by K. V. Rose
I know what’s going to happen.
I just wish it could’ve been this instead. I wish I could’ve taken Ollie’s punishment, like I usually do. I would take Coda over and over again to prevent my father from laying hands on my brother.
But I don’t expect more than Coda.
I don’t expect three men.
I can’t take three men.
I black out.
When I wake up, I’m in a gurney, in my father’s bedroom. He looks disappointed in me as he looms over my bed, a scowl on his face.
“You had to be stitched up,” he tells me. “And for what, Maximus?” His lips turn up into a smile, and through the fog of anesthesia, I feel my stomach churn. He whispers more words, more insults, but what makes me vomit on his floor is, “Oliver won’t ever piss in his pants again. But you could’ve taught him that without breaking his nose.”
“What happened to her?” I ask the question, my mouth moving of its own accord, but my voice doesn’t sound like mine.
And when Christopher laughs on the line, I’m still staring at the door to my office.
“I once caught her on her knees for my guard. After I shoved a paperclip beneath every last fingernail, he admitted he agreed to take her far, far away if she sucked his dick.” Christopher laughs again and I blink, taking in his words. “My daughter is far from innocent. I know that for a fact. In good faith, you might want to let her buyer know. If he decides to lower his rate, give me a call.”
The line goes dead.
It’s nearly midnight before I make my last call of the day. It’s nine at night in Tijuana, and the line rings once before a deep voice says, “Bueno.”
I’ve never been one for pleasantries. “Silvestre. There’s a shipment coming in tomorrow evening. Ben won’t be there. I need you to take over.”
A pause and then, “Okay, Boss.”
I know he’s curious about Ben, but wisely, he doesn’t ask. I end the call without a word, and stand, stretching. My work is finally done.
I’m not happy about it. That means I have to leave this office. Return to the fucking nightmares in my bedroom that won’t leave my head.
I debate checking in with Addison’s buyer. I debate torturing myself with more proof of life, proof of his payment.
I don’t do it.
Won’t do it.
Until it’s real, I won’t break. I won’t think about it anymore than I have to.
Just as I move to step around my desk, my landline rings.
I wonder if it’s Silvestre calling me back, maybe with a question about the merchandise coming in tomorrow. I answer the phone with a curt, “Hello,” but it’s Mamie’s voice on the other line. My housekeeper.
“You need to check on Addison.” As always, her tone is colder than mine. Of all the horrors I’ve endured, I think Mamie might have me beat.
A few years after Ollie disappeared and my father was in the ground, Mamie was to be one of my targets. Not as a slave. No, in those days, I did anything anyone asked me to. Mamie, I was told, needed to disappear.
Back then, I loved making people disappear. I loved hurting them before I did it even more, feeding the anger that still raged hot within me as I spent every night thinking of Ollie. Where he could be. What he could be.
Torturing targets before I killed them was one of my specialties.
I glance at my fingernails, trimmed and neat, and then shove that hand into my pocket.
Mamie was a hooker on the streets of Fayetteville, in North Carolina.
Once, she’d had a good life. Then she was out jogging at the school she taught at as a young teacher, slipped on a patch of ice and broke her jaw against a metal bench. She became addicted to pain pills.
Later, heroin.
Hence the streets.
But it didn’t take me long to realize I didn’t want to kill her, and not because I cared for her. But because she didn’t cry, and she didn’t scream, and she didn’t even try to run from me when I grabbed her and put her in the trunk of my SUV.
She knew wherever she was going was better than where she’d been.
I spared her life in exchange for her employment. I knew she’d be a good soldier.
She was. And still is.
“Dante is watching Addison,” I tell her. Guarding is more like it, and I really need to bring one of the guards from the gate in so Dante can get some sleep. I sometimes forget that normal people do things like that.
Sleep.
I go so long without it that I forget what it’s like.
“That’s why you need to check on her,” Mamie says, and Christopher’s words come back to me: “I once caught her on her knees for my guard.”
I end the call, slamming the phone into the cradle and I head for my office door.
“Do you need water?” Dante’s voice is quiet as he stands at my back.
I heave into the toilet, nothing but yellow bile trickling from my mouth. The fucking floor cleaner. It’s the floor cleaner. Mamie must have been in my room at some point in the day, when I was wandering the house with Dante on my heels, trying to move while I could, while I was granted another reprieve from my room.
After Max chained me to the wall.
He chained me to the fucking wall.
I heave again, a trickle of spit hanging from my lips. Wiping the back of my hand over my mouth, I turn to look at Dante.
I’m surprised to see concern on his face.
How did you end up here? I want to ask him. How did we get these shitty lives? What happened to you? What’s going to happen to me?
My stomach churns and I heave again, looking away from Dante so I make it into the toilet. Grabbing a few squares of toilet paper from the roll attached to the wall, I wipe my mouth, flush the paper down. But I don’t get up.
I stay on my knees, lay my head against the cool seat, closing my eyes.
Trying to breathe.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but I don’t want to go back into my room. For some reason, the smell of pine is worse there.
I think of how Max would respond if I complained about the scent of my fucking room.
