“I’d rather make you pay for my nose.” He unbuttoned my shorts with one hooked finger. Definitely a scary skill.
I swallowed thickly as my pulse thundered in my ears, begging me to take the easy way out for once and keep my mouth shut. But there was no easy way. It was either rape or death, and I couldn’t live with rape. “Don’t forget your teeth,” I said as he jerked down on my zipper.
Miguel’s eyes narrowed and he sat straighter, running his tongue over newly jagged front teeth. His face turned purple with rage. He hadn’t even noticed them. Maybe I should have left well enough alone.
He punched me again, on the same side of my face, and that time I didn’t even see it coming. “That’s for my teeth.”
My head rocked to the side. Tears formed instantly, running over when I blinked. My vision darkened and for several seconds I felt nothing. But then sight and pain came roaring back as I won the battle for consciousness. My face was alive with pain, and my body begged for relief. But I couldn’t oblige. To stay awake, I let the pain take over and block out everything else—even fear.
“Okay, that’s not funny anymore,” I growled, hiding my bruised cheek against my arm in case he took another shot. The left side of my face felt hot and swollen, throbbing with an agony all its own, yet somehow in harmony with my shoulder.
“Let’s see if you think this is funny.” He tugged on one leg of my shorts, which slipped halfway down my hip, dragging the waistband of my panties along for the ride.
No, in fact, I did not think that was funny. And it was even less funny when he pulled down the other side.
Panicked, I kicked and bucked, trying to toss him off my legs. Miguel hung on tight. He seemed to enjoy the ride, in fact, which made my stomach churn. Luckily, he hit a snag when my shorts were at midthigh. He couldn’t get them any lower while he sat on my legs, but he couldn’t get up without letting go of my hands. Or so I thought.
He leaned forward, his weight threatening to crush my wrists, and got to first one knee, then the other, straddling my lower thighs. He reached down for my shorts, and I brought both knees up into his crotch.
I didn’t have the leverage to put much power behind my thrust, but I didn’t need much after that last kick. He let go of my wrists to clutch his groin again, and I saw my chance. I shoved him in the chest with both feet. He fell over backward on the floor. His head smacked the concrete with a promising thud. I mentally crossed my fingers as I sat up, hoping he was unconscious.
No such luck. Miguel was one tough son of a bitch. But he was hurt. He was bleeding from his nose and his mouth, and had taken two strikes to the crotch. Surely he’d had enough.
I scrambled onto my feet and pulled my shorts back into place, buttoning them with one eye on Miguel. If he got me down again, I wanted him to have to work just as hard the second time around. In fact, at that point, I would have voluntarily donned a chastity belt.
Miguel lay motionless on the ground, still breathing. I pulled my foot back to kick him in the groin one last time, to make sure his favorite weapon would be out of commission for a while. But as soon as my foot left the ground, he swept the other one out from under me.
I landed on my ass on the edge of the mattress then fell over onto my back. My teeth snapped together hard enough to jar my brain. My left arm swung away from my waist before I could stop it, and the pain that had subsided to a persistent ache began screaming all over again.
One minute I was up, seriously reconsidering Ethan’s victory dance, and the next I was flat on my back, relearning how to breathe. And waiting for Miguel’s weight to drop onto me again.
But it didn’t. He’d finally had enough, at least for the moment.
Metal scraped metal, and I heard the lock click open. He was leaving, which meant he’d have to open the door. Exhausted but desperate, I rolled over my uninjured arm and jumped to my feet. Miguel had the door open. I ran for it, holding my left arm against my side. I came at him as fast as I could, but his fist was there to meet me. He punched me in the stomach, absorbing my forward momentum and knocking the breath from my lungs. I doubled over and fell backward onto the ground, curled around the agony in my abdomen.
As I lay on the floor, gasping and unable to move, the lock clicked shut, and I knew I’d missed my chance. I cried. I couldn’t help it. I screamed in rage and frustration, sobs shaking my body with enough force to knock my head against the concrete.
