Page 41 of Filthy Dirty Dom
But instead of shooting her, the man spoke again. “Stupid little cunt,” he said, sneering at her. Shockingly, he grabbed her breasts, leaning into her so close she gagged at the fetid scent of his breath. Snapped out of her paralysis, she struggled. He responded with another slap.
The acrid taste of bile filled her throat yet again. How had things gone so wrong so quickly? She’d been on excited pins and needles after Alex had texted saying they needed to talk. So excited, she’d gotten careless, leaving her panic button out of reach.
As the men started speaking again, Leslie tried to get as much information as she could from their looks alone. All three were large—broad shouldered and muscular, with thick necks and small shaved heads, as if they’d built their bodies on steroids alone. They wore jeans, military style black leather lace up boots and black leather motorcycle jackets.
Their guns gleamed in the low light of her living room, a deadly threat.
One of the men who wasn’t holding a gun to her head went over to her purse and pulled out her wallet. He held up her driver’s license to the man with the gun, pointed at her head and grunted what Leslie thought was an affirmation.
Bingo. Leslie’s Duke’s identify confirmed.
“Put your shoes on,” the guy with the gun demanded, his accent thick.
“M-my shoes are over th-th-there,” she said, pointing to the entryway. “B-b-but I-I-I c-c-c-can’t walk,” she stuttered, acting more afraid than she felt. Screw that, she was petrified. But she could still put on an act. Bethany might be the thespian in the family, but she’d taught all her sisters some of the tricks she used on stage, and Leslie planned to make use of all those tricks tonight.
“Get up,” the man demanded, his voice rising in anger.
She held up her hands, making them shake violently. “I’m telling you, I can’t w-w-walk. My l-legs are too shaky. I’m so scared.”
The man smacked the side of her head with the butt of his gun.
Pain exploded in Leslie’s head, and for a moment, the room went black.
18
“Make any sudden movements and I’ll blow your head off,” a man said, the barrel of his gun steady and firm against Alex’s temple.
Still crouched on the snow-covered sidewalk next to Baylor’s lifeless body, Alex remained frozen.
“You always talk in cliches?” he ground out.
The man jammed the gun harder against Alex’s head. “Shut the fuck up and do as I say. Take your comm out and throw it into the street.”
He did as the man said, yanking his comm out of his ear and tossing it into the slushy gutter.
“Hold your hands up and get up slowly. Don’t turn around or you’ll be sorry.”
“Wow. You really are the king of cliches,” he drawled, doing his best to rile the man up. “Sounds like something written by AI. Got any more cliches you’d like to share?”
“Shut the fuck up, asshole.”
“There you go. Another winner.”
The gun against Alex’s head moved slightly.
He started to rise, then moved his head ever so slightly toward the street and hesitated, as if he’d seen something. The man took in a sudden breath and the pressure of the gun released ever so slightly.
Quickly, Alex slipped his gun into his boot to hide it, then held his hands up. “Am I being a good cliche, holding my hands up like this?”
“Rise, you fucking asshole.”
He rose slowly. “This good? Want me to strike a pose?”
“Walk. We’re going inside to have a talk with your girlfriend.”
Fuck. Leslie.
Mildly, Alex said, “Not my girlfriend.”