by Sadie Grubor
"How did you become a dead girl?"
Folding his arms over his chest, I watch the way he tucks the blade so it doesn't cut him. It's practiced, like he does it all the time.
My mind flashes back to that night and my terrible sin.
Every time I'm left alone with Winter to work the neighborhood, I'm scared—terrified I'll be forced to repeat what happened to me months before. To say the night I lost my innocence ended with the single encounter would be a lie. There was another more brutal encounter.
"Watch where you're fucking going," Winter scolds, pulling me away from a taped and poorly fenced-off open manhole. "And stop thinking about it," she demands with a roll of her eyes.
"I'm not," I lie.
"Bullshit, you have that look on your face again." She sighs, taking me by the shoulders to face her. "The trick is to forget about it, block it out. It gets easier," she reassures.
I didn't tell her everything about that night. Embarrassment and shame wouldn't allow me to confess all the sordid and evil things that happened to me, what I enjoyed, and what was forced upon me. But Winter had seen the bruises, blood, and emotional damage when she found me curled against a dumpster on the street near Peter's apartment.
"Hey," the sound of a male voice makes me shudder.
Winter turns toward him, and responds, hesitant. "Yeah?"
She's feeling him out, making sure it's not a cop setting her up. Her lessons in selling yourself started the very next day after I returned to the abandoned apartment building we called home.
"How much?" he asks, looking up and down her body.
"I'm not selling anything," she lies.
She dragged us out into the cold night for this very reason. We needed the money and she was prepared to get it by any means.
When I asked about the large sum of money we, or I, just earned, she slapped me for my act of defiance. Though, I later found the needles she'd been hiding inside her boot, answering that question. Apparently, you can't always forget some things. Sometimes you need chemically enhanced escapes.
The man moves into her personal space. When he catches sight of me, he grins.
"How much for both of you?" He rubs his chin. "I have a friend with me."
Winter looks over her shoulder at me. I shake my head and take a step back. Rolling her eyes, again, she turns back to respond to him.
Before she can get more than a "She" out of her mouth, two men emerge from the shadows and grab her.
Frozen in terror, I watch them drag her into an alley.
"Run," she screams, snapping me into action, but the guy who approached latches his hand to my arm.
Leaning down, I bite his hand until I taste blood. He shouts in pain, releasing me, and I run. I run and run and run.
Squeezing between two dumpsters in an alley, I hide in the filth and darkness. My heart pounds in my ears, making it impossible to hear if someone chased after me. Tears streaming over my cheeks, I hold my head in my hand and rock.
When I finally find the courage to peek out from my hiding spot, my body is stiff and protesting the movement. Unsure how long I've been there, I glance around the corner of the brick building, finding no one.
Turning, I prepare to head home, hoping Winter will be there waiting and ready to yell at me for disappearing. But something won't let me.
Sticking to the shadows, I retrace my steps until I reach the place I last saw Winter. The moment I hear laughter, I take cover in a boarded-up doorway and crouch low.
"Fuck, man, next time I'll find the girl," a deep voice says, and the click of a lighter cuts through the air.
"Shut up, asshole, she's the best piece you've had," another responds with a laugh.
"I can tell you her ass was tight as fuck," a third man praises, earning humored agreement from the others.
"Greg," a new voice shouts.
"Can't keep it up, Jare," he taunts in response.
"She ain't fucking breathing," the panic in his voice makes my stomach knot.
"What the fuck are you going on about?" Footsteps follow the question.
"Fuck," he shouts. "She ain't breathing!"
"What the fuck do we do?"
Their voices blend together as one, panic, yelling, and then heavy footfalls. I don't even flinch when they run by me, too lost in the words they spoke.
Slipping out from the doorway, uncaring if they turn and see me, I enter the alley where she was taken.
Winter's naked body is sprawled out on a large piece of cardboard. Bruises cover her hips, thighs, and chest. There's blood smeared on her mouth, chin, and cheek. Her head lays at an awkward angle.
Kneeling, I reach out and poke her shoulder.
"Winter?" I whisper.
No answer.
"Winter," I say louder.
No answer.
With both hands, I shove her body, and scream, "Winter!"
Tears escape my eyes, soaking my face and dripping from my chin. Leaning forward, I press my head to her arm and sob.
After what feels like an entire night, I collect her discarded and torn clothes. Her pants, still caught on one ankle, are covered in grease, grime, and dirt. Gripping the waist of them, my hand encounters something in her pocket and I pull out a canvas wallet.
The tear of the Velcro sounds like a scream in the quiet alley, making me look around to see if anyone else heard it. Inside, I find a couple hundred dollars and her ID.
Meissa L. Winters.
I don't know where the idea comes from, but it comes just the same. Biting my lip, I glance between the wallet and Winter's lifeless body.
One word floats in my mind.
Freedom.
"Silence isn't going to work this time," Saint's voice causes me to start. Swallowing the tears lodged in my throat, I tell him something no one else knows.
Eyes unfocused, I confess my greatest sin, "I killed her."
My admission feels like a piece of my armor; my mask has been torn away. It's freeing and terrifying at the same time. The dark urges start to crawl through me, until I bury them beneath the guilt.
