Memories of being on my knees as warm water rained over us and Patrick came undone heated my skin. The feeling of the muscles in his thighs growing taut beneath my palms as he came closer to the edge empowered me to continue. It took the right partner to make a person feel empowered while kneeling. Patrick was the right man. I’d keep that memory with me as I faced whatever the future of the evening held.
I went on, “I am simply meeting Marion on his ranch to hear his proposal. I’ll wear this...” I lifted the necklace dangling from my neck. It appeared to be a small pearl within a gilded enclosure. In reality, the pearl contained a transmitting device broadcasting audible as well as global location.
“I will be listening to your every breath.” He once again reached for my waist, his long fingers splaying over the material of the dress. “I control when it broadcasts.”
“You do?”
His grip tightened. “Like right now, it’s silent. I don’t want everyone in the Sparrow outfit to hear how fucking terrified I am of letting you out of my sight.”
A smile lifted my cheeks. “Patrick, being back with you has meant more to me than I can say. I forgot what it was like...” I changed the direction of my thoughts. “You are all man.” I leaned back and took him in, from his freshly washed hair to his clean button-down shirt, the one that covered his broad chest and defined abs, lower still to his expensive suit trousers and shiny leather loafers. “Handsome and powerful. I feel it when we’re together. You’re an anomaly.”
“I am?”
I lifted myself up on my toes and gave his freshly shaved cheek a kiss. “You are. I feel your strength and power, not because you flaunt it or hold it over me and others. It’s actually the opposite. Your demeanor demands respect and submission, even from those other men. They trust and respect you. I sensed it back at the club with Mr. Sparrow. It’s his name, but he reveres your opinion, the big guy with the ponytail too. When I’m with you, I want to give in to you and relish your presence. I want to. That’s different than being forced to. It’s the difference between you and him.”
“I’d like to think there are other differences.”
“What I said before about not being able to beat him, I have a differing thought.”
His long finger caressed my cheek. “What is that thought, Mrs. Kelly?”
My heart fluttered at the use of the name as well as his willingness to listen. I was tired of fighting my attraction. Just as I’d said, I wanted to give in and submit to Patrick in every way, not only sexually, though that was appealing. I wanted to be his wife again, different than before, in a way that consenting adults agree to become one.
Wanting didn’t make it possible, not without Ruby.
“Human qualities,” I said, “don’t have to be your downfall or the downfall of the Sparrow outfit.” I took a breath as I stared into Patrick’s blue eyes. This man was all I’d said, and in this moment, he wasn’t minimizing or dismissing me. He was listening. “Your men, they more than respect you. As well as the others who appear to be in power in Sparrow, they also respect you and dare I say, care about you. You’ve called them your family. Capitalize on that.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Because you’re too good of a man. What you were saying about the consequences if Andros was eliminated is true. Something has been brewing under the surface for a while now. I don’t know what happened in his world or maybe beyond, but there’s been dissension among the ranks. I don’t ask for details. I wouldn’t be told. But I listen and I hear things.”
“You’re saying when we take out Ivanov to watch for his successor?”
“I’m saying that some of Andros’s most dangerous enemies may not be the Sparrows.” I exhaled and shrugged. “But I’m sure I don’t know or understand what’s at work.”
Patrick reached for my hands. “I will agree to disagree.”
“About?”
“Madeline Kelly, you have always been intelligent.”
“You don’t know the poor—”
“Choices,” Patrick said, finishing my sentence. “Poor choices and decisions rarely come about based on our knowledge or intellect. Usually, they reflect our heart’s desire or emotions. You are alive, Ruby is alive, and you are within my grasp again because you have been smart enough to survive. Didn’t you say that you’re bilingual?”
That was an interesting change of subject. I answered anyway, “Yes, as is Ruby.”
“Russian is a difficult language, one I’ve never mastered.”
“Patrick.”
“I know we both missed having a normal education.”
We had, but like Patrick, I’d received mine later in life. “I need to be going.”
He held tighter to my hand and looked me in the eye. “Don’t let anyone diminish your abilities. I would suspect there is a lot of truth in what you just said about dissension in the Ivanov ranks. I’ll talk to the Sparrows. If there is discontent in the Ivanov bratva, Hillman may not be the leech we suspected. Maybe he’s in the market for a takeover.”
“I don’t know.”
“And it’s not your job to find out.” He offered me a strained smile. “I’m turning on the receivers for your necklace. Do not take it off. It charges via body heat. It’s also water-resistant, not -proof.”
My lips curled upward. “I’ve already had one shower.”
A satisfying growl resonated from Patrick’s throat as his simmering gaze brought heat to my skin. The way he was staring was as if the dress had disappeared. With a sigh, Patrick pulled his phone from his pocket and after swiping the screen, he said, “You’re now live.”
My gaze fell to the necklace upon my breastbone as it rose with my deep breath. I suddenly wondered if it could detect my heart rate. If the answer was yes, I suspected that someone somewhere would see how fast my heart was beating.
