Am I being kidnapped again?!
Within seconds, Ford is at my bedside, leaning over and peering down at me through the darkness. His lips curl back from his teeth in a menacing grin, and I can smell the whiskey on his breath before he even speaks.
“Ava baby, come with me,” he drawls, reaching out and curling his tattooed fingers around my bicep. He yanks me out of bed, the warm cocoon of sheets and blankets falling away as I’m tugged up to stand.
The hardwood floors are cold beneath my bare feet, goosebumps immediately pebbling up on my skin from the abrupt exposure to the chilly air. Ford stumbles back a step, and from the sluggish quality of his movements, it’s evident that he’s three sheets to the wind.
“Where are we going?” I squeak, rubbing at my arms for warmth as fear takes hold.
I’ve cooperated with the Kings all week– I even stayed up late tonight to write Raf’s stupid paper for English Lit. I haven’t done anything to warrant another midnight kidnapping, but clearly, these guys don’t need a legitimate reason to torture me.
“Upstairs,” Ford replies simply, lifting his chin.
Shit. If he’s taking me to their apartment, this can’t be good. I mean, hauling me to the lake was worse, but at least we were out in the open. I have no idea what kind of horrors await me on the fifth floor of this building. From what I hear, the Kings never allow anyone up there in their space. Knowing them, it’s probably just a massive torture chamber.
“I’ve gotta get dressed,” I mumble, glancing toward my closet. At this point, I’m searching for any excuse to prolong the inevitable, as if something or someone will put a stop to this if I’m able to buy myself some time. It definitely won’t be my chicken shit roommate. She’s laying on her side in the bed across from mine with her back to us, acting as if she’s still asleep.
Ford retreats a step to give me a slow, predatory once-over, licking his lips as he takes in the little cotton sleep shorts and loose-fitting cami I’m wearing. “Nah, you lookperfect.”
There’s something frightening about the way he emphasizes his last word that has my heart beating a riot in my chest, myfight or flight instincts kicking in. I dart my head to the left, then the right, searching for any means of escape– but Ford closes in again with an impatient grunt, grabbing ahold of my arm and dragging me out of my dorm room.
I uselessly try to fight him at first, wrenching my arm back to pry it from his grasp. His grip is like a damn vise, though, and I realize pretty quickly that my efforts are pointless. Even if I get away, he’s still got that video. As long as he can ruin my future with the click of a button, I have no choice but to comply with his every demand.
Ford keeps a hold on my arm all the way up the stairs, the cold stone biting into my bare feet and his fingertips digging bruises into my bicep. It isn’t until we’re through the door of his apartment that he finally lets me go, shoving me forward and sending me stumbling into the large open concept living space.
Not a torture chamber. Just a large, lavish apartment.
Wes is seated on a sleek black leather couch in front of the big flatscreen TV, and he cranes his neck to look back at me as I scramble to catch my balance from the force of Ford’s shove.
“Really?” he groans, his disapproving glare darting past me to his friend.
“What?” Ford asks innocently. He steps up beside me, slinging an arm over my shoulders and steering me into the living room. “Ava wanted to hang out.”
I open my mouth to object, but then Raf walks by. I suck in a gasp at the sight of his bruised and bloodied face, eyes popping wide.
“Oh my god, what happened?!”
He only scowls at me in response, walking past the rest of us without a word and continuing on down the hall. He disappears into the room at the end, slamming the door behind him loudly.
“He never talks after a fight,” Wes supplies, raising a beer bottle to his lips and taking a swig.
“A fight?”
He narrows his eyes on me, tilting his head. “You don’t know your brother at all, do you?”
“Stepbrother,” I correct.
Wes rolls his eyes, swallowing down another gulp of beer. “He’s good, you know,” he murmurs, staring blankly at the TV on the wall playing sports highlights. “Like, good enough to go pro. Not that he ever could, considering his position.”
I flinch at the sound of a heavy drum beat starting up, my back going ramrod straight as I whip my head back and forth in alarm.
“Another post-fight ritual,” Wes comments, tipping the neck of his beer bottle toward the hallway Raf just disappeared down before taking another swig from it.
“C’mon, Ava baby, let’s go hang out in my room,” Ford coaxes, his whiskey-tinged breath fanning my cheek as he hovers close. The weight of his arm slides from my shoulders, his hand dropping to grip tightly around my own as he abruptly turns toward the hall, tugging me to follow along with him.
My pulse picks up speed as Ford drags me down the hallway in the direction of the frantic drum beat. He stops off at the first open door, pulling me inside of what I gather to be his bedroom and closing it behind us.
I pause to take it all in, shrinking back against the wall beside the door as Ford steps over to his desk and starts emptying his pockets. The room itself isn’t dirty, per se, but it’s definitely untidy. There’s laundry strewn all over the floor, the bed is rumpled and unmade, and the entire wall behind it is covered with drawings scrawled on pieces of notebook paper, secured haphazardly with scotch tape.
