by Amber Lacie
The morning didn’t come as fast as I’d have liked, but it was finally here. The smog of the city was lifting around us as I peered out my bedroom window. I swear, Chicago never slept. People were already rushing about, creating chaos in their wake, and gave zero fucks about who it was affecting. I shook my head as I watched a car almost plow down an old man at a crosswalk. He had every right to cross the street safely, but they didn’t give fuck. They had somewhere else they needed to be. The world was a cold, heartless place. It didn’t give a fuck about anyone; it just kept spinning as though our mere existence were a waste of its time.
Everything was ready. Jim had gassed up the bikes last night, and the plan was to hit the road just after daybreak. The only thing holding us back was the call we had received from Uncle Aaron.
Apparently, he was running a few things by some prick in a suit before giving me the all clear. The FBI had been tracking me for quite some time. I didn’t mind. Fuck, that’s what I had signed up for. Getting into Saint’s place without Roscoe sniffing around meant I was going to need a little bit more leeway. The bureau was going to have to back the fuck off. All surveillance needed to be cut––no mics, no trackers, no cameras. Everything needed to stop before I left my apartment.
Brendan was finally within my grasp and I wasn’t going to let some jackoff with cuffs tell me how to handle it. Nah, I was going to crush him to the ground, completely obliterating his existence. After that, I would give the suits what they wanted.
Just then, a heavy knock rapped at my door. Patting myself down, I made sure I wasn’t missing anything. After grabbing my bag I headed out to the living room, where I found Jim pouring a suit a cup of coffee.
“What the fuck is this?” I asked Jim, nodding to the man who was now leaning against my counter.
“That,” Jim cleared his throat, “is Aaron’s phone call.”
My eyes raked over the man. He was wearing a black suit, with perfectly parted hair. I watched as he pressed his tie against his chest to keep it from dipping into his coffee. My skin crawled at the sight of him. “You. Out.” I flipped my finger in his direction before pointing at my door.
“The name is Beckett, if you just let me—”
A crazed laugh escaped my lips. “This isn’t backing off!” I shouted. “Now, you’re just pissing in my coffee. Get. Out.”
“Boss, I got ya’ coffee right here. The man ain’t staying, he’s just dropping some stuff off. Ain’t that right?” Jim handed me a black mug and turned back to the sink, rinsing off the few dishes that remained.
“As I was trying to say––my name is Beckett. I’m your contact from here on out. Agent Aaron, as you know him, is still a huge part of this investigation. He’ll just be overseeing it from a distance. The bureau felt he was too close to you to make rational decisions. That being said, we want you to know that we appreciate everything you have done for us thus far. I understand you wish to go alone, without any of our help. Can you give me a quick briefing on what your reasoning is?”
Everything was so fucked up. I trusted Aaron. I knew him. My jaw ticked. “If Tate finds out you’re here, everything is fucked. You realize this, right? All of you need to back off. I know what I’m doing. This needs to be handled a certain way or flags are going to be raised. If that happens, everything I’ve worked for will be over in an instant.”
“Are you sure everything is under control? Suggestions on how we contact you?”
“Yes, and you won’t. I will reach out to you once I have a better view of everything.”
“That’s not exactly how we do things.” The irritation in his voice didn’t go unnoticed. I just didn’t give a fuck.
“It is now.”
Beckett stared back at me. “You have forty-eight hours before your next check-in. That’s non-negotiable. The number is programmed into his phone,” he said, motioning toward Jim. “Just in case yours becomes compromised. Forty-eight hours. If we haven’t heard from you by then, we will move on with Plan B.”
“Which is?”
“That, Mr. Oxley, is way above your clearance.” The suit gently set his cup back down on the counter before turning around and leaving the apartment just as quickly as he’d entered.
Jim stood frozen for a few seconds, leaning over the sink. I don’t know why, but I quietly walked to the front door, turning the lock. I’m sure it wasn’t preventing them from entering, but it made me feel safer, stronger.
“Jesus, Ben––this just keeps getting bigger,” Jim muttered. “I ain’t no cop, man, but they’re fucking with our lives like we ain’t nothing but bait.”
