Darkest Before Dawn

by Stevie J. Cole

  “Turn the fuck around,” I say, my voice shaking with anger. “Move after that and I will blow your motherfucking brains all over the wall.”

  Dragging in a deep breath, he holds his hands up like he’s surrendering as he slowly spins around. My pulse bangs behind my eyes when my gaze lands on his face. He’s young. Maybe twenty-five at best. He’s built like a linebacker; his face is rugged looking with a long scar slashed across his right cheek. “You her pimp or sumpin’?”

  “No.” My jaw clenches. “Let me ask you a question. Do you like living? Do you enjoy each fucking breath you drag in? Because if you do, you better fucking answer every question I throw at you, and I mean without hesitation.” I close the gap between us and press the gun beneath his chin. “Hesitate and this bullet goes through the back of your fucking throat.” Arching a brow, I tilt my head. “Understand? I don’t play motherfucking games.”

  “Yes.”

  This is the thing, in the crime world, there are only two types of people: those who know how to survive and those with too much pride. To make it in this world, you have to know when you are beat and let your pride go by the wayside. This fucker seems to understand that. There is no fighting back in a situation such as this.

  “Those women you take, what do you do with them?” My hand trembles, the barrel of the gun digging deeper into his skin. “Do you kill them?” I ask.

  “No. No, I don’t. I don’t kill ’em.”

  I inch my face closer to his, my nostrils flaring. “Then”—my finger twitches over the smooth curve of the trigger—“what do you do with them?” He swallows and when he does, the tip of the gun moves ever so slightly. Attempting to control the animalistic urge I have to beat him into a pile of mangled flesh, I stare into his eyes. “You’re hesitating.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he says.

  “Try me.” I use the pistol to tilt his head back.

  “We sell them.”

  A slow heat creeps through my veins. “Sex slaves—”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “We train them to love.” He laughs. It’s not a condescending laugh, it’s one close to madness. Like he really believes what he is saying, as though he feels what he is saying is something incredible. “Love. We sell love.”

  “Well, you piece of shit. I’m gonna need you to tell me who you sold my little sister to.”

  He attempts to drop his chin to his chest, but I lift it back up with the tip of the gun. “Tell. Me.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I just train them. I don’t handle transactions.”

  “Then you fucking tell me who does.” I laugh and shake my head. “Actually…Trisha?” I keep my gaze trained on this fucker. “Trisha!”

  I hear the door to the bathroom creak open and her sniffling as she approaches us. His eyes drift over to her for a brief moment.

  “I’m not gonna help you—”

  “All I want you to do,” I cut her off, “is grab his phone from his pocket.” She does as asked, handing his phone to me. I take it and stuff it inside my jean pocket. “You can leave now, Trisha.”

  Without a word, she walks out of the motel room. I give her a good three minutes to get away, and I stare at this worthless piece of shit the entire time, thinking of him taking my little sister and then having her sold off to some sick fuck like she’s a piece of merchandise.

  “Fuck you,” I say as I let my finger slip on the trigger, the silencer only sounding off a small pop. He falls back with a grunt, his body banging over the floor when it lands in a lifeless heap. I leave the motel, his phone in my pocket. With perseverance, I will work my way into this little circle and I will find her.

  I pick the blade of grass from my Cabbage Patch doll’s loose braid, hardly aware of the shadow falling over the green lawn. A large hand suddenly covers my mouth and my eyes pop wide. I’m dragged to my feet and toward a car parked at the entrance of the driveway. My heart pounds in my chest, I want my daddy so I try to scream, but my cry is muffled by his cigarette-scented fingers.

  “Don’t scream and I won’t hurt you, Ava,” he says. All I can see is his tie—navy and red diagonal stripes.

  I kick, I scratch at his hairy arms. The heels of my Keds drag over the pavement as he carries me toward the white sedan.

  He’s going to take me away. I stare at my Cabbage Patch doll laying at the edge of the yard and I keep trying to fight him, but I’m just too little. Bang. Something warm splatters over the side of my face and the man’s grip on me lets up. My ears are ringing, my heart racing.

