by Callie Hart
“What’s your name, sweet girl?” he asks, smiling, head tipped to one side, as though I’m a delightful mystery he’s looking forward to unraveling.
I clench my jaw, torn for a moment. I shouldn’t tell him my name. I shouldn’t tell him who I am. I don’t know why, but I know it with a certainty that makes my heart race in my chest. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not say,” I inform him. Hector’s smile fades. A flicker of disappointment flashes across his face—I have been a bad girl. Hector’s focus flits to Raphael again, this time accompanied with a single arched eyebrow.
“Sophia Letitia Marne,” Raphael reels off. “Twenty-one years old. Student at the Cornish College of the Arts in Seattle.”
I can’t avoid my reaction now; my head whips around so I can look Raphael full in the face. He’s lying to his boss. Sophia isn’t my name. I sure as hell don’t study at Cornish. Raphael’s almost black eyes are glinting with a barely suppressed fury that confirms my suspicions: he hates having to answer to someone else. Hates it with a vengeance. Hector holds out a hand to Raphael; he seems to know what his employer is requesting from him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an intimately familiar object —my wallet.
He snaps the clasp open and fishes out a card, which he hands over to Hector. It hits me then, why he thinks my name is Sophia. I’m hardly a party girl, but last year a group of my friends wanted to hit a club to see a DJ play, and I was the only one underage at the time. Luke, one of the other girl’s boyfriends, made up a fake driving license for me. I’d memorized the card’s details before going in, chanting my borrowed name and date of birth over and over again in case any of the doormen asked me, only to be let in without even having to produce the damn thing. I then proceeded to forget my fake persona altogether.
My real driving license is sitting on my bedside table at home, snapped in two. I broke it at least a month ago, and since I’m living on campus and don’t have a car at the moment, replacing it has been very low on my list of priorities. There are no credit cards in my wallet, either. Nothing else to give away my real identity. A cold sweat of relief breaks out across my face. Hector studies the license, studies me, studies the license again. He grunts, handing it back to Raphael.
“Well, Sophia,” he says, giving me a small smile. “It would appear you’ve gotten yourself into a bit of a situation. Are you content with Raphael as your new master?”
Am I content with Raphael as my…? I’m at a loss for words. I’m pretty sure I’m covered in my own blood from where I was hit over the head. I reek of vomit, and each of my wrists are banded with a deep purple ribbon of bruising. I hardly look like the sort of person who came willingly to their newfound servitude. My mouth opens, but I struggle to find the right response to the question.
“Let me put it this way,” Hector says. “Are you going to make trouble inside my home, Sophia? Because I have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to trouble within in my home.”
I haven’t given much thought to the building Hector is standing in front of, but now I take a closer look at the place. The two-story Colonial, white weatherboard with green shutters, looks like something out of Little House on the Prairie. It’s quaint, with its wrap-around porch, swing bench, and multitude of potted flowers balancing on the windowsills. I’d expect this place to belong to some frail, little old Southern lady. I can picture her rocking slowly on the swing, drinking her endless glasses of sweet tea. There are no bars on the windows, and no security gates or armed guards. But…there is also nothing else out here. Not a single building for as far as the eye can see. Just desert. A burnt, alien landscape with no roadways, no stores, or any way of making contact with civilization.
“Well?” Hector asks.
“What if I say yes? What if I am going to make trouble?” I don’t really need to ask this question, though. I know all too well what he’s going to tell me before the words have a chance to leave his lips. Raphael snickers, a wickedly sharp, crackling laugh. Hector just shrugs his shoulders.
“One of the many bonuses of living out in the desert, so far from prying eyes, is that shallow graves are easy to come by, my dear. Should you wish to incite chaos, to disrupt my peaceful life, you can bank on finding some permanent real estate of your own out here.”
Somehow, I’ve strangely been holding myself together since I was grabbed from the side of the street. I’ve cried, yes, but I haven’t completely lost it. Until now. My legs buckle out from underneath me, ditching me in a heap at Hector’s feet.
“I need to go home. I have to go back to Seattle. My family...my family will be worried about me. The police—”
My head kicks to one side, pain slamming through my already sensitive skull. I didn’t see the hit coming, but I can certainly feel the echo of it relaying around my body. I can’t breathe. I can’t see through the tears that are welling in my eyes.
“You’d be wise not to mention the police in my presence again, Sophia. They aren’t an organization I like to discuss.” Hector sinks down into a crouch. He reaches into his pocket and then holds his hand out to me, offering me something inside: almonds. I was right about the smell. Candied almonds. “Why don’t we just say…no kind of law enforcement should be spoken of from this point forward? It will make for a happier life for you, and a happier life for me. Don’t you agree?”
I nod, cautiously touching my hand my face, trying to cup the stinging sensation. To make it go away. Hector’s eyes narrow at me. “Why don’t you take an almond? They’re delicious. Don’t you find them delicious? And then Raphael will take you inside so you can speak to Ramona. If you’re polite to her, she may find you some fresh clothes.”
This man is insane.
Certifiably insane.
He flipped so quickly, violence surging out of him like the unexpected eruption of a geyser. He’s unstable, and I don’t want to risk pissing him off again. I get the feeling he wouldn’t flinch away from killing me if he thought I wasn’t going to be compliant. I reach out and take a sugared almond between shaking fingers.
“Good girl. Eat it,” Hector coaxes.
I force the small almond past my lips, and the explosion of sugar that follows makes my mouth ache.
“That’s it. Perfect.” Hector nods appreciatively. He stands, the action so quick and fluid that he makes me jump. He strokes one hand against the top of my head, shhhing me, and then turns his attention to Raphael.
“Get her inside. Make sure she’s given a room on the south side of the house.” He turns and climbs back up the steps that lead up to the wrap-around porch, opens the screen door, and disappears back inside the house.
That leaves Raphael and me, with my stomachful of knife-wielding butterflies. “On your feet, girl,” he snaps at me. The insanity is back in his eyes again. I want to turn and run. I want to blindly flee this malevolent, charming house and run until my legs can’t carry me any further. I would do it, too, if it weren’t for the group of grim-looking men leaning up against the van I arrived here in. They all have weapons—a vast array of differently shaped guns and knives, small and large. But mostly, I don’t do it because of the baiting edge in Raphael’s words. It’s almost as if he’s willing me to disobey him, to run, to try and free myself…so he can have the pleasure of capturing me all over again and teaching me a lesson.
I get to my feet.
I go inside the house.
I think, perhaps, I will never see my family again.
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ALSO BY CALLIE HART
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About the Author
USA Today Bestselling Author, Callie Hart, was born in England, but has lived all over the world. As such, she has a weird accent that generally confuses people. She currently resides in Los Angeles, California, where she can usually be found hiking, practicing yoga, kicking ass at Cards Against Humanity, or watching re-runs of Game of Thrones.
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