“That, Jim, is exactly what we are to them. We need to prove to them that we don’t need their help. Not right now anyway. He said forty-eight hours, yeah? So, let’s not miss check-in.”
I wanted nothing more than to take down my father’s empire. Watching it burn while warming my hands above the flames would make my day. I just wanted to be alive to witness it. Sadly, the way things were headed, I wasn’t sure if that was still a possibility. Slinging my pack over my shoulder I gave Jim a nod of my head. “Let’s go.”
By the time we hit the parking lot, Jim was grinning like an idiot. Fucker loved to ride. His bike was pearl white with a chromed out fishtail exhaust and matching hanger handlebars. It was pretty, I’ll give him that, but it wasn’t mine. Beside Jim’s ride sat a 1999 Harley Heritage Softail that had been lowered two inches with a custom fat spoke, black rims with white wall tires, dual extended chrome fishtail exhaust with matching sixteen-inch ape hanger handlebars, and a deep sounding ninety-six stroke motor. The paint was finished in a matte black. She was loud, and I loved the way she felt beneath me.
After slipping both arms through the straps of my pack, I clipped it around my waist, and pulled my helmet over my head. Jim never approved of my helmet obsession. He said it kicked my bike down a bit, but I had seen one too many accidents. I wanted my brain in my head, not smeared across the asphalt. My legs straddled the beautiful machine and my hands tightly gripped the handles as the loud motor roared to life. Within minutes, we were off.
I had forty-eight hours before I needed to check in and my goal was to be knee deep in whatever Saint was doing in eight. Mentally crossing my fingers, I kicked the speed up a few notches. With Chicago behind me, I was headed towards Momence to a house on the river.
I was headed for revenge.
TAP! TAP! TAP! PLOP! PING! RUMBLE! Thunder rolled behind the dark clouds that were looming over the small house, the tin roof adding a hypnotizing effect to the relentless storm outside. Despite the air outside being warm, I was freezing. I sat with my legs curled up beneath me. The sheet I had wrapped around my shoulders did nothing to halt the cold seeping into my bones. As I listened to the storm outside rage on, it tricked my mind into reliving memories I wish I no longer had.
I was barely eight years old when the courts separated me from my sister. Besides our junky of a mother, she was the only family I had ever known. Our mom had overdosed, leaving us to fend for ourselves. Christina tried her best to keep us off the streets, but sadly, it was no use. At thirteen it was almost impossible for her to find work, and what she did find would make anyone’s skin crawl with disgust. After two months of fighting to keep us above water, we ended up in a homeless shelter. That first night she tucked me into my cot with a worn gray blanket. I remember how it scratched against my skin as she leaned over me, kissing my forehead. ‘It won’t be like this forever, Pipes. It’s just for tonight. It’ll be different in the morning, I promise.’
For the first time in a long time, she was right. When we awoke in the morning a social worker was waiting for us. We quickly gathered what belongings we had into a large black trash bag and slipped into the back of the Buick that waiting outside for us. After we arrived at the social services building, I was placed into a room with stark white walls and a light brown desk, which sat under the window with tan blinds. I gripped the back of the red plastic chair in front of the desk and sta
red out into the hallway where Christina stood. She smiled at me and whispered, ‘It’ll be okay.’
That was the last time I saw her.
After that day I bounced from house to house in the foster care program, often reminded that my attitude would only get me into trouble. The last house I was at belonged to a Roger and Ethel Holstein. I remember when the social worker introduced me. She warned me that it was my last chance at having a real family. She promised they were sweet and that no harm would come to me.
She lied.
Ethel was a drunk and never stuck around long enough for me to even get in a few words during dinner. Roger––he was a toucher. His hands constantly brushed my shoulders, slipped around my waist, and danced across my inner thigh. I hated them. I hated life.