  “Look at me,” my daddy’s voice comes from my left side, and I turn to see him running down the driveway toward me, his gun by his side. “Look at me, feetheart. Just keep those eyes on me, okay?”

  I nod as I wipe the sticky wetness from my cheek. Seconds later, my daddy has me in his arms, cradling me like an infant. When I reach up to place my arm around his neck, I see the blood on my hands. I go to turn my face toward the man, but Daddy shakes his head. “Don’t,” he says with such a calm about him. “Look at me.”

  So I do. I stare at my father, looking at the salt and pepper stubble covering his face. Watching the blood pulse through his neck as he carries me up the cobblestone walkway to the front door and straight to our kitchen.

  The granite countertop is cold under my legs when he sits me down. I glance at my white shirt. It’s spattered with blood. Daddy turns the taps, swearing beneath his breath as he reaches for a dishtowel.

  “What was that noise?” My mother comes bolting down the hallway, a towel wrapped around her body, her hair still covered in suds. “Frank, what the—” Her words are lost the moment her gaze lands on me. Tears well in her hazel eyes and she covers her mouth in a gasp.

  “She’s fine. Just…” He blows a hard breath out before he wipes over my face with the warm washcloth. “Just, get her cleaned up. I’ve got to go get that motherfucker off our property.”

  “Ava?” Bronson waves his hand in front of my face. “You there? Jesus.” He laughs, and I snap back into the moment.

  “Yeah, yeah, I just…”

  The valet opens my door. My eyes are immediately drawn to his red and navy blue striped tie. And now I know why my mind took me there. That tie. Same color. Same design as the one the man who attempted to kidnap me was wearing that day.

  Funny how your brain does that.

  A person can become so well-versed at forgetting things, but the mind—well, it only lets you pretend you’ve forgotten. Trust me. I know. I’ve had my fair share of fuckedup things happen to me and I’ve tried to wipe them from my memory, but all it takes is one smell, one small sound, and that incidence is dredged right back up to the surface. And sleep—that’s the worst place because all my demons come out to play at night. If I could avoid sleep forever, I would.

  “You sure?” Bronson asks as he heads to the driver’s side.

  “Yeah, I was just thinking about something.” I climb into his truck and the valet closes my door.

  “Yeah, no kidding.” His door slams shut. “So anyway, WJ, then the party?”

  “Sounds good to me, babe.” I take my phone from my purse and quickly type a Facebook update. Going to WJ with Bronson Tatum! ;) <3

  I smile because that’s what I should do. I should smile because Bronson is the guy every girl wants. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Military. All-American in every way. And he’s into me. I should smile and be that girl—that normal, annoyingly happy girl everyone thinks I should be. But really, I’m just damn good at covering up what a mess I am.

  He pulls away from the curb of the restaurant and puts his hand on my thigh. That touch, I don’t like it. It feels wrong. It feels cheap.

  And it is.

  I’ll probably fuck him, and it will mean nothing. I’ll most likely feel bad about it tomorrow, wondering if he thinks I’m a whore, but even with that knowledge, I’ll still do it because it’s the only way I can make myself feel connected to someone. Deep down inside, I feel like it is the on
ly way I can make a guy appreciate me, even if that appreciation is filthy. I’ve tried to figure out the psychology of it because, really, I know better. I know that fucking him won’t actually make him like me, but for those few moments right before he slips inside of me, he will want me. I will be worth something to him. I will be something he has to have, and for some reason, even though I wish I didn’t, I crave that.

  We ride in silence most of the way to the park, listening to Royal Blood. He sings along, and I watch him. He’s so confident. Genuinely happy because he knows no better. The song ends and he glances over at me as he turns down the street. “You’re so beautiful,” he says.

  “Thanks.”

  Those are merely words. I glance out of the window, watching the row of houses end and the landscape turn to woods. We wind our way through the back part of this neighborhood, cutting the headlights when we start down the hill to the park.

  The truck rolls to a stop and Bronson puts it in park. And here is that awkward moment. We look at each other. He smiles. I bite down on my lip, warring with myself about how I shouldn’t do this with him yet. Then he takes my face in his hands, pulling me to him and slamming his lips over mine. His hands roam over my body. “Fuck,” he says between deep kisses. And this is like a drug. I feel wanted and needed and pretty.

