Page 19 of Run Little Killer

LENNON

Warning: this chapter contains a detailed on page SA.

T he room tilts as I push up to stand, my legs wobbling beneath me when I step forward.

"See ya tomorrow!" my co-worker Holly calls as Kevin slings an arm across her shoulders, guiding her out the main entrance. I grip onto the bar with one hand to steady myself, drawing in a deep breath as I pull my belt bag overhead with the other.

I didn’t even drink that much. I must've just stood up too fast or something.

But I swear my legs feel like they’re growing heavier with each stride I take across the room. I come to a sudden halt as a wave of nausea rolls through me. Blood rushes from my head, body swaying as I stumble forward.

Something isn’t right.

"You okay, Lennon?" Shawn asks, his voice strangely distant.

"I- I'm..." I stammer, my thoughts thick as I try to articulate my words, glancing back over my shoulder. "I'm fine. I just need some fresh air. "

"Why don't you have a seat, I'll get you a glass of water," he offers, pacing across the now empty bar.

"No, it's okay," I mumble, turning my head a little too quickly. My stomach swoops and I pitch forward, a blunt pain radiating from my hip as I stumble into a table, hands bracing on the edge to steady myself. "How many shots of gin did you give me?" I chuckle.

Shawn folds his arms across his body, lips curving into a sinister smile. "Just the right amount it seems."

What did he just say?

Heat creeps across my skin, body flushing as I swallow roughly and push off from the table. "I have to go."

"Hey now," he drawls as he juts a hand out, fingers curling around my bicep and holding me in place. "What's the rush?"

My pulse ratchets higher, beat after beat pounding in my ears as black spots cloud my vision and I try to yank my arm away. "Let go."

"Don't play hard to get, Lennon," he growls, jerking me against him.

"Stop it," I say more firmly, trying harder to shove him away.

His grip tightens, tension lacing my muscles as a sense of alarm rockets through me, my skin erupting in hot prickles.

"I saw your phone. I know what you want, you little whore." His voice is harsh, his hands sliding down my body, cupping me through my yoga pants. "I can give it to you right now."

All the air leaves my lungs in a single panicked woosh, blood rushing from my head as my mind spins. "What did you do to me?" I ask, each word harder to form than the last as I find that I’m barely able to hold myself up anymore.

"Just something to help you relax," he murmurs, my feet tripping over each other as he drags me alongside him .

"No!" I shake my head, digging my heels into the floor. "I don't need to relax, I need to go home."

"You need to shut the fuck up and walk," he spits, tone laced with venom as he fists my hair and forces me to keep moving.

"Shawn!" I shout, twisting in his grip with each step. "Ow, stop, you're hurting me!" I slap at his hands, my movements feeling more sluggish by the second.

His palm suddenly cracks across my cheek, my head snapping to the side as heat tingles over the offended skin and I stare at him wide-eyed.

"No. That's hurting you," he growls, reaching around me and pushing open his office door. "Don't make me do it again."

He shoves me inside and the room warps, a high-pitched hum crescendoing in my ears as he pushes me down. My back hits the floor, air whooshing from my lungs on impact. His body settles on top of mine and he roughly shoves a hand between us.

"No," I whimper as he rips my pants down, the metal clinking of his belt turning my blood cold. "Stop…" My voice cracks, lip quivering, tears welling in my eyes as I twist around trying to get him off of me.

"Stop!" I cry out again as he shifts between my thighs and a tear slides down my cheek.

My pleas fall on deaf ears. Bile rises in my throat as I feel the head of his dick pressing against me and my throat burns as I scream, every last bit of air emptying itself from my lungs as he brutally forces himself inside.

Tears fall freely down my face as I lay there unmoving. I'm unwillingly frozen in place, his cock grating painfully against my dry insides over and over again. The feeling of shame twists my belly into knots as my body betrays me, wetness pooling between my legs.

