religiously, my only defense to make sure I'd be protected from some monster's kid if Ricky ever went back on his word about blowjobs only, or if he couldn't control one of the Johns.
I picked up Skin's ring and held it up for a moment, admiring the heavy, elegantly engraved metal. I knew it was hopeless, but it didn't feel that way when I held it.
The ring took me away from this. It gave me faith, hope, an alternative to the new impending doom breathing down my throat.
My mind went to stupid places. I couldn't stop thinking that maybe somehow, someway, he'd find me again. The ring would draw him like something out of a fairy tale, and I'd never be alone forever, just as long as I held onto this precious thing he'd given me for comfort. I'd give it back to him one day, just like I promised, and he'd give me a second chance.
I slipped it onto my finger. Way too big. But it didn't matter, I clasped it to my chest anyway, remembering the unmistakable touch of the only man who'd treated me kindly since I'd shown up here.
With a sigh, I pulled it off and stuffed it into my purse, shoving it in a little side compartment where I hoped nobody would find it.
Maybe my new owner would be as sloppy as Ricky, especially when he let his lust or rage take over. I'd learned a thing or two about working men over when I could, but I hadn't figured out how to use my charms to buy my freedom.
Someday, I promised myself. I zoned out for what must've been a half hour, clutching my purse when the door burst open.
Ricky walked in with three huge men behind him. I'd seen them before, a trio of dark-eyed, evil-looking bastards who'd visited the whorehouse before, all of them wearing Deadhands MC cuts.
Big Vic wasn't with them, the only saving grace.
“Careful now, boys,” Ricky said nervously. “Please don't rough her up. Big Vic doesn't get his cut if you hand her over bruised, and the guy on the other end notices. He was very specific about wanting undamaged goods, if ya'll know what I mean. I told her not to get smart with you.”