Page 17 of Ballistic

“Okay, I’ll remove these, but promise me, no crazy shit.”

“Promise,” I lied.

I followed the path of his hands to the cuff tethering me to the headboard, and as he fed the leather flap through the loop, a buzz snapped both of our heads toward the door.

Dax glanced back at me, lowering his hands from the cuff. “That’s the doc.”

“No, no docs. Let me go! Let me go!” I kicked and squirmed on the bed. “Fucking let me go!”

“Shhh,”Dax urged, slapping a hand over my mouth. “Keep it down!”

I sank my teeth into his flesh, still kicking my legs, and he drew back his hand on a curse. Angling my hips, I booted out at him and nailed him in the nuts.

Dax flew forward, lips clamped, brows angled to a pissed-off scowl and veins popping out of his neck, as he cupped himself. He breathed hard through his nose like an angry bull, setting my teeth on edge.

Would he hit me?

Torture me?

From somewhere beyond my view, he lifted a syringe, sending a small bit of fluid out of its tip, and a jolt of panic shot through my body. “I was hoping not to have to do this, but since you’re so goddamn stubborn …”

“No! No!”

He held me down, the needle pricked my arm, and seconds later, the heat that rushed through my veins had my muscles feeling heavy, my tongue too thick in my mouth.

“No.”

“It’ll be over soon. I’ll set your arms free afterward. I promise.”

Whatever he gave me didn’t knock me out, just made me feel really … good. Like Hedonic, but without all the intense sensory stuff. Everything moved fluidly, as if we were underwater, and I giggled at the absurdity, watching Dax’s head tip almost in slow motion.

“I’ll be right back.” His distorted voice had me laughing harder, as I watched him exit the room.

Something told me I was a fool for laughing at a time when a complete stranger was about to examine my body, but somehow I didn’t care. I reveled in the sensation. The pull at my stomach, the stretching of my lips and tightness in my jaw. Seemed like years since I’d last laughed, and somehow the pain of my withdrawals seemed less.

Dax returned with a woman. Casually dressed in a white button-down shirt tucked into deep-blue, high-waisted mom jeans, she wore a pair of glasses set atop silvery gray hair. Her tan-wrinkled skin had me imagining her on a beach somewhere with a wide-brimmed sun hat, reading romance novels all day.

There was something oddly inviting about her.

“Oh, you poor thing.” She tipped her head sympathetically as she dragged a chair from the corner of the room, and drew her spectacles over her eyes.

“She’s a little combative at times. Tried to hurt herself. Kicked me a few times,” Dax said behind her.

“Well, kicking you makes sense. We’ve all wanted to kick you at some point.” She turned back to me and stroked a hand down my hair, almost lovingly. Nothing like the doctors Tesarik had hired to examine us, whose hands had been coarse and abrasive, probing and prodding. “You gave her the Versed, then?”

“Yes. It’s low dose?”

“Just enough to calm her down.” She lifted my arm, running a feather-light thumb over a tender spot on my forearm. “We don’t want this sweet girl putting another mark on her body.”

Of course not. Markings made us less attractive for buyers. Tesarik always made sure the evidence of his abuse had healed well before any sale. Except for the movie productions. In that case, bruises and cuts only made for more authentic viewing.

If I hadn’t been tied up, I’d have been tempted to push her away for touching me so reverently. No one had touched me like that before, not even my own mother. I might’ve been inclined to believe I’d gotten it from her, but I knew better. I’d always had an aversion to touch. A trait I developed the moment I’d met Dmitry.

Dmitry. His name brought forth the distorted visuals from before. Something locked inside my head, like a box with no key.

* * *

I sat on the couch with a half-gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Not the nasty green type, but the white stuff. The good stuff. I’d decided to binge all the movies from the eighties. The Breakfast Club. Sixteen Candles. All my favorites. Mom had stayed off my case since I’d paid off her debt to Pigman. I’d ordered a bunch of stuff online with the credit card number—jewelry, purses, electronics, then hocked it all at the pawn shop for cash. About three grand in total, of which I’d kept a hundred for myself for some new shoes and a freezer full of ice cream.