Free Storm Warning by Toni Anderson Page B

journals.
    Thrusting open the door of the squalid little building, he stormed through, slamming it behind him. He thundered up the first flight of stairs, immediately regretted warning the girl in the flat above.
    The musty smell of damp and decay seeped into his senses, as much a part of the people who lived here as the crumbling walls and rotten carpet.
    Cautiously, he pushed open the door to the apartment, listened to make sure they were alone, then closed it and slid the bolt home. He didn’t sense anybody else here, but not everybody was as transparent as little Evie.
    Reining in his fury, he took another deep breath before getting his temper under control. Control was the key to his life.
    “Honey, I’m home.” He nearly cooed with pleasure as inside his mind he saw her whole body tense up with agitation.
    His baby. Picky little bitch.
    He moved silently through the living room, then walked down a small unlit corridor to the bedroom. A low-wattage bulb illuminated the room with a cold white light.
    A mattress sat on the floor in the corner and Evie lay shivering on top of a single sheet, a thin blanket drawn up around her scrawny shoulders. Black hair. White skin. Wide eyes surrounded by thick smudged eyeliner that hid the lost innocence of childhood.
    “I wasn’t expecting you.” Her voice was reed thin, as though it might snap under his will alone.
    He liked that idea. “Busy?” Prostitution wasn’t big in a fishing village like this, but she had her regulars.
    “N-no.” Her body shook forcefully under his gaze. “Not tonight, I didn’t feel like it.”
    Good. He wasn’t big on sloppy seconds. He shed his coat, unbuttoned his shirt, and her eyes skipped across his scars.
    “I said I didn’t feel like it!”
    He stilled his fingers as his mood sharpened. She was so dumb she didn’t know he controlled every decision she’d ever made, from spreading her legs for her first customer to smoking a joint to numb the experience.
    Hard to stop being a whore when there was nothing else you were good at. He smiled as she started to tremble. That’s what he’d made her believe. Since she’d been a timid twelve-year-old servicing him with blowjobs every time she was too scared to go home.
    Well, he’d protected her, hadn’t he? He’d got her brother to walk under a bus just by planting the thought inside his thick skull.
    Ungrateful little hussy.
    Narrowing his gaze on her emaciated frame, he realized it wasn’t cold that made her shake. She had the DTs. Weak. So friggin’ weak. She needed control.
    He owned it.
    Picking up his jacket, he retrieved a small baggy from his pocket, rubbing the silky package between thumb and forefinger.
    “Trying to kick your nasty habit?” He gave her his angelic smile and her eyes lit up with a mixture of despair and longing.
    “N-no.” She licked her lips and her eyes followed the white powder the way iron filings tracked a magnet.
    Power made him hard and he laughed louder.
    “Do you feel like it now?” Not that he cared. He tilted his head as if her answer mattered.
    Hysterical laughter rose within him as her head bobbed eagerly, even though her thoughts told him a different story.
    She dropped the blanket from her shoulders. Two small white inoculation scars stood out against pale skin. Uglier scars lined her forearms, but something about those innocent childhood marks of protection made him want to close his eyes and pretend the world wasn’t a dirty, dangerous place where only the pitiless survived.
    She held out a shaky hand, almost begging for the oblivion a little bit of blow would provide.
    He palmed the bag. Almost wasn’t good enough.
    “Take off your clothes.” He catalogued her thoughts with ease, anger burning along his veins because she wasn’t as meek and obedient as she pretended to be.
    I’m cold! I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to touch anybody ever again. Ugh, that dirty old man this morning. God! I can’t get the taste out of my