25. Angel

Why don't they ever just shoot us? Why do they have to play with us? And worse, why was it fucking him? I should have known better. He had been annoying when he first showed up at the club, but his persistence had started to wear on me. He had paid me a lot of money and he never got anything in return. I had been curious to see how much he would throw at me before taking what he wanted by force or giving up the fight, but he just kept coming. And what is worse – I had started to kind of like him.

He was nice to look at. He didn't have a receding hairline or scrawny arms like the other businessmen that came to Gold Standard. In truth, he had never fit the profile of the usual clientele. His blonde hair made him look somewhat young, but it could have been a ruse. There were tattoos covering his chest but none of them marked him as belonging to any of the usual gangs in the city. He didn't act like a gangster. Then again, I wasn't the usual dancer either. I knew Kevin only kept me around because he felt sorry for me, and because he had been in love with my sister for years.

"Why do I have to talk?" I tell him. "You obviously know all the answers."

My shoulders ache. My arms are numb from being held up so long. It is cold. I don't have the strength to fight him off. Mentally, I just don't care anymore. Not to mention, my bladder is starting to become uncomfortably full.

"Look, I can help you," he tells me.

I snort. He drops the computer down next to him and sighs, crossing his hands in front of him as he leans closer.

"Do you need help? Do you need to disappear? Angel . . . Everleigh –"

"Don't call me that," I snap.

No, I hate my name. Part of the plan once I killed all those bastards was to buy a new identity and leave this city.

"Then what do I call you?"

"Angel."

It is a stripper name. But it was the first thing I could think of when I decided to leave the name Everleigh behind. The Angel of Death. That was what I was. Only because Death had so far refused to take me, despite how hard I and others had tried.

He takes a slow breath and nods, turning his head to look out the window for a moment before turning back to me.

"Did they do something to you?" he asks.

He looks genuine with his question. That is one thing I don't like about him. Either he is a really good actor, or he might actually care. In the case of the latter, what the fuck is wrong with him?

"I have my reasons," I tell him. "That is all you need to know."

He pushes tape over my mouth a few moments after he gets a notification on his phone. It doesn't take long before there is a knock on the door. I debate whether or not to try and make some noise, but in this neighborhood would that even get anyone's attention? Messiah slides a flat, large box into the entryway and takes some bags from the delivery guy before closing the door and setting the locks back into place.

I watch as he places the bags on the kitchen island and slides the box toward the bedroom. My eyes widen when I realize what it is, and I know I really have to get the fuck out of here. While he is working in the bedroom, I try to get my feet loose from the duct tape. It doesn't work. My hands are cuffed. I am a fucking sitting duck! And worse, I am a duck whose bladder is getting fuller by the minute. I should piss on his couch. Fuck the humiliation of it, I just want to inconvenience his ass. Then again, I also don't want to get strung up in the shower again.

There are some bangs and shuffling from the bedroom before I hear metal clang. Messiah reappears and smiles at me as he walks toward the kitchen.

"What do you want for dinner, Angel?" He opens the fridge and looks for a moment before closing it and turning to a cabinet. "Spaghetti?"

He looks over at me and I only glare back. Does he really expect me to answer him?

He chatters as he cooks. At one point, he stops and brings the laptop in front of me and turns on a movie.

"Something to watch while you wait, Baby," he smiles, nudging my chin.

I roll my eyes at him but it doesn't break the stupid grin on his face. I really have to pee. I wiggle off the couch and land on the floor with a heavy thud that doesn't help my full bladder. Messiah appears from the kitchen, staring down at me.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?"

My words are jumbled by the tape and he leans down and pulls it away from my lips. I can feel the skin ripping away with it.

"I have to pee."

Nodding, he loops his hand under my arm and pulls me up. I hop a few steps before he lifts me up into his arms and walks me toward the bathroom.

"I am not pissing with you in the room!" I shout at him.

"Who said I was going to be in the room?"

He sets me down in front of the toilet and yanks down my shorts before turning me and pushing me down on the seat. He steps back out of the narrow space and closes the door, not even fully, and I know he is standing on the other side. Whatever. I have been in some rough places in my life and taking a piss with someone two feet away isn't exactly a new experience for me.

When I am done, I expect for him to carry me back to the living room. Instead, he pulls me off my feet and moves toward the bedroom. I wiggle against his grip, but he is too strong. A dog crate is sitting in the corner near the bed now. With one last effort, I slam my head back into his face. His teeth cut my scalp and we both groan as he drops me to the floor. A scream burns through my chest as I fall onto my elbow.

"That's it," he growls.

He grabs my hair and drags me across the floor toward the bed. If anyone in this building hears us fighting, I know they aren't going to do anything. Reaching into a drawer, he produces what looks like a black collar. His arm goes around my neck and he kneels down and holds my head still as he forces a silicone ball into my mouth. The gag wraps around to the back of my head and the buckles pull at my air as he attaches them. I don't even want to know where this gag has been and I fight the urge to vomit as he grips my hair and pulls me toward the crate.

My curses are just muffled noises as he opens the cage door and shoves me inside. I try to kick at him before he slams the door shut. The latch snaps into place and he takes a deep breath, running his hand over his sore mouth. My scalp aches and I glare at him through the bars as he steps back.

"This will get easier if you stop being so spicy," he tells me, walking out of the room.