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"Samuels." Was there any point to saying something like Why am I not surprised?
No. There was no time, either, because he rushed at me then, knocking the blade aside, tackling me down to the concrete. The air whooshed out of me. I couldn't get my legs up to push him off, couldn't get the blade turned in my hand, couldn't get his knees off my arms so I could move or breathe.
I couldn't breathe. Having the air knocked out is terrifying and he was kneeling on me and I couldn't breathe.
He smiled down at me, still slim, weasel-like, his eyes dark and his hair greasy. It all made sense now, the judges trying to shut down Cole not because he and his friends were having kinky fun but because he and his friends were raising funds to stop the sex trade, at least in our little area. He'd raised so much money for it and donated his own, Cole alone had to be responsible for a good number of rescues and probably the disappearances of key players.
Of all the stupid times to feel embarrassed, I realized probably Cole had done more good already than I'd even dreamed of with my tiny caper.
I never stopped struggling. I was still getting air, just shallow and unsatisfying mouthfuls. He was holding me down, grinning as he watched me struggle for every breath.
"Hurts, doesn't it? What if someone knelt – right – here –?" as he carefully placed his knee in the center of my breasts and a little down, right where the diaphragm needed to expand to allow me to breathe again.
I stabbed him in the leg. If my hand had been on the inside of his legs where they surrounded me, I probably wouldn't have been able to move it enough to inflict damage, but he had been straddling me and kneeling on my biceps and he'd moved the knee that had controlled the hand with the blade.
My dream was if I had gotten to the inside I'd have been able to slice open the major vein or artery or whatever it is located by the groin, the one that makes people bleed out in a couple minutes.
Because without something big happening I didn't have a couple more minutes. Damned if I was going to let Samuels rape me.
Made sense, I thought again, my head reeling as I shoved myself away from him, slashing the arm he put up to fend me off. He'd sold me to Cole St. Martin who had acted as if this was normal.
Probably was. He might do good in some instances, but Cole St. Martin was a sick puppy. Even if all he wanted was to secure my consensual non-consent by dangling the promise of my recovery from opiates at me, he’d still "bought" me.
He was getting ready to rush me again. I could see it in his eyes even as he covered his bleeding forearm with his other hand.
I scrambled up and backed away from him. He was grinning.
That was the only warning I had before I ran into the men standing behind me. Guns drawn.
Samuels stood and motioned at me. "Take off the t-shirt."
I didn't bother to respond.
He had apparently become enamored of people listening to him more than they ever did at PD because he screamed then. "Take it off and walk over there and put your hands through the cuffs." He was pointing at a rack meant for some industrial purpose but they'd drilled through one of the beams and hung chains and cuffs. "I'm going to whip you and then we'll have some real fun and then the hospital will take care of you right before –"
"Fuck off," I said. It took everything I had to not let my voice waver.
He screamed again, grabbed the gun from one of the minions and pointed at me, jacking a round into the chamber.
I took a breath. "You're not going to shoot me."
"Give me one fucking good reason."
The idiot voice in the back of my mind said, Because that would be even more cliché than what you just said. But he might be a cartoon villain, he was still armed.
"I'm worth too much, Sams. I'm a cop, down on her luck. I'm under 25. I'm new. I'm fresh. I bruise up easy. I'm strong enough to recover for a long fucking time. You're not going to shoot me because you fucking want to rape me then –"
"How am I supposed to sell something like you, huh?" He turned the gun all movie style sideways like he thought he was gangsta and I marveled that he'd ever been a cop.
I laughed. He shot me that way, he'd break his wrist. He probably needed that hand for jacking off to porn. I couldn't imagine a willing female for him. "So you pump me full of fet before you sell me. I know how this goes, Sams."
"Don't fucking call me that."
I rolled my shoulders and went quiet for just one second. Was that my imagination? Or did I actually hear a helicopter?
If I did, was there any way, any possibility that it was coming for me? It was way too soon for St. Martin to become concerned enough to pull the plug.
Unless the GPS showed where I was and he got concerned.
