Page 104 of Raff
The inn didn’t have much going for it. But credit where credit was due, the doors were old. Meaning they were solid hardwood.
Pain exploded through my skull even as Drake’s hands slid around my neck, attempting to squeeze my throat.
I ducked my chin as hard as I could as my hand frantically reached for the knob.
It turned.
But the weight of me against it, and Drake pinning me to it, made it impossible to open.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” he snarled, his voice in my ear. “Then I’m going to take back that money.”
Not if I had anything to say about it.
See, there were many reasons I didn’t want to live in a motel. Because of how it looked, of course. But also… safety.
Which meant I’d been more than a little bit paranoid about living here, sleeping here.
After cleaning the place, then organizing what few belongings I brought with me, I went through the small room and systematically set up weapons to use in case someone broke in and tried to hurt me.
There was a bat under my bed. Pepper spray in the toothbrush drawer. A steak knife taped under the desk. And a screwdriver in the reusable shopping bag hanging off the doorknob.
I shoved my hand inside, feeling for the grooves of the hard plastic handle and curling my hand around it with the pointed bit facing backward.
I ignored the way my stomach twisted, yanked my hand out, and slammed the screwdriver backward.
The resistance was surprising. Movies and shows always made it seem so simple to shove just about anything into someone’s flesh. But it wasn’t that easy.
But a roar escaped Drake and the pain had him taking a step backward.
That was all I needed.
I yanked the door open, flew out, slammed it behind me, and ran toward the back door.
My heart was hammering.
But I was so, so close to freedom.
My heels clacked against the uneven pavement in the back lot, but I only got five or six feet out before hands collided with my shoulders, knocking me off balance and sending me falling forward, hands thrown out to brace myself.
I guess I hadn’t stabbed him well enough.
I landed hard, the gravel of the parking lot slicing open my hands and knees with a burning sensation I hadn’t felt since I was a clumsy little kid.
The impact had pain shooting up through my shoulders and hips, but that was the least of my problems as I felt Drake coming over me, legs straddling my body, forcing me downward as his hand slapped over my mouth and nose, instantly cutting off my breath.
My memory flashed back.
To Miami.
To a beach house.
To a man with a giant hand covering my mouth and nose, to the immediate breathlessness, the fuzziness, the unbearable pressure in my chest as I couldn’t draw in fresh oxygen.
I clawed at his hand, writhed, wiggled, tried to elbow backward at him.
My vision started getting static at the edges.
I was going to pass out.