I didn’t watch him leave, though I knew he was limping from the syncopated rhythm of his feet on the stairs. I couldn’t look at Abby. I couldn’t even open my eyes. Shrieking at the pain in my shoulder, I crawled onto my mattress and cried until sleep came to my rescue.
Twenty-Three
As the sun set on my first day behind bars, I sat on my mattress in the rapidly fading daylight, evaluating the various injuries vying for my attention. My left shoulder screamed in protest as I stretched, and my face felt raw enough to qualify for examination by the Food and Drug Administration. My stomach, now rainbow-hued, was too tender to touch, as was my right foot. I tried to run a hand through my hair, but my fingers got stuck in Miguel’s dried blood a couple of inches from my scalp.
Lovely. And me without my shampoo.
After a careful inventory of the rest of my body, I pronounced myself fortunate that nothing was broken. I was pretty sure Miguel hadn’t been so lucky.
Digging through the remains of my lunch, I found an unused paper napkin, which I dampened with the last of my water. I couldn’t do much about my hair without a good hot shower, but at least I could mop up the rest of the mess. Well, most of it, anyway.
The back of my right hand was swollen and crusted with dried blood, so I began there, wiping at my knuckles with short, measured strokes intended to spare my shoulder from unnecessary movement. After several minutes of slow work, I uncovered the source of my own minor blood loss. Miguel’s teeth had gashed my fist in three places, but the cuts were small and already scabbed over. More good luck.
With my hand reasonably clean, I started on my face and neck, avoiding my left cheek entirely. Without the benefit of a mirror, I had to explore my skin with my fingers, searching for each drop of blood Miguel had dripped on me. I scrubbed until the napkin fell apart in my hand, then scratched the rest off with my fingernails.
As clean as I could get without a shower, I glanced into Abby’s cage, where my cousin lay asleep on her mattress. Watching her, I realized she was right; if I was no use to Miguel, he had no reason to keep me alive. Once he’d healed, he would kill me. I had no doubt about it. I wouldn’t go out without a fight, but there wasn’t much I could do against two men at once, and I was pretty sure he’d bring Eric along next time, even if just to hold me down or sedate me. Miguel wasn’t stupid. He was just psychotic.
With the big threat stewing in the back of my mind, my thoughts to turned to a more immediate problem: I had to use the restroom. Soon. Disgusted but desperate, I picked up the discarded coffee can and glanced inside. You’ve survived worse, I told myself, but it didn’t help. Peeing in a can was just another in a series of dehumanizing humiliations to be endured, like being snatched, sedated, tied up, groped, knocked around and groped some more.
Not my best day, overall. In fact, house arrest didn’t seem so terrible anymore. Hell, the state penitentiary was starting to look good.
I’d almost talked myself into using the coffee canister when the basement door opened—this time without warning. The rest of me froze as my head swiveled toward the steps. The plastic jug shook in my grip. I wasn’t ready to take another beating in defense of my honor. Not yet.
Thankfully, the aroma of fried chicken gave Ryan away almost immediately. My tension eased and my stomach growled. There was no rosemary, but even KFC was better than another burger.
“If I ask nicely, will you turn on the light?” I asked, trying my best to sound friendly as I dropped the coffee container on the ground.
Ryan paused on the third step. “Let me hear the mag
ic words.”
“Pretty please.” Abby beat me to it. I smiled, glancing at where she now sat cross-legged on her mattress. But instead of returning my smile, she gaped at me in horror. I blinked at her in confusion for a moment, but then I remembered my face clashing with the wall. And with Miguel’s fist. Twice.
Good thing I wasn’t vain. Much.
Ryan flipped the switch, and Abby gasped, still staring at my face. Evidently the light was unflattering. Even without a mirror, I understood her alarm. In the weak overhead glow, I saw the swollen edge of my cheek at the bottom of my vision, like a purple half moon on the horizon. “It looks worse than it feels,” I said, wondering if that was even possible.
“Good, because you look like shit.” Ryan stared at me from the bottom step, again holding two fast-food bags.
“You should see the other guy.”
“I have. Miguel’s furious. He’s been stomping around for two hours, cussing in Portuguese and making everyone else miserable.”
