Shit. Fear jolted her heart. If he got his hands on her, she was dead.

Or worse.

Her pulse scurried, and her breaths accelerated until tiny points of light dotted her vision. If he caught her, there’d be no going back to undo what she’d done. Some people thought dying was the worst thing that could happen to a person, but Jewel knew better.

Mick had taught her that being alive could hurt enough to make a girl pray for death.

Wood splintered. The door burst open. His brown eyes shrank to a mean, angry glare.

“You little bitch.” Mick lunged for her, his big hands closing around her ankle. Halfway out the window, she flailed, fingers grabbing at the window jamb, her free foot kicking out. Determination and desperation were no match for brute strength. Pain shot through her hand as a nail ripped to the bed. Panic scrambled for a hold in her belly.

He dragged her back down into the bathroom and dropped her. Jewel’s head struck the toilet tank lid, rattling the porcelain. Mick raised a hand across his body. The backhand sent her reeling sideways. She fell into the tub, and the shower curtain tangled around her body. He bore down on her, the need to inflict punishment clear on his lean face.

She kicked with both feet. The sole of her left shoe struck him under the chin. He fell back onto his butt, and Jewel scrambled out of the tub. She climbed onto the toilet lid and dove out the window, shimmying her hips. Sliding through, she landed on her hands on the pavement.

“You’re dead,” Mick shouted through the window. But there was no way his big body would fit through the small opening. He ducked back inside. She heard him arguing with the client as she straightened her shaking legs and ordered them to get moving. He’d be after her.

Jewel got her feet under her body and sprinted across the blacktop. She ducked into the shadow of a Dumpster, her lungs heaving in loud and ragged gasps. She put her back to the rusted metal and covered her mouth with her hand. Her body shook in uncoordinated waves. Quiet. She had to be quiet. He was going to hear her. He was going to find her.

He was going to hurt her.

She peered around the edge of the receptacle. The motel edged an industrial area and shared a parking lot with the surrounding businesses. Most appeared closed, their windows dark, the spots in front of their doors vacant. On the other side of a field of blacktop, rows and rows of cars lined up in front of a lighted warehouse-type building. An overhead billboard adorned with colorful Latin dancers announced “Carnival: Las Vegas’s Premier Dance Club.” There would be people there at all hours.