Exploited (The Dark Redemption Series)

by Lane Hart

“Good girl.”

  He praises me like I’m a well-behaved dog, yet inwardly I can’t help but preen a little at hearing just that small compliment. God, I’m pathetic.

  “Don’t scream or call the police and I won’t hurt you. Deal?”

  I nod vigorously since I’m so down with that plan. I haven’t screamed in years, and the police in this town are worthless. Besides, they’ll be looking for me soon enough, so why make it so easy for them? I mean, I’m already crashing in my childhood home. There may as well be a white surrender flag flying above the house. But I needed to come back here, to the one place that reminds me of my mom, to be able to see her in old pictures and videos since it’s been so long that she’s starting to fade from my memory. I really hate that I can’t picture her face anymore, so hopefully my father hasn’t thrown the pictures of her away. I need to see her face, the one of the only person who’s ever loved me just one more time. Besides, when I left, I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. So, I’ll hunker down here for a few days. Tomorrow I’ll dig through old things in the attic, and, if I’m lucky, hopefully find some cash from my old stash or my dad’s, and then vanish in some shape or form before anyone’s the wiser. Except for my late night prowler. What exactly does he want?

  The flashlight shines around the room, and I assume he’s looking for shit to steal. He’s gonna be real disappointed because I haven’t been in this room since I was eight years old. So unless he wants a few Barbie dolls that might be considered collectibles on eBay, he’s really screwed.

  “Give me your phone,” he orders.

  I hold my palms up higher for him to see, trying to convey the message that I don’t have a phone. I assume he means a cell phone. Seriously, I just turned eighteen, and I’ve never owned one before. But I have seen them on TV and in movies and read about them in books. That’s all I’ve had to do for the past ten years.

  “Stop fucking around and give me your phone!” he exclaims.

  When I don’t move, he apparently gets impatient; because before I know it, he’s down on the closet floor with me, stripping the covers from my body. His leather gloved hands pat me down and then feel around the floor, shining the light where little girl dress shoes, half my current size, are still lined up against the wall.

  “You really don’t have a phone?” he asks in disbelief after he's finished with his search.

  I shake my head. Wait. Should I nod for yes to indicate I really don’t have one, or does he understand I’m shaking my head to say no, I don’t have one?

  There’s nothing but silence from the late night prowler, and I’m starting to worry that he doesn’t believe me.

  “Sit your ass right there and don’t move,” he eventually orders before getting to his feet.

  I haven’t breathed, much less moved an inch of my body. Fear has ahold of me, paralyzing every single muscle like that’s some beneficial survival method. What happened to the fight or flight instinct I read about? My stupid body must have missed that memo and decided that pretending to be a statue is my best chance of not being murdered. Although, I haven’t actually seen any weapons yet…

  Outside the closet door, I see the gleam of the flashlight swirling around my room, and then I hear one of my dresser drawers being opened. Knowing he might be looking at my underwear causes my cheeks to burn in embarrassment, even if they are ten years old.

  “Ah, here we go,” the robber says, his voice increasing in volume as he returns to my hiding place. The one place in the house I thought I might be safe and a robber finds me. How ironic is that?

  My stupid body still doesn’t react. Not a single twitch. If anything, I’m obviously very obedient when given instructions.

  “I’m gonna pick you up and put you on the bed, okay?” he asks nicely before reaching down and lifting me in his arms, cradling me so gently against his hard chest that I forget to be afraid. Instead, I actually wrap my arms around his neck to hold on, realizing he’s tall and muscular and smells…nice and clean.

  Wait.

  Did he say bed?

  My bottom hits the mattress first right as the realization of what’s going on hits me, and I try to scurry away from the sheetless bed.

  “Calm down. I’m just trying to make sure you stay put,” he says on an exhale, pushing on my shoulders, forcing me to lie down. He grabs both of my hands in his leather gloves and starts wrapping fabric tightly around my wrists before lifting them above my head. The whole time I fight, trying to pull out of his grasp. I can’t…be restrained again…I just got free!

