Lock Jaw

Chapter 1

Imani

The sheets stick to my skin like plastic wrap. Sweat, his sweat, soaks the thin mattress beneath me, and the smell—it’s a mix of cheap cologne and cigarettes—makes my stomach churn.

He grunts, his hands digging into my hips so hard I know I’ll be wearing bruises tomorrow. Maybe longer.

I keep my face blank. Eyes on the wall, counting the cracks in the peeling paint. There’s a long one that starts by the window and spiders its way down to the baseboard. I focus on that.

I don’t cry.

I don’t scream.

He wants me to. I can tell by the way he’s watching me, his face flushed and mean, his mouth twisting like he’s trying to figure out how to break me.

Not tonight.

Not fucking ever.

His hand slaps down on my ass, hard enough to sting, but I don’t flinch. I won’t give him that.

“Not much fun, are you?” His voice is slurred, drunk. Most of them are. “Bet I could fix that.”

Fix.

What the fuck does he think he’s fixing?

I tune him out, focusing on my breathing, shallow and steady. The faster this ends, the faster I can clean myself up and get back to my corner. The girls call it "survival math"—how to get through the night in one piece.

But tonight?

Tonight’s testing my goddamn limits.

He grabs my hair, yanking my head back so hard it makes my scalp burn.

“You listening to me, bitch?”

No.

But I nod anyway, because that’s what he wants. It’s always what they want.

“Say it.”

I force the words past the lump in my throat. “I’m listening.”

My voice is flat, dead. I’ve gotten good at that. If I make myself into a blank slate, maybe I’ll start to believe it. Maybe I won’t feel so fucking filthy when it’s over.

He doesn’t like my tone. I can tell by the way his grip tightens, his breath coming faster.

“You think you’re too good for this, huh?” he spits, his face inches from mine.

I think I shouldn’t be here at all.

But I don’t say that.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper instead, though the words taste like acid.

The next hit comes fast, his palm cracking across my cheek hard enough to make my ears ring.

“Not good enough.”

It’s instinct—my hand flies to my face, fingers brushing over the swelling skin. Heat blooms under my palm, and I know it’s going to bruise.

He grabs my wrist and yanks it away. “You think you’re tough, huh? Think you can outlast me?”

I stare at him, my teeth clenched so hard I’m surprised they don’t crack.

He doesn’t need an answer. He just laughs, low and cruel, and pushes me back onto the mattress, pinning me down with his weight.

The bed creaks again.

I think about the razor blade I keep hidden in the seam of my pillow. It’s dull as shit, but I’ve been sharpening it against the edge of the bathroom sink when I get the chance. I don’t know what I’ll do with it. Maybe nothing.

Maybe everything.

The thought flickers in my mind, quick and sharp like a live wire. But it’s gone just as fast.

I can’t afford to think like that. Not yet.

The door rattles.

For a second, I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat.

He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy fumbling with his belt, muttering under his breath about teaching me a lesson.

The door rattles again, harder this time, like someone’s trying to get in.

He pauses, turning his head toward the sound.

“What the hell—”

The lock clicks.

The door swings open.

And everything changes.