Page 130 of Trailer Trash

He’s high on cocaine.

Oh, God.

Instantly, my senses heighten. There is one thing I know for sure about addicts: the person they become can be wildly different from the sober version.

“Uh, can you let me go?” I say cautiously, because I don’t know Killian when he’s high. I jerk my arm free. “We’ll talk later.”

Which really means: I need to calm him just enough to get away as fast as possible.

But my careful words only upset him more.

He throws a glass and it hits the drywall, leaving a crater. Plaster and glass fragments fly everywhere.

I flinch and back away, my pulse racing full speed.

“Killian, you’re scaring me.”

His lips purse tightly, and he balls his hands into fists, stalking toward me.

“Calm down,” I say, my tone professional. I hold up my palms to slow him, as if that will work.

“Just be honest,” he growls. “Did you like it? Pleasuring another man after I—” His voice cuts off, the anger too strong.

Killian’s nostrils flare, his jaw clenched tight. He stares for a moment.

Then moves faster.

Straight for me.

I stumble back, awkward and desperate. My hip thumps into the side table. A vase falls and breaks. I trip over the ceramic pieces and slam onto my ass, hitting hard against the white carpet.

Killian’s hands tug at my scrub bottoms. I gasp and crabwalk backward as fast as I can. He jerks the fabric hard, ripping them down to my ankles — underwear too. The cold air hits my bare skin. I kick and thrash, but he is so much stronger.

He’s over me. He rips open his wallet, then throws cash at my face. The bills flutter everywhere.

“How could you fucking do that to me?” he snarls.

The wallet hits my face.

I fear what’s coming next is much worse.

35

Harlow

Killian leers, the look in his eyes dark and evil.

His shirt slides over his head and lands beside us. His zipper sounds, and his pants and underwear slide down just under his ass.

“Just wait,” I say softly. “Please. Slow down. You’re not thinking clearly.”

He snatches the back of my neck and jerks, forcing me to sit up. He drags me until I am on my knees. I freeze as his hard cock stares back at me. His long fingers curl around it, fisting it. The silver watch on his wrist, alongside the tattoos, are enough to make me clench despite the horror of it all.

Oh, God. I can never get tired of that sight.

His grip on the nape of my neck hasn’t loosened, and the roots of my hair scream for mercy. I dig my fingernails into his hand, trying desperately to free myself.

He doesn’t ease his grip. Not even a little.