One-night, Roger came in my room accusing me of leading him on. I was seventeen at the time. The only place I wanted to lead him was to jail. I told myself I could stick it out a few more months, until I aged out of the system, so I lay there, waiting for him to touch me. He never did. Instead he began sobbing. The only thing I understood was when he told me to run. ‘Just go! I’m a bad man. You shouldn’t have to pay for my mistakes. Run.’ His fist slammed into the wall and I jumped to my feet, throwing everything I owned into a green duffle bag. I took off without a dollar to my name. But I didn’t care, I would figure it out. I always had.
Footsteps echoed outside the thin brown door, startling me, bringing me back to reality and pushing away the past life I no longer wanted to remember. Hell, I didn’t even want to remember the room I was currently sitting in. The only thing keeping me safe from whoever was yelling was the door I was nervously watching. Perhaps I was more trapped than safe. I guess it depends on how you look at it.
Alton told me he would come back for me. He promised me a world where I didn’t have to turn tricks to pay off my debt. He was sweet, and for a moment, I let myself get lost in the idea. I remember when he snuck into my room the night he left me. His legs were too long for the jeans he was wearing so he had rolled them up to his calves. I teased him, telling him how ridiculous he looked, but he just laughed. His dark brown shaggy hair was more like a mop that had never been properly washed. He was a disheveled mess, but he was my mess.
What happened after that night wasn’t his fault. It’s not like we had much. Living along the river wasn’t ideal, but we were living. At least, that’s what Saint called it. To me, it was prison. We were both being held as payment. The only difference was that I was a female, and with that came a payment of services no one should have to live through.
I was reminded frequently of the kindness they had shown us. Not everyone was allowed to live and being permitted to stay in their house was even more unheard of.
The room I called home was in the basement. A dirt floor, concrete cinder blocks, and one lone window was my only view. Occasionally, if I was good, they would let me walk around the property. From outside, I could see the river, but I was never able to get close to it. They made sure of that. Their prized sex slave escaping by swimming downstream––that wasn’t acceptable.
Alton’s room was next to mine. At night it was just us, alone in the dark. We talked to each other once the house grew quiet, only the echoes of our voices bouncing off the brick walls. I’m not sure how long I was down there before Alton was brought in. However, within a few days of his arrival he had struck a deal with them and was granted the freedom to roam the grounds.
Then, one night after roaming the ground during day, he came into my room talking of escaping. Perhaps he had finally lost his mind, or maybe he was trying to save what was left. Either way, he never gave up on the idea. So much so, that he starved himself for over a month in an attempt to slim his frame to fit through the small window in my room. There was no way I would ever fit. If my breasts didn’t prevent it, my hips would. Alton, however, was a different story. He was tall and lanky. Not only could he reach the window with a jump, he was also limber enough to pull himself through it.
Closing my eyes, I pictured him the night he snuck out of the small window near the ceiling. ‘I’ll fix this. I’ll come back for you, just don’t give up. Stay alive,’ he whispered before disappearing into the darkness leaving me alone in the damp, cold basement wondering when Saint would next call for me. I remember thinking that he would surely question me about Alton’s escape. He never did.
That was over six months ago. For the first month I kept hope in his promise. With every sound, I found myself hoping it was Alton coming back to save me, just as he’d promised. I was wrong. Holding onto hope for something that would never come wasn’t just stupid, it was dangerous. Eventually, I fell back into my normal despair. Only it was so much worse the second time around. Hope had damaged me. Possibly irrevocably.
Saint had noticed a change in me as well, and he took advantage of it by calling for me more often. I no longer put up a fight when he would have me sent to rooms to help his men ‘relax.’ Somewhere, someone was keeping track of everything I had done. I often pictured a book of tally marks in my head; once I had so many, they would let me go. Surely, they can’t keep me much longer, I thought to myself. How long would I be punished for stealing some food? It’s not like I took their drugs or money. A loaf of bread, some lunchmeat, and a bottle of water from a cooler on the dock had sentenced me to Hell.
Sadly, my freedom would never be earned. I learned that after Alton left, never to return. There was nothing I could do. Sticky fingers had gotten me into this situation, and now Saint owned me. Everything I did was with his permission. Eating, sleeping, and showering became luxuries.