At least there’s an upside. I smiled at the thought of Miguel’s mutilated face.
“You should have listened to me, Faythe,” Ryan said, coming to a stop in front of my cage. He dropped the food on the ground and reached through the bars to turn my face toward the light, inspecting my injuries with his brow furrowed in concern. “He’s talking about replacing you.”
My pulse jumped. “Does that mean I get to go home?” Please, please, please let that mean I get to go home. But I knew better.
“Hardly.” He tilted my face to the right. “He and Sean are going after another girl first thing in the morning. If you aren’t a little easier to deal with when they get back…well, he won’t really need you then.”
I stepped back, jerking my chin from his grasp. If he was really concerned about me, he’d do something to help instead of lecturing me on acquiescence. “Just say it, Ryan,” I snapped, angry over much more than my brother’s inability to say exactly what he meant. “Just say he’ll kill me.”
He bent over to pick up the bags, too much of a coward to meet my eyes. “Yeah. He might. I don’t think he’d do it on purpose, but you have this way of bringing out the worst in people…” Ryan shrugged, leaving the rest to my too-fertile imagination.
My throat felt thick as I swallowed, ignoring his insult in favor of his actual point. Death marks the end of pain and humiliation, but captivity only marks the beginning of it.
Ryan shoved a paper bag through the bars of my cage, but I stood in front of him with my arms crossed beneath my breasts, refusing to accept it. “Take the food, Faythe.” He shook my dinner as if it were a box of Nine Lives, but I just stared at him. “Fine.” He opened his fist and let the bag drop to the ground.
I didn’t even glance at it, choosing to glare at him instead. Ryan rolled his eyes at me and marched toward Abby’s cell. He slid her bag into the cage, seeming first surprised then pleased when she took it with no resistance. “Now, see? Abby’s being cooperative, so why can’t you?”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“So, go.” He waved his hand at the empty coffee can.
“You’re not listening.” I didn’t bother to screen irritation from my voice. “I want to go to the bathroom.”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to. I don’t have a key.”
Oh, shit. I’d forgotten. “That’s right. Miguel doesn’t trust you.”
“Look, pee if you need to, and I’ll empty the can for you. That’s the best I can do, and pissing me off isn’t going to change anything. Unless I decided to let your can sit for a while.”
Okay, he had me there. The situation wasn’t going to improve, so I might as well get it over with. Glowering, I bent to snatch the canister from the floor. “Turn around.”
“Happy to.” He turned with his back to the bars, and I glanced at Abby. She sat facing the back wall of her cage, chewing something crunchy. Ryan huffed impatiently. “You’ve done this before, so hurry up.”
“Yeah, well, the indignity of peeing in a can wasn’t something I thought I’d ever have to repeat.”
“Just get it over with,” he snapped.
I did, and briefly considered making them both plug their ears. But that would have only emphasized my embarrassment. I used another napkin from the burger bag to wipe, and dropped it into the can too. A girl has her standards, even behind bars.
Carrying the container to Ryan was an exercise in degradation. “I’m going to write to my senator,” I said, trying to cover my humiliation with sarcasm. “These prison conditions are appalling.” I slid the coffee can through the bars to Ryan, and he took it with both hands.
“Your senator. That’s good. While you’re at it, tell him my salary is below the minimum wage, and my hours are inhumane.” He carried the can through a doorway beneath the stairs, which presumably hid a small bathroom. I heard the toilet flush and smelled vanilla-scented soap as Ryan washed his hands. When he returned, he sat on the floor across from the empty cage, facing both me and Abby.
“I don’t suppose you have any hand sanitizer?” I said, holding my palms up for inspection.
“Nope. Sorry.” He shrugged.
“There’s a wet wipe in your bag,” Abby said, now facing me with a half-eaten chicken breast in one hand.
“Thanks.” I rummaged through the bag until I found it, careful not to touch the food. Ripping open the little foil package, I cleaned my hands as well as I could, even wiping off the last flecks of Miguel’s blood. Then I dove into my meal. Two fried-chicken breasts, potatoes and gravy, a half ear of corn, and a biscuit. No butter, no salt. “It’s not as good as Mom’s but hardly reason to complain,” I said around a mouthful of chicken. They’d even given us silverware. Well, plasticware.