"You killed her?"
I should've known better than to expect shock or disgust from a man like him, but the nonchalance in his question still surprises me.
Nodding, I lick my bottom lip and explain how I found her.
"Then you didn't kill her, those assholes did," he grounds out.
Shaking my head, I argue, "No, you don't know the rest."
Before he can interrupt, I explain, "I collected all her things and tossed them into the manhole, except the wallet and her jacket." I turn my eyes to his. "Then I went back for Winter."
Bringing both hands in front of me, I glance down at them.
"With my bare hands, I dragged her body by the arms to the street," I choke on the last word and take a deep breath. "I'd already had it all planned out in my head. I didn't know how or where, but I would become her. I'd be old enough to work, get an apartment…" I let the words die off before my next admission. "And then, she moaned."
This time, I can't keep the tears at bay. A sob wracks my chest.
"She wasn't dead. Small tremors began shaking her body, but instead of taking her to get help or bringing help to her…" I move my water-filled eyes back to his face, wanting, needing, to look him in the eye, "I shoved her head first into the manhole."
A humorless laugh escapes between the sobs. "Sometimes I can still hear the cracking of her skull against the metal rungs and the crunch of her body to the wet cement below the street."
The room grows so silent as my crying subsides, and I wipe the tears from my face.
"Then, you became her." It's not a question, but I nod anyway.
His eyes search my face and I notice the room has brightened by the rising sun.
"What time is it?" I ask.
"Early," is his response. "How old are you?"
Another humorless laugh escapes me and I shrug.
"Now it matters?" Answering his question w
ith one of my own earns me a deep scowl, but he lets it go–for now, anyway.
"You go to that salon to keep up the appearance." Again, not a question, and I stiffen, realization drying up my emotional outburst.
"You followed me?"
"Is the gym to maintain your body for work?" This time, he's inquiring.
"How long did you follow me?" I press, moving to my knees.
Did he draw attention to me? Is he the reason that doll reentered my life?
"Explain the gym," he demands, trying to piece together whatever information he has about me.
"Explain following me," I growl.
Dropping his arms from his chest, he tosses his knife into the chair behind him.
"You aren't exactly in a position to ask me anything," he says through clenched teeth. "Tell me who the fuck you are."
Defiance surges into every muscle, and I launch from the bed, run for the bathroom. Before I reach the door, his arm wraps around my waist.
"Let go," I shout, anger rushing through my veins.
"There's nowhere else for you to go," he says in my ear.
One arm at my waist and the other over my chest, he restrains me, and I struggle against him.
"Tell me who you hide from," the plea in his voice stills me. "Tell me everything and I can set you free of them." His face buries into the back of head.
"You think you can free me?" The anger in my question tenses his embrace.
Before I can deliver the verbal assault lingering on the tip of my tongue, I'm turned and pinned to the wall by his body. His hand caresses my face, tracing my jaw.
"You aren't free," he says, his rumbled words accented by the grip of my chin.
Our eyes clash and the mix of emotion in his puts every hair on end. Grasping his wrist with one hand and pressing my other to his chest, I try to look away, but he doesn't allow it.
"You will never be free," he pauses, bringing his face closer to mine, "of me."
The words, his promise, should terrify me, but they don't, and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the way he's chipping away at my façade. Maybe it's that he's glimpsed the dark urges, the evil, inside me, and still desires more. No, he commands more.
His grip eases enough for him to slide the pad of his thumb over my lips, and I wince when he reaches the sensitive spot. Dipping his head, and licks the swollen area, and my body reacts the opposite way it should. The pain dissolves into a flurry of desperation. The need for him to conquer and consume me stirs the urges back to life.
"Tell me," he demands against my mouth.
Needy and frustrated, I blurt, "I'm a dead girl."
Saint
Standing at the end of the bed, pants pulled on but not fastened, I take in every mark. A good and decent man wouldn't see the swollen lips, purple marks from my mouth, and reddened skin—the evidence of my touch on her body—and feel like I do.
Sure, most would be lying if they denied the primitive desire to own someone completely. The difference between them and me is I'm doing it, but there's so much more to it than even I expected.
I didn't anticipate the protector to emerge with the possessor, or the submission accompanying my dominance. I want to own her, yet free her. Need her to submit to me, yet challenge everything. And fuck if I don't crave her devotion as much as I want to give mine. This little dead girl passed out on the bed has twisted everything.
Having committed every word she spoke to memory, I play it on repeat in my head. I know there's more, so much more. Rubbing a hand over my face, I turn from the bed, collect my things, and leave the room.
Instead of going up to the master bedroom, I find myself on the first floor of the penthouse making a drink at the bar.
I feel his presence before he speaks.
"Christ," he exclaims.
The sting I felt on my back since I climbed off the bed confirms the scratches she left on me. Turning around and seeing the look on Sketch's face tells me she clawed me up good. A surge of satisfaction straightens my spine.
"Are you fucking smiling?" he asks, his question full of disbelief.
Until he asked, I hadn't realized the corners of my mouth had curled.
"I guess I am," I state, erasing any amusement from my face.
