Page 5 of Baby Girl
“Perfect,” Darcy mutters, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m currently holding a gun, I would think the bloodthirsty expression on the golden retriever of the group’s face would be comical.
Instead, I accept that this is my fate now and get out of the car.
“What’s the plan, exactly?” Hudson asks, rolling up the cuffs of his sleeves as Darcy and I walk around to meet him and Xavier on the cracked and uneven sidewalk.
The cooling night air brushes against my chest, reminding me I didn’t finish doing up all the buttons in my rush to my car. I stuff the gun into the back of my pants and remedy that situation as I fall into step behind Hudson and Xavier, ready to hear whatever the plan is.
“I’ll go in first through the front with Darcy. Derek, you and Hudson go to the back door. Wait for my signal, then enter with as much noise as possible. Save Emery. Don’t get killed.”
Chapter 3
Emery
My eyelids feel as though they have one-hundred-pound weights attached to them, and I have to put every bit of strength I have into opening them. It’s slow, and the inside of my skull gives a sharp throb as an odd, yellowish light filters through my eyelashes.
Someone is walking around, and as the sound of my own pulse diminishes, I can hear muttering among the shuffling of sneakers against the dusty floor. Losing the battle against the weights, my eyelids slide shut again. Whatever I’m lying on—a mattress, maybe?—smells like seven different shades of piss, and I fight the urge to gag.
There is nowhat the fuckorhow did I get heremoment. Sure, I might not know exactly where I am, but I remember everything leading up to this point.
The apartment, alone.
Obsession.
The foyer.
Red.
The Uber ride.
Tray.
Pain.
The surge of emotions that swells within me from just thinking his name makes the nausea I’ve been ignoring bubble up to the back of my throat as my skull returns to feeling like it’s going to explode. I squeeze every muscle I can manage in an attempt to stop myself from throwing up and take deep breaths as quietly as I possibly can.
Right now, my only plan is to continue pretending like I’m out cold until being unconscious is no longer keeping me safe.
Tears burn the backs of my eyes as the heaviness of the situation falls down on me.
No one knows where I am.
No one knows I need help.
Oakley might know, but she might have just as easily assumed my call was a butt dial and hung up.
No one is coming to save me. Least of all the four men I broke things off with by using my safe word, which they haverepeatedly told me will end things if I used it. I have no idea if they really meant that.
But what I do know is that all their bullshit about consent and safe words, the protective vibes they put out into the universe, of BDSM relationships needing open and clear communication, is exactly that—bullshit.
I gave them everything they asked for. I played by all their goddamn rules, even when I didn’t understand what the game was. But the one thing I asked them for, the one thing I needed from them—the right to make my own choices—they couldn’t give to me.
I’ve had a lifetime of other people thinking they know what’s best for me, of them making choices on my behalf, never once asking me what I wanted. The life of a “problematic” kid in the system is just an endless game of chess, being moved from square to square by some nameless puppet master.
Getting out, getting into college…those were all decisions I made for myself. Me. I did that. And I’ll be getting myself out of this situation. I’ll make whatever decisions I have to so that I can survive and continue the life I have fucking planned for myself.
Getting a graduate degree, becoming an accountant, buying my own house and a cat. Make that two cats. Big, fluffy white ones. No, wait. Shelter cats that are maybe a little mean but need a second chance at life. Yes, that. That’s what I want. I want to be a cat lady in my own house, with my own career, without anyone else around to fuck it up for me.
But right now, I need to deal with whatever the fuck Tray wants.