“Find out what Elliott says about Ruby and come back to me,” Patrick instructed, lifting my chin. “Know that Ivanov and Hillman are there on the ranch. If they leave, we’ll monitor them.”
“Can you tell me?”
“Not without raising suspicion.”
Patrick’s phone vibrated.
He looked at the screen. “I should answer this.”
I stepped back, wrapping my arms around my midsection and preparing myself for whatever was at hand. I’d walked into more dangerous situations than Marion Elliott’s ranch and lived to tell about it.
Patrick’s voice stayed steady. “Hello. Yes, I can tell her. Has Garrett gotten her car ready? Okay.” When he disconnected, he looked my way with a grin. “Apparently, an advantage of being overheard is being corrected.”
“What do you mean?”
“An email address, unknown to Ivanov, has been added to your phone. We will only use it in emergencies, but we can contact you via that email. Your password is birthstone.”
My cheeks rose as a grin came to my lips. A ruby is the gemstone for the month of July—Ruby’s birthstone and name. “That’s good. I can remember that. Please keep an eye on the island resort. Just because Andros is in Dallas doesn’t mean he won’t move her or have her moved. I need to know where she is, even if I can’t see or talk to her.”
Patrick planted a kiss to my forehead. “Let me walk you down to the car.”
Maddie
Seventeen years ago
I couldn’t comprehend the amount of time that had passed. It could have been days or maybe weeks. The room where we were kept was below ground with no windows and one door. A single low-watt light bulb hung from the ceiling, enough to illuminate the shadows, similar to a nightlight that never turned off. Every few hours warm air blew from a vent in the ceiling. It didn’t last long. With the cold concrete walls and floor, we should appreciate the warmth; however, its presence did less to heat and more to elevate the putrid odor of human waste.
One large bucket in the corner was our only toilet.
Running water wasn’t present nor were beds.
Our clot
hes were our only blanket and the dress Kristine had bought however long ago was in shreds.
The first time I entered—what I’d overheard as holding—there were seven other girls. I could say women, but that would be a stretch considering at eighteen I was one of the oldest inhabitants. Wearing what was left of the white dress, now stained with an assortment of bodily fluids, I walked barefoot into what could best be described as a cell.
The number of inhabitants varied over time. Today there were nine of us.
While new ones came, others disappeared. Only a few of us had been here since I arrived.
Thinking beyond the moment was impossible. Common concerns no longer existed.
Shower.
Brushing teeth.
Sleep.
The latter came in waves of exhaustion, times when maintaining wakefulness was beyond my ability. One need that didn’t wane was hunger. Food was a reward if we behaved, if we performed to the customer’s satisfaction.
With my back against the cold concrete and my knees drawn up to my chest, my wandering thoughts went back to the hours and days after Kristine left me.
Dr. Miller was the first to interview me.
I had no way of knowing that an interview meant rape.
Before I met Patrick, I kept my hair short and wore baggy clothes. I knew what could happen to girls on the street, and I did my best to stay invisible. And then one afternoon, the change began. It wasn’t instantaneous but gradual. Patrick would run his fingers through my hair, innocently saying he liked it long. Over time, he’d hold me against him as his hands skirted my body, finding curves that I could no longer hide. His approval and appreciation gave me strength to embrace my femininity—not flaunt but accept. His presence allowed me the bubble of safety to become a woman.
When any thoughts of Patrick came to mind, my eyes filled with tears until they rolled down my filthy cheeks, creating a pathway through the dirt and grime. I sometimes wondered how I had any tears left.
Dr. Miller was the first to interview me the day Kristine left. Not the last.
After he was done, Wendy escorted me to the bathroom, and then to another room furnished with a similar cheap bed. I begged and pleaded. I told her I had family who would miss me. My initial pleas were met with reprimands and threats. Threats became action and my begging ceased.
By the time I closed my eyes that night, there had been four different men.
Thinking about them brought bile from the depths of my stomach. They were men I wouldn’t approach on the street. Not because they appeared scary, but because they appeared old and normal. They were the men who came and went from high-rise offices, ritzy restaurants, and theaters with elegantly dressed wives on their arms. They wore expensive suits and held an air of superiority. I would have avoided their condescending expressions.
As they entered the rooms, their expressions held the same sense of supremacy.
Now they had purpose. Each one knew the outcome and what he would do. Each one instructed, dominated, and demeaned me. In a matter of hours, my illusions of family men were shattered.
Before the terrible awakening, I’d imagined these men as fathers or grandfathers presiding over a long table filled with children and grandchildren and smiling at their wives. How could I have imagined a world where they dispassionately did what they had done to me, each leaving me with bruises along with their semen? From the first interview, I realized the cold reality that simple gratification wasn’t their goal. These men found immense satisfaction in not only vaginal but also oral and anal.
Dr. Miller had been the first to take me there. No amount of time or distance could make me forget the pain and burn as he forced himself into that virgin area. It was as if my cries fueled his speed and determination. It wasn’t enough for them to come inside me, but also on me. Throughout that night, my face, skin, and even hair was doused.