  “God, I want to fuck you bad right now.” Bronson grabs my hips and yanks me across the center console and into his lap. The steering wheel hits my back.

  “Shit,” I say under my breath when he bites down on my neck. His hands are all over me: pulling my shirt up, unhooking my bra, grabbing between my thighs.

  “I’m so fucking hard.”

  And the next thing I know, he’s tugging at the flies of both our jeans. The windows of the truck have fogged over, “Little Monster” is playing over the radio, and just when he’s lifted his shirt over his head, I hear glass shatter. Tiny, clear cubes spray all over the cabin of the truck.

  “The fuck—”

  A gloved hand reaches inside, pulls the lock, and the door swings open. Bronson draws his fist back, but before he can throw a punch, the man outside points a gun at his temple and pulls the trigger. Bam. I scream and attempt to slide off Bronson and into the passenger seat. If I can only get to that door. I can run through the park to the woods and the neighborhood that backs up to it. But before I’ve even moved a muscle, the man’s hand is around my throat, dragging me over Bronson’s limp body and out of the open door. My ass hits the concrete hard, sending a jolt of pain up my spine.

  “Let me go!” No sooner have I shouted than his fingers tighten. I feel the bone crunch, my throat threatening to close.

  “Shut up and I won’t have to kill you.” His voice is deep and rough with a thick, almost comical country twang. I try to see what he looks like but it’s pitch black. All I can make out is his shadow.

  I want to scream again, but I know better. No one is anywhere around us to hear and all it will do is enrage this man even more. Being the daughter of a hitman, my daddy always taught me how to take care of myself, how to fight back. But I’m already in a more than vulnerable position.

  He drags me down the street to a run-down truck with its engine still on. And my brain wants to take me back to the day I was seven and almost kidnapped. This time I know my daddy won’t be here to save me. I only have myself.

  I take note of the Georgia license plate. The dented right fender. The chipped paint. The passenger side door opens and the interior light flickers on. Another man—a massive man—climbs out and holds the door. I’m thrown in and the beast of a man hops in behind me. I ball my fist and punch him and that makes him laugh. His face is tanned and weathered. Lines run from the corners of his dark eyes, his lips thin and nearly purple. The inside of the truck smells like stale beer and piss. There’s several empty, crushed Miller High Life cans on the floorboard.

  “You’re a pretty little thing,” the man says as he grabs both my wrists and pins them behind my back. Within seconds, he’s tied me so tight I can feel the cord already cutting into my skin.

  The driver’s door opens and the man who took me—who killed Bronson—slides in behind the steering wheel. I can clearly see him now and he can’t be much older than thirty-five. He’s twiggy. His nose is crooked, most likely from one too many bar fights, but his jaw is defined. The man to my right, he scares me. He’s the kind of man I would cross the street in order to avoid, but this one on my left, he looks harmless in his Pearl Jam T-shirt.

  He drags a hand down his face as he stares at me. “Look. This ain’t got much to do with you.” He puts the gear into drive and the engine sputters, almost stalling. “Just don’t make me kill ya, okay?”

  I glance down at the front of my gray shirt. It’s covered with Bronson’s blood. I fight the tears. I fight them so fucking hard but after just a few minutes, they spill down my cheeks. A sob works its way up my throat. I try to choke it back down but can’t. It comes out full force which causes the driver to glance over at me. His lips lay flat across his face and he rolls his eyes.

  “Aw, now, sweetheart, don’t be cryin’. Shit happens, you know. You’s bound to get caught up in some shit like this sooner or later. At least I’mma nice guy. Real nice. And as long as you behave yourself, do just like I say, you ain’t gonna get hurt much.” He swipes a tear from my cheek and smiles, revealing nicotine-stained, crooked teeth.

  I want to tell him not to touch me. I want to shout and scream and tell him I fucking hate him, but I don’t say a word. Sometimes silence is your best defense. And it looks like keeping my mouth shut is my only option right now.

