Down and Out(32)

I don’t think I could ever get tired of making her come.
She pauses and turns back to face me. “Yeah?”
“Should we talk about what happened last night?”
Her eyes drop as she sticks her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
My eyes hit the floor and I nod slowly. “Okay. If that’s how you want it.”
I make my way to the back exit, feeling a heavy weight settle on my chest. I shouldn’t be surprised that this is how she wants to play it. She said herself that she doesn’t do relationships. Neither do I, really.
Then why am I so bummed?
The thought distracts me as I step outside into the slightly cool evening. It distracts me from the footsteps on the pavement behind me and the whispered voices. It distracts me until someone shouts my name.
I turn and see three guys, one of whom has a baseball bat. I barely have time to register the situation before he’s swinging the bat and it’s hitting my stomach.
Pain erupts at the point of impact, gushing hot and fast as my breath is ripped from my lungs. Unprepared for such a blow, my body crumples to the ground. Punches and kicks rain on me. I curl up into the fetal position on the pavement, trying to protect my face and head as much as possible.
The bat connects with my hip and I cry out, breaking my position as my back arches. Flailing kicks land along my side, then one wrenches my head in the opposite direction and that’s when things get fuzzy.
I hear the guys talking above me, saying things like, “That’s enough, man, we’re not supposed to kill him,” and “Wait, we’re supposed to make it look like a mugging—get his wallet,” but they sound so far away. If I wasn’t lying on my side and looking at their blurry feet, I’d think I imagined the whole conversation in my pain-induced delirium.
A siren wails not too far off and one of them says, “Fuck the wallet, let’s get out of here. We did our job.” The sounds of their running feet and slamming car doors are drowned out by the approaching siren.
I grimace, pressing my palm into the gravel as I lie on my side. Sweat and blood coat my skin as coppery liquid fills my mouth. I spit it out, half-expecting a tooth or two to come with it, but there aren’t any.
Everything hurts, and I have no choice but to lie here and feel every agonizing second. Endorphins usually stave off the pain during a fight, but this wasn’t a fight, this was a message. I’m just thankful I was the only recipient and that Savannah’s still safely inside.







It took me less than 72 hours within meeting Declan Whitmore to break my two month long “look, don’t touch” policy. If I wasn’t so disappointed with myself, I’d actually be sort of proud. That’s probably the longest I’ve ever gone before letting someone get into my pants. And I was sober, too.
Yay, for me! I’m only “kind of” a whore now.
My eyes close as I hang my head in shame.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t regret it—at least not like I normally would. I don’t feel dirty or worse than before, but it still shouldn’t have happened.
Declan’s my boss. I’m staying with him. If this continues, I’ll end up unemployed and out on my ass when things end, and they will end. They always do. I can’t afford to be impulsive with him and any way I look at it, a sexual relationship spells disaster.
End of story.
Sighing, I set aside the last folded towel. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to let this happen. What the hell was I thinking?
I just wish it hadn’t been so good. Then I could at least tell myself I’m not missing anything special when he gives me that searing, weak-in-the-vag look that screams, “Any time you want it, it’s yours.”
But nope. It was exactly as mind-blowing and earth-shattering as I’d anticipated. And now, every time I see him, I know exactly what I’m missing: the chance to meet God.
After turning out the lights and grabbing my keys from the office, I head out the back door, pausing to make sure it self-locked when it closed, like Declan showed me. Satisfied, I turn around to head upstairs, but halt when I see a crumpled body at the foot of the concrete steps.
My stomach drops to my knees. I clutch my keys in my hand as I look around the deserted parking lot. Is this some drunk or druggie who’d just passed out in the wrong place or . . . worse?
I bite my lip, my heart thrumming in my chest as I grip the longest key like a knife. His back is to me, and I can’t make out much in the piss-poor lighting from the lone lamplight on the street. “Are you okay?”
He groans and shifts. In the dim light, I catch sight of the markings on his arms that I’d recognize anywhere.
“Declan.”
His name leaves me on a breath and I run over to him, dropping to my knees as panic races through me. “Oh my god.” He’s been severely beaten and his blood litters his clothes.
My frantic hands don’t know where to touch him. Any place I try, he groans.
His breathing’s strained and wheezy. He winces, and the movement tears open the cut on his bottom lip that looks like it was trying to clot.
Jesus, how long has he been out here like this?
Guilt weighs heavily on me for taking so long to come out, and I fight to breathe as I push it away. It’s not my fault. I didn’t know.
“Don’t move.” I pat his pockets, praying whoever did this hasn’t robbed him of his phone. The one time I leave mine upstairs. . .
I sob in relief when I feel the thin rectangle through his jeans and pull it out. The screen’s cracked but still usable. My blood-smeared fingers fumble with accessing the phone app. His list of missed calls pops up, and my heart squeezes when I read “Kitten” near the top. I back out of that and dial 911, the numbers blurring as I absently feel hot tears roll down my cheeks.