Sicko(82)

I turn to face James as he grips his large cock in his hand. “Show them how you suck cock.”

I wrapped my fingers around his length, fighting the bile that was rising up my throat. I didn’t want to do this. I knew I had to. My body and soul repulsed from him, yet I continued to pump. When I didn’t open my mouth on to his smooth skin, his hand comes to the back of my head and he directs me over the tip. Sticky salt stuck to my lips like glue, as I parted them, taking him wholly into my mouth.

Tears sprung to the back of my eyes. He had stolen all the firsts that I was supposed to give to someone I loved. Someone who made me feel the way Royce did, only not so forbidden. Every time he pumped into my mouth, the hole in my heart stretched wider and wider.

When he had finally finished, he spun me around and yanked my panties over my ass from behind. My eyes came up to the men who were in here. One standing now, his hand hidden under the waistband of his pants.

Another sitting, his legs wide while he rubbed his wobbly belly. His finger circled his button as his eyes turned heady. Another remained passive. Quiet in the corner but I could hear his grunts from here.

The last one was in the same position, his eyes hard on mine. It was Isaac, I noticed, and I don’t know if he realized it, but I could see the way his features paled. It looked as if he was going to be sick.

“She was a virgin and is still just fifteen. But don’t worry,” James says, dropping soft kisses down the nape of my neck. My stomach recoiled and spun like a tornado threatening to bring everything up from my belly. Don’t fucking touch me like that. “She has had her training, and the boy who trained her was excellent.”



My arms are weighted, eyes sticky. My hair falls in tangles down the sides of my shoulders, my muscles twitching every time I move my arms. I look down to the ground.

Drip.

Drip.

Blood is falling slowly, hitting the shiny black tiles. I try to lift my arm again to stop the whites of the lights blinding me. Everything is hazy.

I bring my hand up to my face, but it’s slow. Furnishings and people melt together to form indistinguishable shapes. There are four bartenders, but I think there’s only one. I shiver, my skin exposed to hungry eyes. I want to do something. Help. Yell. Find Sloane, but I can’t seem to move my limbs past standing up and swerving around like a limp Barbie. There’s a hunger deep in my belly, but I don’t know what for. The longer I’m awake, the more my head thumps, until I need to squeeze my eyes closed in order to talk myself down.

Finally, I manage to look at my arms, dots track the inside of my elbows, but that’s not where the blood is coming from. There’s a fresh cut that slices down from my elbow to my wrist. It looks bad.

I don’t care. I need something, anything to take away this headache, to make me feel good.

“This next girl is my fallen bunny. Some of you may recognize her,” James’ voice pulses through the speakers. “I am well aware how many of you have had your eyes on her over the years, so her starting bid is at five-hundred.”

A green light flicks in the corner as someone else bids.

“Five-oh-eight.” James’ throaty laughs boasts through the room.

My eyes close.

Drip.

Drip.

Pop! Loud shots sound out from behind me, but I can’t move my body. I see out the corner of my eye as everything in the room shifts drastically. People scatter, probably heading for the emergency exit.

I need something.

Colors blur together in obscurity, before the muscles in my legs turn numb and I’m falling, the ground getting closer and closer to my face. The pain in my head is excruciating now, like jagged claws stabbed into the mush of my brain. Bullets rain down over me as I roll onto my back. Yelling, fighting, and glass shatters, splintering through the air. I’m ready to die.

A shadow comes to the front of me as arms tuck beneath my body, lifting me from the ground. My head hangs over his arms. I’m unable to muster the strength I need to pull myself up.

A curtain is being pulled back as I’m carefully lowered to the sofa in a room.

The computer monitors.

The cigar now gone from the glass ashtray.

Another shadow is in front of me now, not the same one, and I bring my eyes up to find skinny arms, faded jeans, and a leather cut— “Slim?”

His eyes fall down to me, his brows turned in in worry. He kneels in front of me as I try to sit up from the sofa.

“No, Jade. Stay there. We need to stitch you up.”

I grasp on to the polished leather of his cut, his is nowhere near as worn as Royce’s, and pull him into me. “Where’s Royce? Something’s not right with me.”

His beady eyes fly to my arm. “He shot heroin into you. Just ride it out, okay?”

As the minutes pass, lucidity spreads awareness throughout my mind, and I slowly find myself being able to focus a little more. The headache is still there, but it’s not as bad. Now I’m starting to feel the sting on my arm, the open wound that I will need to dress.

Just as I finally push myself up into a sitting position, Wicked walks in carrying Sloane, his face turned in and animated. He’s angry. Feral.

Sloane’s blonde hair is muddy, her forehead bleeding. Instantly I shoot up from the couch, as if finding my second wind. “Sloane!”

Wicked lays her out on the sofa where I was, her face pale and unmoving. She’s wearing her panties and bra, white, where mine is black, just like our dresses. Her Valentinos are still clasped around her ankles.