He hasn’t been to see me since he carried me to my bed after chaining me to the wall. I wanted to kill him, but I was too tired to try anything at all. My throat was too sore from screaming, my head was pounding and, my wrists were raw from trying to yank away from the chains.
And tonight, the smell of pine has kept me up again.
I tried to shove a pillow over my head. I tried to cover my nose with my blankets.
The scent wouldn’t leave me, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw dark green ones set beneath a heavy brow.
I heard words that I should’ve never, ever heard. I listened to my brother crying. I saw Danik fist his curly brown hair into his hands, tears in his eyes as he stared at me.
As my uncle told us the sins we had to commit.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” Max’s sharp, cold voice causes me to pick my head up, and I stare at him as he comes to stand in the doorway, his gaze on Dante.
Dante swallows, averting his eyes. “She’s sick.”
Max’s jaw clenches. “Get out.”
“No!” I can’t stop the word from bubbling over, my arm still slung across the toilet seat. I’m in sweatpants, a black shirt, the same thing I’ve worn the past three days, but a different set. The most modest thing I could find in the fucking closet. “Don’t go,” I plead with Dante, keeping my eyes on him, refusing to look at Max.
Dante’s eyes are locked with mine, but he looks almost panicked. Even with a gun on each hip, not quite hidden beneath his blazer, he’s scared to disobey his boss.
“Dante.” His name on Max’s lips is a warning.
Dante swallows, turns away, and makes to move past Max.
But Max doesn’t step aside.
Reluctantly, I turn my gaze to my tormenter. His eyes are boring into Dante in such a dangerous way, my skin crawls, little hairs pric
king on the back of my neck.
“Do you remember where you came from?” Max asks quietly.
I look to Dante, stare at the back of his head, his hair cut close, edged sharply above his neck. “Yes, sir.” His voice doesn’t betray any fear, but Max wouldn’t have asked unless he wanted to scare him.
“Do you want to return?”
“No, sir.”
Max arches a brow. “Good.” Then he moves, and Dante quickly walks past him, into my room, and I hear the door close after him.
My stomach tightens with dread as Max’s eyes find mine. My face flushes with his gaze, seeing me on the floor, hanging over a toilet, battling nightmares from my past that I thought I’d locked away.
And I did.
I have, inside that box I’ve tried to put Ben into.
But the fucking floor cleaner…
“Get up.”
My hand clenches into a fist. I don’t want to go back to that room of dead air he chained me in.
But I don’t want to do as he says, either.
Fuck him.
Fuck this.
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.
As always, Max is dressed immaculately, in a suit jacket, white shirt, tailored pants that hug his thighs, black, laceless shoes that I want to spit on. The contrast between our clothing, between our positions, it’s enough to make the anger flare brighter beneath my fear.
He crosses his arms, and I see his biceps flex beneath the tailored fit of his jacket. “If you do as I ask,” he says quietly, eyes never leaving mine, “I’ll take care of you.”
I would laugh if I had the strength to. But I don’t. I’m exhausted, my eyelids heavy, my stomach empty, head pounding. I do nothing.
Max sighs, takes a step into the bathroom. Then another. And another. Until he’s looking down at me, looming over me.
He extends his pale hand, adorned with scars. “Get up,” he says again, his tone emotionless.
I close my eyes, bite my lip. I don’t want to get up. I want to get out of here. I want to go home. I want to wake up in a world that is far, far away from here.
“Do you need me to drug you again?” he asks calmly.
Panic seizes me, and I feel as if I’m smothering.
“Do you need me to make you obey, or can you do that of your own free will, love?”
I feel sick all over again, faint. Tears build up behind my eyes along with my anger. I try to take a deep breath, then I open my eyes to meet his cold ones boring down on me. “Fuck you,” I whisper quietly, one hand still slung over the toilet seat, to keep me upright. “I hate you.”
He smiles, slips his hand into his pocket as he looks at me as if I’m nothing. “Touching.”
My eyes find his shoes again and I can’t stop myself, the anger bursting through the box in my mind. Before I can count to three, before I can think it through, I spit on his shoe, bile working its way back up my throat as I do.
For a moment, I just stare at it.
For a split second, I feel good.
But when I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth and turn to look up at him, my heart slams into overdrive in my chest.
Because he’s still smiling as he stares at me.
Chills slide down my spine.
He looks completely and eerily calm.
“I really, really don’t want to hurt you, Addison,” he says quietly. He angles the toe of his shoe up, and I see the clear saliva mixed with yellow bile. “But I am going to need you to clean this up.”
I shake my head, my hand trembling by my side as I grip the cover of the toilet to keep myself steady. “No,” I tell him, trying to maintain my defiance. “No.”
“You’re going to get on your hands and knees, and you’re going to lick clean the mess you made, and I won’t hurt you. But if you don’t…” he shrugs, “I will.”
My stomach twists into knots.
I close my eyes tight, trying not to let the tears fall.
“Look at me, love.”
I swallow down the lump in my throat, do as he asks.
“Clean up your mess, and I’ll reward you for it. We all lose our tempers every now and then.”
