Page 3 of Trailer Trash

A sick feeling knots my stomach.

I hate him.

I grip the countertop and hang my head.

Fuck this.

Let’s party.

I snort a line.

Another. Another—

Another.

Footsteps.

My gaze snaps over, and I flinch as Bobby Morris appears in the doorway. He’s the same greasy dealer I remember. Who let that bastard out of prison?

“Found you,” he says. “How long have you been hiding out here? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Where’s my money?”

“In your wallet,” I quip, too fast and careless. Though, I am high as fuck.

He belts out a laugh that crawls under my skin.

“Always the joker,” he says coolly, then signals behind him. Two men appear. “Hold him down.”

Shit.

I lunge forward and barrel past Bobby, but slam into one of his giants, who hooks my arm. I punch the fucker, causing blood to gush from his nose. He loses his grip and stumbles backward. The other guy throws a right hook. I dodge it and knee him in the groin, but miss the main target. He stays upright and jabs fast, his fist connecting with my eye. The hit is hard and disorienting. My world blurs more than the effects of alcohol already did. They latch onto me, and both men drag me back to the bathroom.

Before, I’d destroy them, or at least escape. Not now.

Goddamn, have I fallen that far?

“Make him watch,” Bobby says, and the men shove me down to my knees, facing the mirror. My chin clips the countertop, causing my teeth to clack. My chest heaves, and every muscle flexes as I try to slip free.

“I’ll get the money,” I assure, my breath ragged. “My dad is good for it. He cut me off, but he’ll pay to help me.”

“You’ve had plenty of time to pay your debt, even when I was behind bars.” He digs in my pockets, finding a receipt, switch blade, and my wallet. His eyes light up as he pries it open, but finds nothing. Then, he spots my open tin beside the faucet and shakes his head.

He glides behind me, lanky and loose-limbed. He leans down, and his big nose edges into my peripheral vision. “Don’t ya know these drugs will kill ya?”

That’s the selling point.

“Look at you. You’re penniless, coked out, and at my mercy.”

“Come on, Bobby. I’m telling you my dad—”

His clammy palm snatches my forehead, and he cranks back. “Let’s give you a smile, joker man.”

It happens fast.

He shoves a cold blade, my own fucking pocketknife, into my mouth. A blinding pain explodes as my cheek rips open in one hard pull. Hot blood spills down my jaw and neck. He lets go. The blade appears again, splitting my eyebrow as my head falls forward.

“What the—!” a woman shrieks.

We look that way, and she runs, screaming.