"Did you at least get a name?" he presses, leaning against the doorway.
"No."
He shakes his head.
"But she did explain how she became Meissa Winters," I share before draining the remaining vodka from my glass.
Sketch perks up, straightening to his full height.
"How?"
"You'll know what I want you to," I growl, and the surprise on his face matches the way I feel. Telling him would help his search for answers—a search I put him on—but I don't want to share anything about my little dead girl. Not when her death has just begun. I've already torn away a piece of the life she's been living, and while I want answers, I'm also enjoying the slow death of Meissa Winters.
Instead of sharing further, I switch the subject.
"She'll accompany me tonight," I say, setting my glass on the bar.
"To the club?"
"Yes," I confirm.
Bringing her to the party tonight would be a statement, making it known she belongs to me. And given this celebration is for Felix's younger brother, and my cousin, it could definitely escalate hostilities between us.
"What about Felix?" Sketch apparently carries similar concerns.
"Angelo's made a deal," I explain, and his brow rise high on his forehead. "He wants more information about the accidents."
Reaching into the pocket of the jacket draped over my arm, I take out a flash drive and toss it to him without giving any more details. Sketch is very much aware of the men being taken out, the carvings into their flesh, and all the other details I'd left out during my talk with Angelo. Like his assumption that it's a man or one person may be completely wrong.
He may be family, my boss, and the leader of this organization, but he's led me around for far too long. Used me in ways a man shouldn't ask of a boy. And I had been just a boy the day he used my loyalty to deceive and manipulate in the worst way.
I could respect the deceit and manipulations. In fact, I did for the longest time, until I discovered just a few of his traitorous acts. The biggest being my parents were not the disloyal conspirators he'd made me believe. No, he used me to clean up a mess he created and to hide the devious acts coming back to haunt him.
"You know you can't trust him," Sketch interrupts my dark thoughts.
"Felix?" I ask.
"Angelo," he clarifies. "Even I don't know how deep his shit goes."
I know it pisses him off not being able to get all the details and dirt on Angelo, in the same way his dead ends with Mei's past are pushing him to the breaking point. Especially with her shoving the fact in his face. I'm sure if I hadn't interrupted them late yesterday evening, I would've found her tied to a chair with a gun to her head. Fuck, he may have even gotten chemically creative and used drugs to make her talk.
"You sure about this? I can keep an eye on the little doll," he offers, nodding to the stairs.
"She's with me," I state, pushing away from the bar and moving to the stairs.
"Be careful, Saint." His warning stops me. "You don't know a fucking thing about this girl. I wouldn't get too invested."
Keeping my back to him, I take the first, then second step. "It doesn't matter who she is," I confess. "She belongs to me now."
"Fucking hell," he swears on a loud exhale.
Mei
Saint didn't return, not later in the morning or this afternoon. He's had food sent up twice, though, as well as more of my things.
It's both a blessing and torture. I need distance and time to rebuild the walls he's tearing away, but the smell left behind on the bed and my skin drives me to distraction.
Taking my things into the bathroom, I lock the door, then remove my contacts before stepping into the glass shower. The warm water cascades over
my skin, easing my muscle aches. My raw nipples take a bit longer to adapt, and I refrain from directly washing them.
Standing beneath the spray, I give myself a moment to regroup.
"What color are you hiding?"
The surprise of his question pulls a scream from me. Spinning, I press against the tile wall and clutch a hand to my chest.
Damn it! I'd been so lost in my own head, I didn't hear him enter. I keep making stupid mistakes with this man.
His dark figure approaches the foggy glass, filling the door with his shadowing outline. He yanks open the door, and his eyes meet mine.
"Blue," he rumbles, glancing down at the white contact case in his palm.
Realizing my other mistake, I close my eyes. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Hands slip around my arms, pulling me away from the tile and out of the shower. Lifting me at the waist, my wet, bare ass is planted on the double sink vanity.
"Open them," his words warm against my chilled skin.
"Give them back to me," I counter.
He clasps my chin.
"Open," he orders.
Blinking, I do as he instructs. Hazel eyes bore into mine, searching, probing, as if he can see my soul.
"Blue is better," he states, releasing my chin.
Stepping back, he purposely pockets the contact case.
"Do you have extras?" he inquires, and I begin to shake my head, but glance at my bag.
He raises a brow.
"Yes," I answer through clenched teeth.
Grinning, he reaches into my bag and takes out my last extra set, pocketing those too.
"What color is your hair?"
"Blonde," I respond, knowing he's asking for the real color, but not wanting to give it to him.
The right side of his mouth turns up and he closes in on me. Fisting my hair, he brings his mouth to the curve of my neck.
"What is your real hair color?" he asks, flicking his tongue against my skin.
The chill instantly leaves my body.
"Pink," I whisper.
His fist tightens and hips press between my naked thighs until he is flush against me. The feel of him hard and ready beneath the cotton of his pants makes my thighs tense and clit throb.
"If I were a patient man," his hand moves from above my ass and slips to my inner thigh, his thumb brushing over my bare pussy, "I'd wait to see what grows out, but I'm not."