Page 99 of Wraith

A heavy thump outside the door.

I freeze.

Another thump. Then a scrape, like boots on concrete. Voices — low, too muffled to make out words but unmistakably there.

The Sons. They’ve found me.

My heart stops, then restarts at double speed. My hands fly to the nightstand, scrabbling for anything, for any weapon, and my fingers close around leather. The whip. The one from our play together, when I was Mistress and he submitted, and everything felt safe. My hands are still cuffed together but I can grip it, can wrap my fingers around the braided handle.

The doorknob rattles.

This is it. This is how I die. Shackled to a bed in a shitty motel room, wearing nothing but a t-shirt, holding a whip like it’s going to make any difference against men with guns.

But New June fights. Even when it’s hopeless. Even when the only choice is how quickly I die, not whether.

I grip the whip tighter, feeling the leather bite into my palms. My ankles are still chained wide. I can’t run. Can’t even stand. But I can make them work for it. I can make them kill me here, fast, rather than take me somewhere and make it slow.

That’s something. A choice. Agency.

That’s New June.

The door opens.

Chapter Forty-One

June

The door opens.

Then my mouth.

Then my hand holding the whip and it falls to the bed beside me.

“I am so sorry for all the noise. The asshole in room four was trying to get into the supply closet again. You know, people think that just because they’re a paying guest, they’re entitled to treat this place like some free soap and toilet paper buffet.” The heavy cart, loaded with packets of coffee, soap, sugar, fresh sheets, and clean towels, comes through the door. “And if I keep having to deal with that shit, it won’t be much longer until Mr. Jacobsen has to find a new housekeeper because I just cannot… oh.”

The chatter stops.

She — in her late forties or early fifties, curly hair, short, with very wide brown eyes — looks me over. I move my hands to cover myself.

“Hi,” I say. And that’s it. I don’t know what else to say, because I was expecting to die while screaming bloody murder and fighting off a pack of bikers with a dominatrix whip, not having to shield my crotch from the startled gaze of an overworked housekeeper.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

“It’s not what it looks like.”

“Listen, lady, I’ve worked here for a while. I’ve seen this scene before. If your boyfriend is going to come out of the bathroom and offer me an extra tip to be a third in your little escapade here, I’ll have you know that I’ll consider his offer, but it better be generous.”

“What?”

“I like sex, I like money, and I’m not ashamed of either of those things.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about? And you better have a damn good explanation, considering I can see what you did to the headboard of that bed and there’s a good fucking chance that motherfucking cheapass Mr. Jacobsen is going to dock my pay for some of that damage even though I know all you guests are charged a deposit when you check in. So if you aren’t offering me sex or money, what the hell is going on?”

I take a deep breath, keep my hands over my crotch, and say, “My ex-boyfriend tied me up here so he could go assassinate the vice president of a biker gang, but it’s a trap, and he’s going to get himself killed.”

“Oh, that’s it?”