Page 233 of Ruptured

Molly gasped, pain streaking through her.

“She’s wounded,” Easton croaked.

Something pressed against her head and burned her skin.

“Okay!” Easton shouted. “Okay! Don’t kill her.”

Molly couldn’t stop her tears and she couldn’t stop the pain.

“Shhh,” Easton soothed, suddenly next to her and gathering her into his arms. “I’m so sorry, Molly.”

“Make her suck you off and then fuck her,” Bash ordered in the mean voice he used with her sometimes.

Easton tangled his fingers through her hair. “Hold on, okay? I know you’re in pain.”

She was. She sniffled and nodded, believing him.

“It’s going to be okay.”

He guided her head to that part of him.

Molly knew what to do. She did it without question. He wasn’t very bad, although Bash threatened to shoot him again because he wouldn’t get hard.

“Make him hard, Molly,now,” Bash screamed, pushing and pulling her, ignoring her yelps of pain. He shoved her. “I’ll kill him if you don’t.”

Dizziness assailed her and her vision started to fade, but Easton was nice to her. She didn’t want him to die.

She used what she’d learned, managing to keep her eyes open until she could get that part of him working. He didn’t hurt her mouth or her throat. He settled between her legs and inserted himself inside her.

“I’m going to get you out of here, sweetheart,” he swore, his voice catching on a sob.

“That’s nice,” Molly mumbled, and sank into unconsciousness.

March 12th

Sliding open the window to a first-floor office, Diesel slipped into the darkened room and remained still, waiting until his eyes adjusted to detect objects in his pathway. He’d gone a little off script, but these motherfuckers deserved to be tortured.

Father Wilkins warned him to do whatever he’d come to do and leave before Diesel slipped up. It was five o’clock in themorning, so he had an hour before the motherfuckers still alive arrived for their scheduled meeting.

That wasn’t the club’s doing. Just a lucky twist of fate.

Creeping to the door, he opened it slowly. The hinges creaked like a Hollywood sound effect. He sighed at the darkened corridor, the eerie silence and sinister air heightening his awareness and anticipation.

Although he preferred not to, he flicked on his flashlight. He had to go upstairs and he didn’t want to fall and break his fucking neck.

The hallway was longer than expected with nine doors remaining, five on the opposite side and four more on the side Diesel entered. It took him ten minutes to check eight of the rooms. He’d save the utility room for last. As expected, the first floor was deserted. The place wasn’t worth the money they’d charged Uncle Christopher, but Diesel had to avenge their crimes in one fell swoop. If he’d had more time, he would’ve hung in LA for a couple of months and killed them all one-by-one.

He curled his lip at the elaborate staircase, clickbait on their landing page. An elegant smokescreen that hid decrepitness and deterioration. Rotted wood made up the stairs and the banister, a safety hazard long overdue for repairs.

Topping the second floor, he heard the scurries of rodents. He shined his flashlight around until he found the culprits, three rats unbothered by his presence.

Since they didn’t disturb him, he left them the fuck alone and got to work.

This floor had two extra rooms, the linen closet and pharmaceutical. Once again, he found no surprises. The monstrosity really was empty. In the pharmacy, Diesel searched for rubbing alcohol but found none. Scowling, he contemplatedthe shelves of drugs, opening drawers and refrigerators. Finally, his gaze fell on something he could use.

“Jackpot, fuckheads.” He snatched the phenobarbital and grinned. “Thanks for making my life easier.”

In the hallway, he placed the flashlight under his arm, got his knife and stabbed the tip into the IV bag. The small puncture didn’t create a huge puddle but a trail as he trekked to the utility room.