Just then, a crack of lightning jolted my senses.
The scraping of keys against the lock on my door alerted me to someone approaching. My fingers quickly ran through my hair in an attempt to make myself look somewhat presentable. Even though Saint controlled when I showered, he hated when I looked unkempt.
Thick black boots walked across the creaking wood floors. Suddenly, a hand covered in tattoos wrapped around the medal frame of my bed. “Piper, stop cowering. You and I both know Saint has called for you. Don’t make me drag you out of here,” he said. “If you’re looking for a fight, I don’t mind. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to toss you over my shoulder. Come to think of it, when is the last time you felt my hands between your legs?” the man taunted.
Shivers coursed across my skin like jagged razor blades. Fucking Bull. Saint was on the top of my revenge list, but Bull was a close second. He did everything he was told, without question. A sick pride in his ability to break a person ruled his hands. The first night I was brought down here, Bull was the one to welcome me. For seven days straight, he tormented me. His hands would pull at my skin, forcing themselves between my legs. Eventually, the advances on my body no longer affected me. I turned my mind off and pretended death had come for me. After a few more visits, he grew tired of me.
Instead, he brushed me off as broken. I was no longer of use to him, so Saint deemed me property of the men. Anyone he deemed worthy could have a go with my body. My mind, however, was not theirs. I kept that locked away, hidden in the recesses of my skull. That’s when Alton came. Being naïve, I let him in. It was the second biggest mistake of my life. I had let myself hope, only to have it slap me in the face once again.
Bull cleared his throat, pulling me from my thoughts. Jumping to my feet, I refused to make him tell me twice. I brushed my long skinny fingers down the plaid dress they had dressed me in a week earlier. It hung loosely off my thin shoulders.
“You look sick. I’ll make sure to say something to Saint. You should eat.”
Dark brown eyes stared back at him lifelessly. There was no need to give him a response; I had no say in the matter anyway. Waving his hand in front of him, I stepped out of the dark room into a dimly lit hallway. The stairs remained silent under my light steps. Though, behind me, I could hear them groan with each heavy step Bull took. Funny, even they protested against him.
&
nbsp; Two quick turns at the top of the staircase had me standing in the sitting room in front of a large brick fireplace. I doubt they ever used it, but wood was stacked inside it nonetheless. Suddenly a pair of large fingers wrapped around my shoulders as I stared down at my feet.
Don’t make eye contact. Stay in your mind. Don’t let them see you break, I silently told myself.
I lived and breathed the three rules I had set in-place for myself. As long as I followed them, I was still in control of myself. Or so I thought.
The rough fingers on my shoulder cascaded down my thin arm. “Bull was right, you should eat. I can’t have my prize cow growing too thin on me, now can I?”
I stood silently. No response was needed. Everything was better when I was quiet. A girl with an opinion or stance on any matter, whether she agreed with them or not, would be backhanded across the room. I know, it happened to me twice before I finally caught on.
“Such a meek little mouse. We may have to move you soon. Word is, my boss is sending someone here to check up on me. Maybe I should have you put into my room for a bit. There’s a hot shower and warm blankets. If you’re good, I may even let you sleep on the bed instead of the floor.” Laughing, he tilted his head back to the ceiling. It had to have been an inside joke because nothing about any of this seemed funny to me. “What do you think, Mouse? Should I let you stay with me?” he asked, eyeing me carefully. “Go on, give me a kiss and beg me for it.”
My feet were planted firmly on the worn wooden floor, my eyes locked on the hearth of the fireplace.
Don’t make eye contact. Stay in your mind. Don’t let them see you break, I repeated once again.
His fingers brushed down my spine as he pulled my hair away from my neck. My resilience slipped as I shivered from his touch. Fuck.
“Be a good girl. Beg.”
I stood, unmoving. I thought I had steeled my nerves and that nothing could affect me, but at that moment, when he asked me to beg, I felt my spine straighten. Not giving him the satisfaction of having me fall to my knees was such a small action in the grand scheme of things, but I took it anyway. I rebelled.