  We’ve been driving for hours. Three hours to be exact. My senses are on high alert as I have been paying attention to every turn, every twist, every landmark. I’ll need it when I get out. And I will get out. We crossed the state line over an hour ago, got off at the Bremen exit, and now we are in the middle of butt-fuck Egypt with nothing around but cotton fields. For the past fifteen minutes all I’ve seen in front of us is the glow of the fluffy, white buds in the headlights. The guy to my left, whose name is Bubba—fitting—nodded off a while ago, after polishing off a six-pack. He smells like beer and sweat. His knuckles are caked with dirt. He’s utterly filthy and his greasy head keeps lulling over to the side and falling onto my shoulder. I nudge him off and sometimes he wakes up, grunting before slamming his forehead against the window and snoring.

  The driver—Bubba calls him Easy Earl—he’s only on his second six-pack and he’s swerving all over the road. Every once in a while the tire rides over the shoulder. A mile back, he took out a mailbox. You’d think I’d be scared—and fuck, I am—but not of his driving. I keep hoping he’ll pass out at the wheel. I envision this jalopy swerving off into one of those cotton fields, hopefully hitting a ditch and flipping over a few times. I’d climb out of the busted windshield and take off. Their drunk asses would never be able to aim good enough to shoot me, much less run fast enough to catch me. A few times I’ve thought about jerking the wheel, but I don’t want to chance pissing Earl off. Something tells me he’s a violent drunk and I’d catch a backhand to the face. A busted lip.

  “Aw, shit!” Earl groans as he slams on the brakes. Dust flies up around the truck as he shoves it into reverse.

  “What the hell, Earl?” Bubba snorts and shakes his head.

  “Missed the damn turn.”

  “Fucking idiot.”

  Earl struggles with the steering wheel before finally turning onto a gravel driveway. Pine trees loom over the path. The headlights shine bright, bouncing over the weeds and grass sprouting up between the sparsely scattered rocks crunching beneath the tires. Ahead of us sits an old farmhouse, almost antebellum looking. In its younger years I’m certain it was beautiful, but now the paint on the columns is chipped and weathered. The shutters hang loose, a few missing. There’s a single light shining through a dirt-streaked window onto the porch from the bottom floor. All I can think about is how much this house looks like the one in
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

  The truck sputters to a stop. Bubba steps out then grabs me by the shoulders, yanking me out. I tumble to the ground, the cold, wet grass soaking through the knees of my jeans. In the distance I can hear crickets and bullfrogs. The sky is clear. I’m terrified, but all I can manage to think is that I’ve never seen so many stars. Funny the things you think about in moments like this.

  Earl rounds the front of the truck and grabs my bound wrists, yanking me to my feet. “Now, Ms. Ava, we’s gots some plans for you.” Earl pushes me from behind. Bubba’s still holding onto my shoulders as they walk me toward the front of the run-down house.

  Bubba snorts back some snot, clearing his throat with a hacking cough followed by thick sounding spit.

  “It’s gonna be a long, long time,” Earl says, jerking at my wrists, “’for you leave here. You gots to earn the right to leave, ya hear me, girl?”

  I say nothing, just drag in a stifled breath. The toe of my shoe hits the first wooden step of the porch and, suddenly, my legs feel like lead weights. I think I’ve been in shock for the past several hours. Something about being walked up these stairs like a death row inmate has made this situation all too real. I am hours away from my home—my father, my mother, my dead date. I wasn’t supposed to be home until an hour ago. That means for two hours no one has had any idea that something has happened. Unless, of course, someone stumbled across Bronson’s truck, but very few people go up to that park at night, and the ones that do aren’t paying attention to a parked car. These men must have planned this out. Earl said he had plans for me—this isn’t some spur of the moment decision based on panic. This was premeditated, which means they’ve thought this through.

  Bubba slings the screen door back and we walk into the old house. Inside reeks of cigarettes and mold. Water stains cover the yellowed walls; cobwebs are in every corner. As soon as we set foot into the kitchen, two mangy looking dogs scamper up. Both sniff the leg of my jeans. One wags its tail, the other growls, baring its teeth.