"I knew you'd be a good fuck," Shawn pants into my ear, lips leaving a trail of slimy kisses on the side of my face. "You like it, you fucking tease. I see you showing up to work in these tight– ugh," he groans, "Tight pants and low cut tops, just begging, for me."

His words become muffled as I start to float away. My head lolls to the side, my eyes focusing on the bright stars sparkling against the dark sky outside the small window. Fresh tears blur my vision as conscious thought peels and detaches from my physical presence and I go completely numb.

My eyes fly open, Rhett's Deviant Devils t-shirt clinging to my sweat-coated skin as I jolt upright. My chest heaves as I snap my head from side to side, heart hammering against my ribs.

This isn't Easy Jay's, it's Shady Oaks.

Shawn's not here, he can't hurt me.

Drawing in a breath, I count to four. Then I hold for seven, exhaling with a sigh and slowly blowing out for six. I repeat the exercise again and again until my pulse slows and I feel in control.

There goes my theory that orgasms prevented nightmares– goodbye, Nobel Peace Prize. It would’ve been a great time doing all that research in the name of science.

I relax back against the headboard, eyes drifting to Rhett's sleeping form beside me. His blonde hair is disheveled, mouth parting with a soft snore every so often. He looks so... peaceful . Ironic, since he killed someone earlier, disposed of the body, and erased the evidence like a pro.

Who knew degreaser was so good at stripping blood from concrete?

None of that particularly bothered me, though.

Rhett and Nix seemed concerned that witnessing a murder would rattle me, but it felt good to see karma collect her dues so quickly.

The same kind I’m owed from Shawn and Natalie .

My hand trembles as I rake it through my hair, glancing toward Nix’s bed.

The pale moonlight peeks in from the gap in the curtains, illuminating the rumpled sheets.

No Nix .

My brow furrows as I push back the faded floral quilt and swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, careful not to wake Rhett as I slide out of bed.

Maybe Nix is the one with a guilty conscience?

Nah, he was having way too much fun with the angle grinder.

I snicker to myself at that thought as I shuffle across the room, grabbing my plastic cup from earlier off the nightstand and ambling towards the bathroom for a drink of water.

My fingers barely brush against the door handle when it suddenly gives way, the overhead light flickering as the door swings open on a very naked Nix.

"Goddamn it," I whisper-shout, scowling up at him. "What are you doing?"

"Had to piss– want me to wake you next time so you can hold it for me?" he snipes, bracing a forearm against the doorframe. His muscles ripple and flex beneath his ink-wrapped skin, his body like living art.

Fuck. Why is he so hot?

"Move," I huff, rolling my eyes and pursing my lips, too distracted by his body to dish out a smart ass comeback. "I want a drink."

I swear a crackle of energy charges the air between us as his dark eyes lock with mine.

After a beat, he steps to the side, face impassive as I squeeze past him into the bathroom and turn on the faucet.

I cut the tap as soon as the water rises in my cup and take a drink.

It's room temperature, but still seems to dull the phantom ache of my screams from that night with Shawn.

That's the problem with the nightmares– they aren't just memories my brain randomly plays out to fuck with me. Each moment from that night, every unwelcome touch and violent thrust, are permanently etched into my frontal cortex. As if it wasn’t enough to live through that horrific night once, I get to endure endless replays in my dreams.

I wonder if the nightmares will ever go away?

Therapy at Briarwood helped a little, but they never saw me as a victim.

They listened, but refused to actually hear me.

I was just another burden from the state to rehabilitate.

They studied me like a word problem on the SAT; something that could be solved with the right combination of mood stabilizers and sedatives.

It wasn't my mind that was broken, though.

It was my soul. I felt the fissures crack deeper with every doubtful look that was cast my way after it happened– the police officers, the state appointed attorney, my friends…

even my own father couldn't look me in the eyes.

He was disgusted with me, said he didn't know who I was anymore, refused to listen to me as I tried to plead my side.

"I thought I raised you better," he once said, fingers toying with the gold cross hanging from his neck. "Do you know how embarrassing it is to walk through town now? Members of the church, of MY church, stop and whisper about the whore daughter of Pastor Spencer."