“Glad you’re pleased.” Ryan dug a bottle of water from each of two long pockets on the sides of his baggy khakis. He handed one to me and tossed the other into Abby’s cage and onto her mattress.
I opened my bottle and swallowed half of the contents in one long drink.
Above my head and to my right, the doorknob squealed as it turned. I screwed the cap on my bottle, my eyes glued to the stairs. My heart fluttered as I wondered which of our abductors I’d be facing this time. I glanced at Ryan, hoping for some clue as to what was about to happen, but he just shrugged and stood up, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
Red canvas sneakers appeared on the top step. It was Sean. I started to relax, remembering the genuine sound of regret in his voice on the ranch, and the fact that he hadn’t touched Abby. But then I remembered that his scent had been all over Sara, and I tensed again, my hands curling into fists at my sides.
“Hey, Sean,” Ryan said, and I saw tension fade from his face. He wasn’t afraid of Sean, which meant I probably shouldn’t be either.
Sean stopped, leaning down from the fifth step for a better view of the basement. “Ryan.” He exhaled deeply. “You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were Eric for a minute.”
“Nah, it’s just me. Whatcha need?”
“Nothing. I just came to say hi to Faythe.” He jogged the rest of the way down the steps and turned his eyes to me. “Hi, Faythe.”
“Hi.” I set my food aside and stood, looking from him to Ryan in amazement. The relaxed quality of their greetings gave me chills.
“Come on down,” Ryan said.
Sean shrugged. His gaze darted to the cage on my right as he passed it. His jaw tensed and moisture gleamed in his eyes.
Oh, shit. I thought. That was Sara’s cage. How could I not have realized that?
“How are you, Faythe?” he asked, tearing his eyes from the empty cage to meet mine.
I propped my hands on my hips. “How do I look?”
“Like hell.”
“Yep.” I nodded. “That about sums it up.”
“I’m really sorry about all this,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets to duplicate Ryan’s pose. “I never meant for any of this to happen.”
> That made two of us. “What did you mean to happen?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me. I thought I understood Sean’s motive for snatching Sara. But killing her…?
“Nothing. I just wanted to talk to Sara. I didn’t know they had any of this planned.” His voice sounded strange. Kind of hollow.
“What did you know?” I asked as Ryan shook his head frantically at me from behind Sean. I ignored him. “Why did you let them take her?”
“I…” He paused, meeting my eyes for just a second before bowing his head and glancing away again. “Damn, this is going to sound bad, Faythe, but I bought her.”
I blinked, staring at him without even a spark of comprehension. He bought her. Eric had said he bought Abby, but what the hell did that mean? How do you buy a person?
“You bought Sara?” I asked, still trying to understand. “Who did you buy her from? How much did she cost?”
“Nothing.” His face was disturbingly composed, yet he sounded offended, as if I should have been ashamed for asking the question. That was wrong in so many ways. “I didn’t pay money. Hell, I didn’t have any money. I promised my labor, just like Eric did for Abby.” He glanced at her briefly over his shoulder. “I have to work for him for two years, or until he agrees that my debt is paid, whichever comes first.”
For a moment, no one spoke, as Abby and I tried to absorb what he’d said. Then she screeched, outrage reddening her face. “You paid for Sara by helping kidnap us?”
Sean dropped his eyes, finally showing a little shame, but it was much too late to garner any sympathy. “I told you it would sound bad.”
Abby nodded hysterically, curls flying. “It sounds fucking terrible.”
“She’s right, Sean.” I struggled to keep my voice calm and even. Behind him, Ryan rubbed his forehead, mouthing some kind of warning at me.
“I know.” Sean ran one hand through his lank brown hair. He looked as if he’d just been scolded for drinking from the milk carton. “I know how bad it sounds, but I never meant for any of this to happen. I only wanted to talk to her alone, so she could listen to me without her parents whispering in her ear. It just—” he glanced down “—it didn’t go like I planned.”
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