Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(72)

“Then we’ll throw her off the damn roof,” said Victor sullenly. “I don’t care. But no one ever taught this bitch how to keep her mouth shut, so I will.”

“We have to get out of here.”

“You didn’t let me play with the last one. This time I want to have my fun.” Victor’s tone was determined. His mouth pursed. Under different circumstances it would have been funny. Like a parent arguing with a petulant child over whether they had time to stop at a toy store before going home.

Only the child was a six-foot-four sociopath.

And I was the toy store.

That made it less funny.

“Fine,” Joseph acquiesced. “But hurry.” He gave a grunt of satisfaction as he found a second vein. Brandon’s body stiffened and his eyelids fluttered. He was completely unconscious. I watched his chest as it moved almost imperceptibly up and down.

Victor put his knife back in his pocket and grabbed me. “Come on, bitch. This is as close as you’ll ever get to your wedding night.” He dragged me toward the bedroom door, my feet stumbling to keep up. As we got into the bedroom he shoved me. He was freakishly strong. Hands still taped in front of me, I lurched across the room and banged into the wall. From the light of the closet bulb I could see him pulling his jacket off, revealing a shoulder holster. The butt of a gun stuck temptingly out.

He headed my way. “Let’s see what you have under those jeans.”

I aimed a hard kick at his groin. I didn’t think Victor was the father type, but I was doing my best to make sure of it. If the kick had landed, what was under my jeans would have been the last thing on his mind. But for a big man he was surprisingly fast. He shifted his weight and brought up a knee, turning so my boot glanced off his thigh.

He licked his lips and sneered. “Cheap shot.”

He grabbed me again and I kicked him as hard as I could, this time connecting with the shin. With my hands taped together I couldn’t do much more. He grunted in pain and hit me on the temple with a chopping downward blow. I rolled my head away but the force still knocked me backward and filled my eyes with slowly blinking sparks. I got in another kick and in response he slapped me hard across the face. The room spun crazily. I tasted blood. The sparks danced faster.

He got hold of me and then I was on the bed under him. A rough hand tore open the front of my blouse, the other fumbling at my jeans. I tried to kick but he shifted his weight onto my hips, sitting over me. My legs churned uselessly. His eyes were excited as one hand pulled the front of my jeans so hard I felt the button tear off. I was too full of adrenaline to feel sick at what was happening.

“Fight back,” Victor said. “I want you to. It’s more exciting that way.”

He used his left hand to pin my bound wrists above my head. I struggled to free my arms, but with his strength and vantage he didn’t even have to really try. His right hand went to his own pants. I heard the zipper of his fly. A zipper. Such a normal sound. Now, here, the worst sound. I wondered how many women before me had felt Victor’s weight crushing down, heard that sound, thought those thoughts.

He smiled as he undid his belt one-handed. “Bet you wish you hadn’t talked so much.”

I said nothing. He was taunting me, trying to get me to struggle. There was no point in expending needless energy. Still easily pressing my arms down against the bed with his left hand, he leaned forward and stroked the fingers of his right hand tenderly against my cheek. I felt his fingers brush slowly down my face. Somehow that was a far worse feeling than any of his blows. I swallowed hard and forced myself to stay quiet as the fingers gently traced their way along the underside of my chin, my throat. I felt them on my lips and involuntarily tried to bite him. He jerked his hand away, laughed, slapped me hard with his right hand.

“That’s not so nice on a first date.” He seemed almost relaxed as he undid his pants, sitting forward slightly, his legs folded under him, eyes narrowed in excitement. His right hand went again to my unbuttoned jeans, first one hip, then the other, tugging them down. I bucked my hips hard but it was a losing battle. Victor had to weigh close to double what I did. With my arms pinned above me there was nothing I could do. We both knew it.

We were both startled by a loud jangle as my brother’s old Mickey Mouse alarm clock on the night table went off, to my right and Victor’s left. Victor’s head turned sharply and I felt his weight shift as he instinctively prepared to face this possible new threat. Almost as quickly, he identified the noise for what it was. He cursed, hesitating as he realized the clock was out of reach of his right hand, and I felt the pressure against my arms free as he leaned over and seized the clock with his left hand, hurling it against the wall. It broke apart into plastic shards as he reached back to re-pin my arms. He had correctly reasoned that even if I was able to hit him once or twice, lying pinned on my back, wrists bound, he had little cause for concern. Even the hardest puncher in the world couldn’t do much lying on his back, and Victor was too heavy for me to buck him off. The whole thing had taken him no more than a second.

A second was all that I needed.

In the moment that Victor’s hand left mine I swung my arms up. The light from the closet bulb glinting off the syringe clenched between my hands. I didn’t have the luxury of searching for the best spot. And I just had one chance. I played the odds and stuck the needle into the right side of Victor’s neck. There were all kinds of important veins there. The external jugular, the superficial cervical artery. The needle punctured his flesh as his hand flashed up to grab my wrists.