Blood to Dust Read Free Page B

clear my throat, my eyes still trained on Ink in front of me. Ink shakes his head, indicating that I’m dead wrong. The air becomes chilly. Why hadn’t I noticed it’s so chilly?
    Because it’s not. It’s August in California, and I’m cold because I’m frightened.
    “Let’s test your theory. I’m going to touch you now. Move without permission, and I’m breaking your arm.”
    My busted lower lip splits open again as I scowl. He definitely looks like a guy who makes good on his threats.
    “Okay.” I lick my bloody lip, my voice tender.
    Beat kicks my legs open and brings my arms up, patting me down dryly, like airport security. His rough fingers stroke the curves of my shoulders as he moves down from my skull to my outer breasts, circling them lazily. Down to my stomach, lower to my tensed inner thighs, then he pushes the fabric of my mini dress away to make room for his warm paws.
    Every muscle in my body is ready to plow forward, to run away, to try and hurt him; the memory of every experience I’ve had that started this way demands for me to take action. But this. . .it doesn’t feel like a violation. The sour taste of bile has yet to explode in my mouth.
    His hands move down my legs, stroking my ankles. . .then he stops.
    “Got something inside?” He squats down, hooking one of his thumbs into my ankle boot. His masked face is eye level with my pelvis, and warmth spreads along my bones like hot wax.
    “No,” I lie. There’s still a slight chance he won’t check.
    But he checks.
    Beat jerks my boot off and a Swiss army knife falls with a clank on the concrete pavement. I let out a sigh and drop my head. Shit.
    Happy thoughts.
    Frozen yogurt with Preston down at the local mall.
    Curling up on the egg-swing with a Mia Sheridan book.
    Water lilies blooming over the artificial pond in the Burlington-Smyth’s garden.
    A genuine smile from a stranger.
    Beat stands up slowly, his gleeful mask zeroing in on my face. It all looks like a scene from a horror movie.
    And I’m the victim.
    “You know I can hurt you without leaving physical marks.” His thumb brushes my lower lip, like he’s about to kiss me, and chills run marathons up and down my arms. “Don’t test me, Boots. I can make sure you suffer in more than one way your country club ass isn’t used to.”
    Maybe it’s because his finger is on my bleeding lip, and maybe it’s because his tone is the most peaceful I’ve ever heard, but the threat runs deep.
    “I’m so s–sorry.” I stutter my way into heated cheeks. He doesn’t answer, just shoves me lightly in Ink’s direction, announcing in a flat tone, “Let’s blindfold her. No way in hell I’m driving with this shit on my face. Wait here.”
    He strolls to the other end of the deserted parking lot, giving us his back, while Ink digs his fingers into my arm like a nervous child. Ink is twitchy, fidgety and judging from the wet pools under his armpits—scared shitless. I watch as Beat pulls off his black hoodie in the darkened corner of the lot. His back is defined with arches and muscles. Tan, and not only from the sun.
    Manual worker, probably not Caucasian , I make a mental note in case I’ll need to identify him in a police station someday. Still optimistic, as you can see.
    Half of Beat’s back is tattooed to its last inch, and the other half is completely ink-free. The tats end along his spine, making him look like half a man, half a machine. I watch his hard body flexing as he produces my Swiss knife, flips it open and uses it to rip his black shirt into long pieces.
    He works the knife skillfully. Every movement is methodical, deliberate, almost like he is piecing it together into something magnificent, not tearing it apart to become a weapon against me.
    Maybe he’s a butcher. Everything about him sounds dangerous.
    Killed before.
    Just got out of San Dimas Prison.
    Got beef with the Aryan Brotherhood.
    Just imagining Godfrey’s neck, instead of Beat’s shirt, being