  My struggle is futile, though. He’s bigger and so much stronger, tugging me up the bed and putting his heavy knee on my chest to hold me down while I continue to fight and begin to sob. Once I’m restrained, I know I’m screwed. I’ll no longer be able to run or fight, not that I did either when I had the chance. That’s when the first tears slip down my cheeks. I was hoping this guy would just steal some things and leave. But now…now I’m not so sure.

  “Stay here and don’t make a sound,” he commands, rubbing a smooth, gloved finger against my trembling lips.

  His words cause a flashback to the day and the man who my nightmares were all made from. “Not a single fucking word to anyone! And if you do, this knife is gonna cut you up like it did her. Do you understand, Blair? Keep your mouth shut!”

  Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I hold my breath and repeat his orders over and over again in my head to block out the screams and the blood. Stay here and don’t make a sound. Stay here and don’t make a sound. Stay here and don’t make a sound. I chant the phrase over and over again as I vaguely hear his footsteps quietening when he leaves the room. A few creaking floorboards tell me he’s moving around the house as quiet as a mouse. I’m not sure how long I stay there, freaking out, repeating the words and sniffling back my tears while waiting for him to return with an ax or something else equally as frightening.

  I keep trying to tug my wrist free until my arms go numb from being raised in their restraints.

  After what feels like a lifetime, the man’s shadowy form walks back through my doorway again.

  “All done, Blair. Painless, right?” he asks, his words catching me more off guard than if he was carrying an ax.

  How does he know my name?

  I try to figure out that mystery while he thankfully begins untying my hands.

  “I’m pretty fucking surprised to see you back here,” he says, implying that he somehow knows me. I don’t remember anyone from this town. Well, except for one man, but he doesn’t live around here any longer, thanks to me.

  “Still a little liar, putting innocent men behind bars?” the stranger asks, making me gasp so hard I choke on the massive intake of air.

  How does he know? There are only two other people alive who know the truth because I’ve kept my mouth shut for ten years, afraid to utter a single word for fear of confessing.

  Chapter Three

  Late Night Prowler

  Blair Fucking Lockhart.

  I had almost forgotten the part she played in destroying my life, taking my family from me.

  None of my contacts in town mentioned seeing her. It was almost like she disappeared off the face of the fucking earth. But now here she is, no longer a lying little girl, but a breathtaking beauty. One that radiates childhood innocence even in the darkness, and right now she looks absolutely terrified, as she very well should.

  Tonight, I only found a few flash drives that I’ll take back to my hotel room and examine on my laptop, but I doubt they’ll have what I need. I want to keep looking, nearly frantic in my search for proof, but I know better than to stay too long. Besides, I’ve got all week, maybe two, because my contacts assured me that, for the first time in years, he’s not just out of town but out of the fucking country on a honeymoon or some shit.

  To be so rich, the man’s cheap, which is how I was able to disable his worthless alarm in about ten seconds last night when I cased the place. There weren’t any surveillance cameras to
worry about, either. Really, it seems almost too easy to take him down.

  Except for this one forgotten girl that might ruin everything, unless I can convince her to help me. How long had she been hiding in that damn closet? Was she here last night and I didn’t hear her? And why would anyone sleep on the floor when there’s a bed so close by?

  She’s scared shitless, and I’m obviously not helping.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna hurt you,” I assure her as I stand hovering above her prone form on the bed. Not that I don’t want to hurt her, because I do. So fucking bad that I need to get the hell out of here, and soon. Being this close to her in a dark, empty house, I could do whatever the fuck I wanted to take out a little of my anger on her. All the heartache. The years we’ll never get back, even if I find the evidence I need. It’s not just her father’s fault, it’s hers, too. But the ways I want to hurt her, well, they would make me more of a monster than he is. Not to mention, I may not ever be able to look at myself in the mirror afterward.