"Little killer?" Nix asks, his rough voice pulling me back from my thoughts.

"Huh?"

"I said, that bar the motel gave us coupons for is still open, do you want something stronger?" he questions, cocking a brow .

"Yeah," I breathe, setting the empty cup on to the counter beside the sink. “I do.”

It's criminal how fucking attractive a simple pair of grey sweatpants are on a man.

Such an understated piece of clothing, really, leaving nothing to the imagination except for the fantasies you create.

And as the hem of Nix's shirt rides up, revealing his sweats hanging low across his hips as he holds open the door, my thighs clench.

The potent smell of grease and cigarette smoke invades my nostrils as I step under his outstretched arm and into the bar across the parking lot from the motel.

It's late and the place is mostly empty.

Only a few people are scattered about, the room filled with low murmurs of conversations and the buzz of the fluorescent lights.

Color flashes as a motorcycle race plays out on the TV mounted above the shelves of liquor behind the bar.

Nix's bandaged hand settles at the small of my back, gently directing me to two empty stools at the end of the lacquered bar top.

"You keep being nice to me and I'll expect it all the time," I murmur, darting a glance up at him.

His mouth curves in a lopsided grin as he plops down on a stool.

I take a seat beside him, the cracked vinyl seat catching the buttery soft fabric of my leggings as I slide across the surface.

I know the playful version of Nix I saw earlier was a rare glimpse behind his mask.

And as much as the broody and sexy bad boy thing makes me wet, there's something about seeing that sweet side of him that makes me want to drop to my knees .

I drum my fingers on the counter as a balding man in a black muscle shirt approaches. "What’ll it be?" he asks, slinging a towel over his shoulder.

"Jack and Coke. Make it a double," Nix says, leaning forward and steepling his fingers.

"And for the little lady?"

I internally cringe at the pet name– the same one Kurt used today.

"Coke and vanilla rum if you’ve got it," I say, tapping my nails against the counter.

He studies me for a moment and my chest tightens. Fuck, please don’t ask for an ID…

After a beat, he jerks a nod, setting two low ball glasses on a rubber mat as he pulls down the respective liquors.

My eyes never leave his hands, meticulously watching as he adds ice and pours Cruzan into one glass and Jack Daniels into the other.

He clicks a button on the soda gun, topping off each glass with Coke before placing them down in front of us.

Nix passes him the vouchers and he swipes them up with a nod, stepping away to tend to other customers at the opposite end of the bar.

My fingers curl around the glass as I raise it to my lips. The liquor is sweet and smooth as it slides down my throat and heats my belly. Nix and I casually nurse our drinks, a comfortable silence settling between us.

"Thanks," I say after a few minutes, tilting my head in his direction.

"For?" he drawls.

"For today. You didn't have to–"

"That's where you're wrong," he interrupts, eyes darkening. "He touched what wasn't his."

"Oh yeah?" I laugh, throwing back the last of my drink, glass clinking as it comes to rest on the glossy bar top. "And whose am I?"

"Ours," Nix deadpans without missing a beat.

A flush creeps across my skin at the claim, tingles coursing through my veins as I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling like a crazy person.

"I've gotta use the restroom," I lie, sliding off the stool.

He nods, the heat of his protective stare burning into me as I cross the room. But it's the stares coming from the two men at the table in the corner on the right that have anxiety bubbling in my chest.

What if they recognize me like the driver did?

Coming out to this bar was a mistake. I have to be more careful, I can't expect Nix and Rhett to just keep cleaning up my messes. I'm a fugitive in society's eyes– wild and deranged with a bounty on my head– and that makes me nothing but a liability for them.

My hackles raise, heart taking off at a gallop as I quicken my pace. Panic takes hold and I veer right at the bathroom doors, shove through the exterior ones instead.

Cool air brushes over my clammy skin as I step into the night. Before I can second guess myself, I start to run.