Apocalipstick (Hell in a Handbag Book 1) by Lisa Acerbo (the best e book reader txt) 📗

would demand details of the raid in Pittsfield. Jenna was not in a mood to share.

Leftovers in my room it will be.

In the barn, Jenna made her way to the loft, where she stored the tack after hours organizing the bridles and bits, scraping horse pads free of mice droppings, and cleaning the gear. The oiled leather on the saddle shone. She grabbed the lunge whip and brushes.

Pivoting in the gloom of the loft, the slam of the door had her scooting backward and dropping one of the brushes she had been juggling.

“You scared me. What can I do you for?”

George removed a long blade of grass from between his teeth with mud caked hands. His greasy shirt hugged his paunchy stomach. Liquor was rare to come by, but George never lost the beer belly he had developed well before the Streakers. Stories about when George had first joined the group continued to circulate. He arrived with guns, cigarettes, and cases of beer. While the beer and cigarettes had run out, George was still fond of the guns. He did not mind the inn too much either, since the group had found the wine cellar and broke out a good bottle of red or white on special occasions, which was every day the Streakers stayed away.

He stared, making his assessment obvious, eyes lingering too long on her breasts.

“You’re making me uncomfortable. How’d you find me, anyway?”

“I followed you here after you left the inn.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been meaning to meet you ‘bout a couple things going on here.” He dragged his eyes to her face. “You got a moment?”

This is not normal. No, I freakin’ don’t want to talk to you alone in a hay loft.

“Why don’t we discuss this at dinner tonight. I’m heading back there soon. I’m sure it’s stuffed the whole group wants to hear about.”

“No, not really. This just involves you and me.”

“Oh,” she said. “Have I done something wrong?”

“Now that you ask, I believe you have.”

The hair on her arms prickled, defenses heightened similar to when a Streaker arrived. “Really? What?” The lunge whip thumped the ground.

His eyes meandered before answering. “You’ve been whoring yourself out to all the men in camp. First you lead Quentin on, but then he gets sick and so you turn to Caleb, a no good, dirty New Racer no less.”

Her mouth dropped open.

Where to even start?

He continued his rant. “The way I see it, you’re pretty willing to be with anyone, human or otherwise. If it had just been Quentin, I might not be here. He’s a decent kid and deserves a good woman, but here you are, deserting him the moment he falls ill and spreading your legs for the undead.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Being of the New Race is only one step from being a Streaker. Go ahead and let them turn you too if you’re so interested in fucking them.”

“Not that I need to explain myself to you,” she retorted, “because my personal life is none of your business. I do not spread my legs for anyone. The New Racers s you appear to hate so much are the same people who kept you alive all these months.”

“I kept myself alive!” George roared.

“Caleb was the only person willing to help me!” The high pitched screamed bounced off the walls.

“The New Race might be good for some things and have a place in this world, but they can’t be mixing with humans. You should know better. You have to save the race by having human babies. Lots of human babies.”

“As I just said,” Jenna emphasized every word. “What I do, and who I do it with are none of your damn business.”

“Well, I beg to differ.” He closed the distance between them. “What you do concerns me a whole lot. It hurts me to see you make stupid choices, but if you’re going to be stupid, I’ll take advantage of it. Since you’re making it free and easy for any man to get a turn at you, I want my chance.”

“Don’t even think about it.” Backing away, she searched the room for something she could use for a weapon.

Too far away from the baseball bat that lay propped at the door. The hoof pick perched in a bucket to her right. She’d run for it.

Jenna sprinted. Rough fingers yanked her back before she could reach the hoof pick. He pinned her flailing arm and twisted her around, before throwing her to the floor. Her head hit the rough wooden planks and sparks of pain erupted before her eyes. His weight was upon her, suffocating.

She kicked and pummeled but did little damage. “Stop.”

His hard slap filled her mouth with blood. Hands pinnacled hers.

“Fight and this will get ugly. You’ll make this worse, little lady.”

Her knee jammed into his thigh.

A fist rammed her nose. Blood trickled from it.

“Let me go. Please. I won’t tell anyone.” Each inhale was torture, words hard to enunciate when blood ran down the back of her throat. She flashed back to the person who gave her the scar on her stomach, all the former horror rushing back. The last man who attacked her had almost succeeded. Before she’d been able to run, he sliced her and left her for the undead to feed on.

George anchored both her thin wrists in one of his own chunky hands, and then secured them with rope, leaving her helpless. Rough meat paw traveled under her shirt to her bra and shoved under. Tasting of onions and alcohol, his mouth clamped over hers. Jenna’s scream died as Georg rammed his tongue against her teeth.

Trying to twist away, she writhed beneath him, but the movement aroused his desire more.

Play possum.

Even her breath hushed as Jenna forced herself to go limp. When Jenna met George’s eyes, he dropped his gaze to her exposed belly.

“Whatever you’re plotting, don’t try it.” He moved a hand from her chest. It slithered to the button on her jeans.

“Stop, please.”

“Shut up. You’re going to enjoy it.”

Jenna waited. His hands