Page 51 of Omega

I thought about it. Shit yeah, I did.

For about four seconds.

“Fuck. You.” I spat the words, and then spat on the floor near his feet.

CRACK!His fist split my lip open and loosened a tooth. Knocked me to the floor. Hurt, but I’d been jumped and had the shit kicked out me more than once, even badly enough to need hospitalization on one occasion, so this wasn’t exactly new territory for me. Of course, he was a big guy who’d been pummeling people for longer than I’d been alive, so he could hit significantly harder than the teenaged dickweed gangbangers who’d jumped me when I was in high school.

He hit me twice more, and I felt the pain building enough to feel like maybe it was time to stop taunting him.

But then I heard rustling, and peeked through swollen eyes to see him unzipping his pants.

Fuck that. Fuck him. Not without a fight, douchebag.

Under the guise of rolling around and moaning in pain—which I didn’t exactly have to fake, mind you—I twisted onto my side, away from him, and withdrew Mr. Papermate the Pussy Pen, slipped it out of myself as swiftly and surreptitiously as I could.

Jesus, it stank.

I curled into a ball, hiding it from him. Pried the cap off the point, blinked hard to clear my vision, held it in my fist, point down—yeah, it was a little…slippery. Eew. Just…eew. This would serve his ass right, though.

I waited. Curled up in a ball, fighting the urge to whimper in pain. I wasn’t gonna cry. Fuck no. Bitches like him wouldn’t make me cry. Nothing could. No one could.

His foot crashed into my back, sending me rolling across the floor. I nearly dropped the pen, but managed to hang onto it. I groaned, curled into a ball again, and waited.

This time, he grabbed my arm and rolled me to my back, straddling my prone body with a leg on either side of me. Still standing, he bent over me.

Dumbass.

I silently thanked Brad the MMA fighter and our six months of hot monkey sex-slash-Brazilian jiu-jitsu practice.

I almost laughed at the irony: I was about to use Brazilian jiu-jitsu, and I was in Brazil. Heh-heh-heh.

Let’s break some shit.

I stuck the pen in my teeth—yuck—and grabbed his palm with both hands, then twisted until it wouldn’t twist anymore, hooking my leg around his arm so the back of my knee braced the cap of his elbow. Grinning up into his surprised face, I then pulled back with both hands while rocking my body in the opposite direction.SNAP. His elbow now bent in two directions.

The entire move took less than three seconds.

He screamed, I screamed, it was glorious.

Cut fell to the floor, writhing and grabbing at his ruined arm. I rolled over him, hooked my leg around his throat and got him into a good strong leg-lock; look at the little bitch turn blue.

I wasn’t done.

Rape me? Fucker, I don’t think so.

I took the pen in my fist, spat into his face. Steeled myself, jaw clenched, squeamishness locked down tight. He saw it coming. I made sure he did. I held the pen up high, palm of one hand cupping the back of my pen-wielding fist, slammed it down as hard as I could into his eye socket, putting all my weight, all my strength into the move. It pierced his eye like…well, like an ink pen through Jell-O. I hit resistance, and the pen stuck. He was thrashing, gurgling, twitching. I smelled shit. I put my palm to the end of the pen where it protruded from his skull, slammed my fist down onto the back of my hand like a hammer, driving the pen deeper into his brain.

He went still.

I puked until I had nothing left but bile.

I released my leg-hold on him, kicked his inert bulk off me. I stood up shakily, staring down at him, and retched again.

The elevator stood open, key still in the hole. That was my chance out of here. I made quick work of Cut’s blood-soaked shirt, unbuttoning it, peeling it off his torso, and then slipped it on, shuddering at the warm wet stickiness of it. God, so fucking gross. But I was covered. I untied his boots, pried them off, stuffed my feet into them, tied them as tight as they’d go, and then patted him down for a weapon. I found a black folding knife in his pocket, the blade clean while the handle was tacky and bloody. Clearly, this was the weapon used to create all the blood covering him, and now me.

No matter, I was covered, shod, and armed.

Time to go.