Stuck With The Four Hotties

“Hello Becky,” I reply, my heart racing. At least the boys aren’t here, right? This is … well, I might die, but at least I won’t get raped first.

Crap, my life has gotten dark fast.

I watch them all carefully as they surround me, and then I reach down and snatch the baseball bat that’s leaning next to my bed, bringing it up in a sharp swing that takes Becky Platter right in the side of her hip.

No violence is a good rule.

But it doesn’t apply in self-defense. I’ll hit every one of these girls with the baseball bat if it means keeping my life.

Becky screams and stumbles, and I use the moment of confusion to race past her, grabbing at the locks on the door. Unfortunately, the mechanisms that were supposed to keep me safe backfire. There are too many locks and not enough time.

Somebody grabs me by the short hair on the top of my head and drags me back while another girl goes for the baseball bat. Too late. I’m wildly swinging it in my own defense, and I hear a feminine grunt as the weapon takes Anna Kirkpatrick right in the stomach.

“You fucking bitch,” Kiara screams, grabbing the bat and yanking so hard that it flies out of my hand and smashes into the clean China teapot that Windsor left on the kitchen counter. It shatters to pieces as I’m thrown onto the bed by the force of so many hands.

One or two girls, I could fend off. But nine? I’m so screwed.

“Let’s hurry up before one of her boy toys shows up,” Ileana Taittinger says, opening my wardrobe and pulling out the iron. Every student has one in their dorm. Ms. Felton loves to give marks out for wrinkled uniforms. I’ve seen Creed and Zayd get plenty. Tristan, he’d rather die that have a single crease that wasn’t ironed.

“Do you have the buzzer?” Ebony Peterson asks, and Abigail Fanning tosses something her way. Ebony catches it, and then flicks on a switch as Harper plugs in the iron, and the other girls, like Valentina Pitt and Kiara Xiao hold me in place.

I’m struggling so hard that I manage to get a kick out that nails Ebony in the nail. She drops the buzzer to the floor and the plastic bit shatters to pieces. The motor sputters out, and there’s a moment of stunned silence.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” Harper snaps, pointing her finger at the bathroom. “Go find some scissors, or a razor, or fuck, even a knife. If we

take some of her scalp off with her hair, it doesn’t matter to me.”

She tests the iron to see if it’s hot, and then scowls. It must not be. Not yet.

I fight even harder, flailing and kicking. If anyone gets near my mouth, I’ll bite. Hard.

Unfortunately, nobody does.

“Got a razor and some shaving cream,” Becky says, trotting back in with Ileana on her heels. They both climb on my bed and starts squeezing strawberry cream gel into my hair.

“Don’t do this,” I say, not particularly concerned about my hair. It’s the increasingly hot heat of the iron that worries me. “I’ve got hidden cameras in here. Whatever you do to me now, it’s on video. It live streams to my phone.”Copyright Nôv/el/Dra/ma.Org.

“Well, that’s too bad then,” Harper says, tapping the iron and then hissing. A grin takes over what should rightfully be a very pretty mouth. Every time she scowls, that illusion is ripped away and the villain beneath the princess rears her ugly head. “You don’t have your phone tonight, do you? And by the time you get it back tomorrow, you’ll know better than to mess with us.”

Becky takes the razor and starts shaving the hair on the sides of my head. It’s already pretty short, but even then, a disposable razor isn’t mean for such thick hair, and it quickly gets clogged up. Ileana snatches the razor, wipes it on my bedspread, and tries again.

“I’ll grab some scissors,” Valentina suggests, heading over to the kitchenette and digging through my drawers.

Meanwhile, Harper has something in her hand. It’s a piece of metal with a short wooden handle. Actually, the longer I look at it … the more I realize that it looks like a brand, one of those ones ranchers heat up to mark their cows.

She notices me looking and turns the brand to face me.

“Do you like it?” she asks, blinking innocently. “I had it custom made. It says Working Girl. I thought maybe we could stamp it on that huge forehead of yours, so the whole world would know who you really are.” She grabs the iron off the fold-out ironing board that’s stored in an inset wall cabinet, and then presses it on my bare arm.

The pain is so intense that I trash even harder, and manage to dislodge a few of the girls. I barely notice though. No, instead I’m wrapped up in this white-hot agony of blistering flesh. I start weeping without even meaning to, the pain’s so great.

Harper releases the iron from the crook of my elbow and presses the brand against it, heating it up.

I’m still fighting against the other girls, making it a hell of a lot harder for them to shave my head.

“Hurry up, Harper. The brothel bitch is way stronger than she looks.” Ileana’s whine makes my head throb with an incoming migraine. Or, well, maybe that’s the second degree burn on my arm. It’s hard to say.

The leader of the Harpies, Miss du Pont herself, climbs up on the bed and straddles my waist.

Her smile is horrific, like watching an alligator open its jaws before it swallows its prey whole.

There’s a faint sound from the direction of the door, but I’m too focused on the brand coming at my face to pay it much attention. The sound of a lock slipping draws Harper’s attention jus

t before the door is kicked in.