"What's your name, sugar?" His voice smacked me in the face like a flyswatter that had missed its target and it filled the room with a processed honey sound, bitter and expired.
My lips stayed tight and I focused intently on a large, dark spot on the floor, refusing to give him any sort of sick satisfaction. A subtle and breathy chuckle escaped his lips and he began running his icy fingers along my cheek. I could feel his smirk as I pulled away, disgusted.
He kneeled down in front of me. "Not a problem. We don't have to talk yet."
Dark spot. Floor. Focus.
"Until then, however," he continued, "I've gotta think of something to call you, right? Hmm..." He stood up and shifted his weight onto one foot, crossing one arm across his chest, and bringing the other up to stroke his chin. "How do you feel about Nikki? You look like a Nikki."
"How about Allison?"
"Or maybe a Sarah?"
Focus broken. I ripped my gaze from the floor to his face--a natural reaction when someone says your n