When he left the room, I vomited. It was a combination of the pain, odors, and pregnancy.
Instead of helping me, Wendy made me wash the floor. After that, I was told to change the sheets for the next interview.
It wasn’t until the third or fourth man was about to enter...it was difficult to recall...that I heard the conversation.
“How much did she cost?” the man asked before entering the room.
“Three hundred for her. Five for the baby.”
“Five? What if it doesn’t survive?”
“She’s beyond the first trimester. I’m certain, sir, that not only will she bring you a profit, but a healthy baby will bring you twenty times what was paid.”
The man scoffed. “I heard she’s a fighter.”
Wendy laughed. “They all start out that way. That’s why I called you. I know how much you enjoy breaking them in.”
“Next one, call me first. I’m not a fan of sloppy seconds or thirds.”
“Of course, sir. I told her to wash, but if you’d rather not—”
“Wendy, you know me better than that. I like them tight. Next time, call me first.”
“I will. We have more coming in a few days; one of our people in St. Louis said he has three targeted.”
“Let me know when they arrive. Maybe I’ll throw a party.”
More.
Party.
Breaking.
As I now sat in the same filthy dress and imagined that others would endure what I had, I was thankful it wasn’t me. That realization confirmed their success. I was breaking or maybe broken.
I wasn’t sure.
Did the broken continue to fight?
A sob came from my chest as I hugged my legs tighter, my hand going to my stomach.
It was confirmed. I was carrying a baby—Patrick’s and my baby—and it was to be sold as I had been.
I yearned to fight, flee, and get back to Patrick.
What must he be thinking?
I’d lived on the streets. I had experience. What I didn’t have was opportunity—none of us did.
All of us stilled whenever the door to the hallway opened. The woman who appeared from the other side was Miss Warner. I didn’t know if that was her real name. Reality didn’t matter in this world. Miss Warner was how she was to be addressed. When she called your name, you were wanted upstairs. The appropriate response was ‘Yes, Ms. Warner. Thank you, Ms. Warner.’
Inappropriate responses were met with force.
The punishments weren’t completely wielded by her though she was quick with her crop.
“Walk faster, girl.”
“Show your appreciation for this reward.”
Each instruction came with a swift swat to a leg or arm.
That wasn’t the same as punishments for misbehaving. For those, she had two large men who willingly obliged with belts and paddles. From what I’d heard, she enjoyed watching.
Though we weren’t allowed to speak to one another, like mice hiding in the cellar, we whispered and at times, huddled close together for heat. Such as a children’s game of telephone, there was no way of knowing if the retold stories were accurate or enhanced.
The positive aspect at hearing one’s name called was that after the customer was done, we’d receive food. If my name wasn’t called, food didn’t appear. Three times a day water was delivered. If only I’d kept track of the water, I might know how long I’d been here. While I would have liked to use it to wash, I couldn’t not drink it. Along with hunger came thirst. The bottles weren’t new. After we were done, they were collected in an old milk crate, refilled and brought back. The water wasn’t always cold, but it was wet, a valuable commodity. Not returning a bottle was a punishable offense.
Considering the squalor, the cell was kept neat.
The responsibility of carrying the bucket up the stairs alternated between girls. It was the only non-sex job that received an edible reward. Though admittedly, it was difficult to maintain an appetite when faced with the contents. Nevertheless, food was food.
There was a strange contradictory sense of wanting and not wa
nting to be requested. I wasn’t certain how the men knew to request us.
Did they say give me a blonde or maybe a brunette?
Did they have pictures of us and descriptions?
Was it like going to a restaurant and we were on the menu?
No one knew.
Each door that I’d seen within this building had a key lock. The door out of this room led to a concrete staircase—again no windows, no means to escape. The door at the top of the staircase led to a hallway with four locked doors. Over the time I’d been here, I’d only been led into two of the rooms.
That wasn’t to say I’d only been upstairs twice. In reality, I’d lost count of my number of visits up the stairs. It was my observation that an assigned room didn’t matter. The two I’d been in were exactly the same—four walls with no windows, containing a mattress upon a frame with one sheet and a chair.
Once led to the room, Miss Warner would instruct us to strip and determine the position we were to lie in upon the bed. The next instruction was to wait.
Could it be possible that the wait was the worst time?
So many questions came to mind as I waited for the door to open.
Who would enter?
What would they do?
Would it hurt?
Would I bleed?
I always did with anal.
I didn’t know if that was normal or if I’d never had time to heal after the first night.
Would the customer be satisfied?
Would I be fed?
In the basement, I’d heard whispered stories about violence for no other reason than to inflict it. In the stories it wasn’t punishment, but something the customer enjoyed. Until the first night, I’d never imagined such a thing.
Did it make me lucky that the only time that happened was the first night?
Was I a quick learner, easily broken, or simply complacent?
On each trip up the stairs, I considered the notion of fighting and fleeing.
And then my next thought was of the baby within me.
Round after round of unprotected sex hadn’t caused me to miscarry.
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