I press my shaking hand to my chest, trying to still my heart. Reward me. I think of him in my bed every night after Ben. I wonder what kind of “reward” he has in mind.
Whatever it is, I get the feeling I won’t be able to opt out.
I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears, but otherwise, the room is quiet. He just waits. And I know he’ll keep waiting until he snaps, and I’m scared to know what kind of brutality Max could unleash if I pushed him too far. I’m scared to go back into that fucking room he chained me in.
Bowing my head, my eyes burning, I let go of the toilet seat, put both hands on the clean tile.
“Crawl to me,” he says softly, “and do as I asked. That’s all I need from you, love.”
Tremors course through my body, my arms shaking as I move one hand, then the other, my knees following.
Staring at the small puddle of my spit on his shoe, I lean my head down, tears streaming down my face.
I hate him.
The taste of leather mingled with the sharp bitterness of the bile from my saliva makes me wince, my stomach convulsing as I feel sick all over again.
It feels as if my ribs are too tight in my chest, my skin crawling as I drag my tongue along the last bit of the “mess I made.”
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, and my face burns.
When I’m done, I make to lean back on my heels, but his hand comes to my head, fingers threading through my hair, and he holds my face down, shoving me against his shoe.
I gasp, try to push up and away, but he’s stronger, his grip firm.
“Don’t fight me, and I won’t make it worse,” he says softly, even as he pushes harder, my nose crushed against the leather of his shoe.
My scalp burns where my hair is tangled around his fingers and tears well up behind my eyes, but I don’t move.
He loosens his grip marginally, letting me breathe.
“Don’t act like a fucking dog,” he whispers against my ear, “and I won’t be forced to treat you like one, Addison.” Shoving my head away, knocking my face against him again, he lets me go.
Tears stream down my cheeks, but I don’t make a sound. I don’t pick my head up.
“Sit up and look at me,” he commands me, his voice quiet but tone harsh.
It’s the last thing I want to do, and I hate myself as I do it anyway, meeting his gaze as my face grows hotter, the tears warm against my cheeks.
“Give me your hand, Addison,” he says quietly, offering his once more. “Give me your hand and I’ll make you forget all of this. Just for tonight.”
My heart skips a beat, my thoughts shattering at his words.
He sighs. “Do you want me to force you?”
Self-loathing washes over me as I shake my head, feeling as if I’m betraying myself.
“Then take my hand.”
I glance at the scars along the back of his, and with a trembling hand, I do as he asked, forcing myself not to sob audibly.
He pulls me swiftly to my feet and the world seems to spin around me. But he wraps an arm around my waist to steady me. His other hand comes to my face, and I flinch.
He pauses, his fingers hovering over my skin. “Do you think I’m going to hit you?” he asks me quietly.
I can still taste the bile in my mouth, I feel the warmth of humiliation on my skin.
I can still see Ben’s head. Hear the gunshot. Feel the tiles of the shower against my back as he slammed me against the wall.
“Max,” I say honestly, looking up into his eyes, trying not to think about the fact that my own vomit is coating the inside of my mouth, that tears are pouring down my face, “I think you’d do anything you wanted, without question.”
His expression is unreadable, but his fingertips skim across my jawline. He pulls me closer with the arm around my waist.
I stiffen against him, wondering what wires are crossed in my brain that makes me crave this lighter touch, even after his punishment.
I wonder if my uncle made me this way, if my father did this, or was I born like this.
I think about the deal I made with one of my father’s men. My freedom in exchange for sucking his dick. I was terrible at it, a clumsy sixteen-year-old girl whose only experience consisted of what she’d been taught as a child. Even my father hadn’t yet made me do that.
But I did it.
In the end, my father caught me, beat me, and I never saw that man again.
I wonder if he would have actually let me go.
I wonder if there are actually good men in the world, and if there are, if any of them could possibly love someone like me.
“You’re right,” Max says as he stares at me. “But I meant what I said. If you listen to me, I’ll take care of you. You’re not a prisoner here. You’re in my charge.” Suddenly, he drops his hand, steps back, and nods toward the sink. “Clean yourself up. I’ll be in your room.” His eyes catch on the razor on the sink, then shift to my arm, which I quickly put behind my back. He says nothing, but grabs the blue razor, and he takes it with him when he walks out, closing the bathroom door behind him.
I stare at that closed door for a long moment.
I want to scream.
To destroy something.
To claw my own skin off and scrub myself free of his touch. Of Ben’s. My father and his men.
Danik.
Instead, I brush my teeth until my gums bleed, spitting pink in the sink. Not once do I look in the mirror, afraid of what I might find staring back at me.
I take a deep breath, steel my spine and open my bathroom door with shaking hands.
Then I walk into my bedroom, and my breath catches in my throat.
Max is sitting on the edge of my bed, which isn’t highly unusual, considering he came here after my long, torturous days with Ben. He’s got his shirt off, his shoes and socks, too, and he’s only in his pants, which are unbuttoned, his belt undone but still threaded through the loops.
But it’s his posture that’s the most shocking thing. I’ve never seen him anything but rigid, calm, and controlled.