  Only, none of those things seem like enough to make me walk away from her without some sort of penance. Tomorrow, my inner monster promises me. I’ll try to keep my distance during the day, which means I’ll have to put a tracking device on her car. Then, tomorrow night I need her to come back here to me, since I can’t approach her in public. I have to see her again, though, and I know one thing that might convince her.

  “When I leave, you can’t rat me out to a single soul,” I warn, swiping a gloved finger down her thin top, right between her supple breasts that are so fucking tempting. I jerk my hand away before it goes rogue and stops listening to my commands “If you’re a good girl, well, be here tomorrow night, in this bed, not in the closet, and I’ll make you an offer you won’t be able to refuse.”

  I pocket the scarf I restrained her with, already knowing I’ll bring it back tomorrow night. My evil, controlling cock starts to get hard again at just the memory of how good it felt when she fought me before I overpowered her and was able to restrain her. Being aroused by something so fucked up makes me want to slice the goddamn appendage off with a dull, rusty blade. It’s all the reminder I need that despite four years of therapy, inside I’m still just as sick and twisted as I’ll always be, thanks to the demons of my shitty past.

  Pushing aside those sadistic thoughts, I start to leave, my malevolent cock angry and demanding that I go back to the hotel and abuse him while imagining the long list of depravity that’s constantly churning in my head. Until tomorrow night when I can return to this room.

  Will she still be here or have I succeeded in scaring her off for good?

  “Let me help you, okay? Be here tomorrow?” I ask, shining the flashlight over her. It’s not a lie. I do want to help her, but for my own selfish reasons.

  Blair nods her head as I scan her body with the flashlight one last time, and I’m pretty sure I hear a sniffle when I retreat toward the window, the one on the first floor at the back of the house that I thought would be the easiest to get in. I had no idea she would be sleeping in the fucking closet. But really, the more I think about this, the more I realize how perfect finding her is. She’s better than all the evidence in the world.

  “See you real soon, baby girl,” I promise her before climbing out the window.

  Every cell in my body protests leaving her, letting her off so easy, and my legs feel like they’re buried in cement. But there’s still a small piece of a decent human being they didn’t take from me, forcing my heavy feet to get moving, crossing the backyard, and not stopping until I’m slipping into the front seat of my compact rental car two blocks away. I need to hurry up and grab a tracking device from my hotel room in case she has a car hiding in the garage. She might decide to run, and there’s no way I’m gonna let her get away from me.

  After that, I’ll find out if there’s anything worth a shit on the flash drives I stole. Regardless, I know what I’ll be doing tomorrow night. I could possess a document with a full confession of every sin the DA has ever committed, signed by him and notarized by three witnesses, and I would still come back to this house, to that room, or wherever she goes.

  I would still return to that forgotten girl who, ironically enough, I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to stop thinking about until I see her again. The demented fantasies starring her are already brewing in the darkest pit of my perverted mind. Even knowing I need to hurry, I can’t make it back to the hotel room. Instead, I unzip my jeans and pull my cock out in my dark car to start jerking it hard and fast. Closing my eyes, I picture her tied to the bed. God, I wonder if she’s still an untouched virgin. Another tight pussy I can force my cock inside. It’s been so long since I’ve felt that incredible sensation, claiming a girl’s innocence and knowing she’ll never forget the first time I fucked her. I still remember mine when I was just twelve. The first time I got a blowjob, fucked a girl and was held down and fucked, all in the same goddamn week.

  Steering my mind from those disturbing memories, I try to picture Blair tied up again, only without any clothes on. Holding her legs open wide, I would bury myself inside her pussy as she cries out and writhes underneath me. She’d be so hot and wet. And if she’s a virgin, nice and tight. My fist squeezes harder around my swollen shaft as my climax builds and my balls draw up. Two more tugs of my cock and I come with a shout that echoes around the dark, silent car.

  As soon as I come down for the endorphin high, I know exactly what I need to do. Seduce her, manipulate her, whatever it takes for her cooperation in the case and to get inside of her body.

