Page 56 of Shattered In Darkness

Of course. Always the throat. They want to imagine their hands here, squeezing until my eyes water.

I wrap the scarf slowly, like a snake. My fingers tremble, but I act like it’s sensual. The camera likes that. Someone in the back mutters, “Fuck, that’s hot.”

I hate them. I hate that I’m good at this. Being watched, being consumed.

The rest goes by in a blur. I move where they tell me. I smile, pout, look afraid, look hungry. Sometimes I am hungry. Not for them, for anything but them. For Brody’s mouth on my neck, for Sophie’s gentle touch, for sleep that doesn’t end in screams.

The final shots come quickly. The assistant brings me a water bottle, I drink half of it in one gulp even though it tastes like plastic. The room empties around me. Most of them are already packing up, talking about dinner, about getting drinks, about what they’d do if they could “have a model for just one night.”

I get paid $400 cash, shoved into a cheap envelope. The rest goes to Marcus. No one looks me in the eye. I walk out into the parking lot, the sun is gone, just a bruise of purple and gold at the horizon. My car sits under a flickering streetlight, all alone, like me. The other cars are gone. Even the van from the studio peeled out already.

I hustle across the lot, keys tight in my fist, purse clamped against my side. I don’t look over my shoulder, not until I’m in the car. My hands shake as I unlock it and slide into the driver’s seat, slam the door, lock it. I shove the key into the ignition, twist.

Nothing. Just a weak cough from the engine, then a pathetic grinding sound. I try again. Harder. Even though I know it’s pointless. The same. A sick little whine.

Out of habit, I check my phone. Sophie’s name is at the top of my recent calls. I hit it. It rings, and rings, and rings. No answer. She’s probably out with friends. Or maybe she’s just sick of being my emergency contact.

I text her anyway:

Car’s dead @ studio, can you call me? xoxo

I wait a minute. Nothing.

Looking up, I scan the parking lot again. There’s a weird emptiness now, a flatness. Something crawls along the skin at the back of my neck. The kind of feeling you get when a man is about to do something awful, and you know nobody will help you if you scream.

I know that feeling all too well.

I scroll my contacts. There’s only one number I know will pick up, even if it’s just to tell me I’m a fuckup. My thumb hovers over Brody’s name. Last time I saw him, he barely looked at me. But people like Brody, they don’t just vanish.

I dial.

He picks up on the first ring.

“Bambi.” His voice is ice and velvet, even through the phone. The old nickname fogs the inside of my head.

“I need a ride, I’m having car trouble,” I say. I sound tired, even to myself.

He doesn’t ask why. “Where?”

I tell him the address. There is a pause, like he’s already there but wants to make me sweat. “I’ll be there soon.” He ends the call. No goodbye.

I sit in the car and stare at my reflection in the rearview mirror, at the makeup smudged under my eyes, at my chest straining the fabric of my shirt. He’ll see it, too. He always did.

I try Sophie again. She still doesn’t answer. Minutes pass. I can’t stop tapping my foot, chewing the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.

A black car glides into the lot. Shiny, expensive. Brody’s taste, always high-end. It stops right next to me and the window slides down. His eyes are the first thing I see. Blue-gray, hungry. They pin me in place.

I get out, slam the door of my dead car, and walk over. He’s already out of his seat, walking toward me with measured steps like a predator in a suit.

I try to act casual. “Thanks,” I mumble. “Car’s fucked, obviously.”

He ignores me, pops my hood, leans over, and runs his hands over the engine like he’s going to rip it open with his bare hands. I watch the way the muscles move under his shirt, like he’s barely keeping it together. He glances over his shoulder. His eyes don’t let go of me, not even for a second.

He straightens, wipes his hand on his thigh. “You need a tow.” There’s a flicker of something in his voice. Amusement? Disdain? He pulls his phone out and makes a call. His voice goes low. “Need a tow at the address I gave you. Now.” He hangs up, turning back to me. “NorthLine is sending someone.”

I nod, like I know what that means. He studies me for a moment, eyes sinking down to my chest, lingering.

“Nice shirt,” he murmurs, like it’s a mockery, not a compliment.