brain with white noise and the senseless.
He pressed his finger to my lips, amused. “Since you speak in monetary amounts, how much do you need to feel comfortable with our arrangement?” He removed his finger from my mouth and waited for an answer.
My eyes widened in alert, and I couldn’t contain my shock. I pressed my lips together, sealing my mouth.
“Speak freely.”
“What’s your game, Catch? This isn’t Pretty Woman .”
“I’m not even close to an Edward Lewis, and we both know you’re no Vivian. If you think you won’t fall in love with me, you’re wrong. You won’t be able to help yourself.
"Give me time with you, and then when you’re safe, I’ll give the future—whatever it may be—of your dreams.”
If I said yes, I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d be fucked in a way I wouldn’t necessarily like. It could’ve been argued my life was fucked now, but there were worse fates.
“Do you want to be my pimp?” I questioned. “I think you saw with Temple how I feel about pimps.”
“The bruises on your body tell me how he felt about it, and soon he’s going to know exactly how I feel about what he’s done to you.” He slipped his hand underneath my head, grasping a good amount of hair. He lifted my head up and turned it toward him. “Name your price.”
I sat up on my elbows, pulling myself close enough to him to feel the temperature of his exhale on my face. “What if I wanted a million dollars?”
“Aim higher, Sugar.”
Was he kidding me? “Are you fucking crazy? Girls like me come a dime a dozen. You can pick any woman from the street and get the same thing. Why are you singling me out?”
He closed his eyes for a moment and the modicum of a human I saw in him disappeared in front of my eyes. “You’re wrong.” He slid off the bed, rearranging my towel to cover me up as he did. “The dime a dozen women would be more open to what I’m offering.” With his back to me, I became mesmerized. The tattoo extended along his back. A larger than life raven whose wings appeared to be part of the scene of the cold dark forest on his chest took up the entirety of his back.
He redressed so quickly, it took less than a few blinks.
The jacket belonging to Catch was left draped over the back of the chair at the writing desk. “The suite is yours for the night,” he said on his way to the exit.
-5-
M R . & M RS .
Thud!
Unable to decipher if I was dreaming, and not able to immediately place my surroundings, I groggily slipped out of bed, tumbling on my own steps. The time on the alarm clock nestled on the bedside table blared an hour and thirty minutes into the beginning of Sunday.
The thumping at the door reverberated inside the room. “Housekeeping,” a woman’s voice called out sweetly from the other side of the door.
Pulling on my shirt—turned stiff and rigid after a hand-washing last night—and faux leather pants previously washed down with a rag, I staggered toward the door. I looked through the peephole. Only a woman’s face, pressed too closely to the door, was visible.
“I’m fine. I don’t need any towels,” I shouted through the door at her.
“The mister who booked the suite ordered breakfast for you.”
Since she failed to mention Catch’s name and it was an odd time for breakfast, I turned around, ready to slide back into bed. The soft beep of the door’s digitally triggered lock resounded. The door swung open, as much as the metal safety lock would allow.
A large metal cutter slid through the door, snapping the metal in half. It sharply swayed back the instant I tried to run, hitting me in the back of my head, leaving me disoriented. My hair was grabbed before I regained my bearings, and I was dragged to the bed.
The bed groaned, the springs rebelled and bounced my body around. The bodies of at least four men weighed on me. A bitter tasting cloth was stuffed inside my mouth.
“I followed you and that crazy fucking
He pressed his finger to my lips, amused. “Since you speak in monetary amounts, how much do you need to feel comfortable with our arrangement?” He removed his finger from my mouth and waited for an answer.
My eyes widened in alert, and I couldn’t contain my shock. I pressed my lips together, sealing my mouth.
“Speak freely.”
“What’s your game, Catch? This isn’t Pretty Woman .”
“I’m not even close to an Edward Lewis, and we both know you’re no Vivian. If you think you won’t fall in love with me, you’re wrong. You won’t be able to help yourself.
"Give me time with you, and then when you’re safe, I’ll give the future—whatever it may be—of your dreams.”
If I said yes, I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d be fucked in a way I wouldn’t necessarily like. It could’ve been argued my life was fucked now, but there were worse fates.
“Do you want to be my pimp?” I questioned. “I think you saw with Temple how I feel about pimps.”
“The bruises on your body tell me how he felt about it, and soon he’s going to know exactly how I feel about what he’s done to you.” He slipped his hand underneath my head, grasping a good amount of hair. He lifted my head up and turned it toward him. “Name your price.”
I sat up on my elbows, pulling myself close enough to him to feel the temperature of his exhale on my face. “What if I wanted a million dollars?”
“Aim higher, Sugar.”
Was he kidding me? “Are you fucking crazy? Girls like me come a dime a dozen. You can pick any woman from the street and get the same thing. Why are you singling me out?”
He closed his eyes for a moment and the modicum of a human I saw in him disappeared in front of my eyes. “You’re wrong.” He slid off the bed, rearranging my towel to cover me up as he did. “The dime a dozen women would be more open to what I’m offering.” With his back to me, I became mesmerized. The tattoo extended along his back. A larger than life raven whose wings appeared to be part of the scene of the cold dark forest on his chest took up the entirety of his back.
He redressed so quickly, it took less than a few blinks.
The jacket belonging to Catch was left draped over the back of the chair at the writing desk. “The suite is yours for the night,” he said on his way to the exit.
-5-
M R . & M RS .
Thud!
Unable to decipher if I was dreaming, and not able to immediately place my surroundings, I groggily slipped out of bed, tumbling on my own steps. The time on the alarm clock nestled on the bedside table blared an hour and thirty minutes into the beginning of Sunday.
The thumping at the door reverberated inside the room. “Housekeeping,” a woman’s voice called out sweetly from the other side of the door.
Pulling on my shirt—turned stiff and rigid after a hand-washing last night—and faux leather pants previously washed down with a rag, I staggered toward the door. I looked through the peephole. Only a woman’s face, pressed too closely to the door, was visible.
“I’m fine. I don’t need any towels,” I shouted through the door at her.
“The mister who booked the suite ordered breakfast for you.”
Since she failed to mention Catch’s name and it was an odd time for breakfast, I turned around, ready to slide back into bed. The soft beep of the door’s digitally triggered lock resounded. The door swung open, as much as the metal safety lock would allow.
A large metal cutter slid through the door, snapping the metal in half. It sharply swayed back the instant I tried to run, hitting me in the back of my head, leaving me disoriented. My hair was grabbed before I regained my bearings, and I was dragged to the bed.
The bed groaned, the springs rebelled and bounced my body around. The bodies of at least four men weighed on me. A bitter tasting cloth was stuffed inside my mouth.
“I followed you and that crazy fucking
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