  Chapter Four

  Blair

  Lying in bed shaking, staring up at the ceiling, I’m…confused as more tears fall down my cheeks. Part of me is afraid the intruder might come back, while the other part of me is hopeful that he will. How fucked up is that?

  Oddly enough, the tears are not from fear of him now, but mostly from the memories of my painful past that still haunt me every day and night, no matter how hard I try to forget them. Tears of guilt and hate. Will they ever stop?

  The stranger called me a liar. Yes, that’s all I am.

  I’m so damn tired of living this way.

  After my mother died, my father carelessly discarded me when I was only eight, so the second half of my childhood was thankfully spent away from him. Despite how lonely and shitty the last decade of my life has been, it definitely could’ve been worse, right? I guess I could’ve been dead like my mother.

  God, I hate that man, and not only for ruining my entire life. He’s a psychopath, who, according to the lovely postcard he sent me, is spending the next two weeks on his honeymoon with the bitch he just remarried. While the burden I’ve been forced to carry around with me for the past ten years is heavier than a ton of bricks tethered to my soul, there’s not an ounce of remorse in my father’s entire body.

  It feels like a few of those bricks have been lifted away tonight, leaving me lighter just because someone knows the truth. I wanted to ask the late night prowler how he found out and beg him to do something about it since I can’t. But instead, I stayed silent like the cowardly lying girl I am.

  Unable to sleep in the darkness, I reach over to turn on my bedside lamp. A little light makes everything less scary. I don’t even consider calling the police for a second. Instead, I just lie in bed, which is much more comfortable than the closet, rolling around in my self-pity until I eventually fall back to asleep.

  Surprisingly enough, after having a stranger in my room tonight, it’s still a more peaceful sleep than usual. No one else’s cries or moans. No screams of despair, except for those in my head. The only downside is the loneliness here. At least while I was there, I was lonely while constantly surrounded by people. Someone was always close by. Now, it’s just me on my own, back in my old house that’s haunted by the memories of my mother. It’s probably best to be alone since I wouldn’t be good company for another person unless they only wanted to have staring contests.

  …

 
The next morning, I wake up rubbing my eyes when the blinding sun penetrates my window. The reminder of the flashlight burning them makes my heart race as I start to remember bits and pieces from the night before. I could’ve sworn it was all just a crazy dream, but the smothering fear inside me seems too raw and intense for me to have only imagined the unknown man who came into my bedroom last night.

  Feeling braver now that it’s daylight, and I’m not as worried about any monsters hiding under my bed, I finally climb out of it. The first thing I do is look over at the post at the head of the bed where my hands were tied just hours ago. Nothing. No evidence it actually transpired. Thinking back, it had felt like he had used a soft scarf to restrain me, but there’s no sign of the scarf or anything else that proved it happened. My fingertips glide over each of my wrists as I turn them over, examining them, looking for marks, but there’s not a single blemish.

  Like a scaredy-cat, I tiptoe quietly down the hallway, as if the intruder I quite possibly concocted in my own messed up mind is still lurking around or sitting down at the kitchen table having breakfast. He’s not. All the other rooms in the two-story house are also clear when I do a walk-through, including the spare room and my father and his new bitch’s bedroom upstairs. The only room that looks like anything could be out of place is my father’s office that sits across from my bedroom. Several desk drawers aren’t pushed closed all the way. I look inside each of them, but they’re still full of pens, paperclips, and other typical office supplies. My dad could’ve left them slightly ajar, and I just didn’t notice yesterday since I didn’t come into his office.

  Convinced I must be going crazy, or more accurately, even further off the deep end, I go back to my room and pull out one of the bottles of prescription anxiety pills from my purse and pop a few of them into my mouth.

  Who am I kidding? There’s no magical pill that will ever take away the agony, the guilt, or the weight of my past from me. It’s like a fungus that grows and spreads each and every day. Nothing can stop it until it eats away every inch of me.