Blood Slave Read Online Free PDF Page A

The gun was so small she could’ve had it up her ass.  It happened in the blink of an eye, I never even saw the bitch move.
    She snatched my cell from my hand and dashed it against the wall.  It fell in pieces.  In one move my whole life had been smashed to bits and laid out on the floor.  Every connection I had on this continent was programmed into my cell phone.
    The really scary part was how fast she moved.  Hell, I didn’t see her move.
    “It would be so convenient to kill you right now, right this second.”  That ice-cold smile of hers was really freaking me out.
    I needed to do something, she had that gun on me and she really wanted to use it.  She suspected I’d called someone for help.  She was furious.  The situation had become uncontrollable, and she hated things she couldn’t control.  She imagined tearing into me with her nails and teeth, bathing in my blood and entrails.
    “I promise I won’t say a word to anyone, ever.  You don’t have to do this.”  The words tumbled out fast and urgent.
    I’ve read a lot of strange people’s thoughts in my life.  Perverts, weirdoes, idiots, pedophiles, all kinds of oddity and creepiness.  But this woman had them all beat.  I was so terrified, she had me literally shaking.  No one had ever given me such a vivid vision of carnage so personal, my own mutilated body.
    She smiled at me knowingly as she imagined the various ways she might filet my flesh.  “Put your robe on if you want to live a few seconds longer.”  She spoke of letting me live while contemplating my death.
    Naturally, I did exactly as she ordered, without delay.  I knew the girl meant business.  She radiated a barely contained raw aggression, an unbelievably strong desire to hurt me.  She flicked her gun towards the door.  She wanted to leave before whoever I’d called showed up to complicate matters.  I didn’t argue, but I snatched up my purse on the way out the door.
    My life was in that purse: expired visa, five hundred in cash, bankcard, and a box of condoms.  That about summed up my miserable life, an illegal immigrant taking money for sex.
    I prayed silently for Arana to catch up with us on the way out.  Fat chance of that happening, we moved way too fast.  He’d probably miss us by several minutes.
    “I’m not going to kill you … we need to see someone.”  The gun never wavered, and neither did her intent to do me harm at some point in the very near future.
    “Oh that’s such a relief.”
    She stared hard, eyes filled with a feral hatred.  Then I understood.  She wanted to do it, but couldn’t.  She needed permission from the Master .  It almost felt like she had someone’s hand on her shoulder, physically restraining her from pulling that trigger.  How weird is that?
    At least I wasn’t going to be killed – yet .  But what kind of sick cult-like group refers to the boss as the Master?   That creeped me out even worse.
    She led me to a limousine parked in the street, pistol at my back the whole way.  Who the hell brings a limousine to Spanish Harlem?  To the ghetto?  It must have been sitting out there the entire time she was busy making me scream.  All hope of escape flitted past the tinted windows as she locked the doors to the limo and sat across from me, pistol still pointed my way.  Off we went, gone before Arana could even get into the neighborhood.
    Then it came to me:  Triads.  She must be involved with one of the Triad gangs.  But do the Triads have a setup on the Upper East Side on Park Avenue?  Nope, couldn’t be Triads.
    I knew we were headed there because she pictured it in her mind.  A penthouse on Park Avenue.  Whoever the Master was, dude had to be loaded, filthy rich.  I’d been to a party on the Upper East Side once, the place dripped with money.  A little dripped into my pocket, but I earned every penny of it bent over the bathroom sink.  I wasn’t invited back to any more of those parties.
    I tried to