They shoved me into a cab of a pickup truck in broad daylight. Although people walked in and out of the busy convenience store, nobody cared enough to do anything.
Hands came from everywhere, touching me in places I reserved for invitation only. Initially, I fought to get away. Each time I did, the man with the tattooed face hit me with his closed fist.
After being punched in the face repeatedly, my desire to try and escape dwindled to nothing.
As they drove me to a house in one of Oceanside’s drug-infested neighborhoods, the smell of my own blood amalgamated with wafts of sweat, beer, and the sheer filth that already inhabited the cab of the truck.
Fearing what may happen once inside the shitty rathole they parked in front of, I kicked and screamed in protest, but they dragged me inside the house by my hair anyway. In the distance, I heard a car trying to start. The smell of something burning momentarily replaced their repulsive scent, but it didn’t last.
I heard children talking, but couldn’t see them.
As I tried to dismiss the odor and appearance of the revolting house that they tossed me into, I concluded that the hellish pit could never be considered a home. Now trapped, and at their mercy, I was left to wonder how everything happened to me while so many people looked on.
The beating I got in the truck was nothing compared to what happened inside the house. The man with the tattooed face hit me in the stomach so hard I vomited. Then, he punched me in the face so hard it blinded me. The beating continued until I collapsed on the floor.
I remained still, hoping he would stop, but what came next was worse. There were four of them inside the house, the man with the tattooed face, another man who was short and muscular, and two grotesque piles of filth that looked like twins.
I was pulled to my feet by my hair, and while I was groped by so many hands that I couldn’t keep track of what was happening, the sound of laughing, shouting, and my own crying filled the air.
The man with the tattooed face cut off my shorts, but he wasn’t careful when he did it. The tip of the blade sank into the skin of my thigh as he slashed at the fabric.
I couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t allow me to simply get undressed, but later decided it must have been part of the process of breaking my spirit.
In just moments, I felt like a week’s time had passed. Once again, I was on the floor.
But this time I was naked.
Humiliated.
And incapable of resisting much more.
The filthy twins masturbated on me while the other two men laughed and drank beer. I tried to wipe their release from my skin, but was kicked in the ribs for my effort.
Then, the muscular man forced me to suck his dick.
What begging I had done was met with a quick fist, so I complied, all the while relying on the little strength my prayers offered.
I closed my eyes and wrapped my lips around his flaccid shaft. He didn’t speak English, but through repeated slapping and hand gestures, I realized he wanted me to keep my eyes open.
I couldn’t force myself to look at his dick, or at his face. I fixed my eyes on his hip, and with reluctance, took him into my mouth. As he became more aroused, an obscene scent secreted from his pores. Soon, it seemed to loom over me like a thick cloud.
After he hardened, he pressed his hands against the back of my head and forced himself deep in my throat. With each thrust of his hips, his putrid flesh smashed against my nose. The smell of his cheap cologne mixed with the odor of his existence all but suffocated me.
Each forceful shove made me feel more helpless, less like Alexandra, and, for some strange reason, guilt was overtaking me.
He pounded what little hope I clung to from my grasp.
As much as I continued to tell myself it was okay, it wasn’t. Not even a little bit. It wasn’t sexual, nor was it sensual. I tried to force myself to find a way to accept it, but I couldn’t and I feared I never would.
The forceful blowjob lasted for what seemed like an entire lifetime. It was as if the clock turned at a much slower speed once it all started.
Exhausted, I laid lifeless on the floor. I hoped that it was finally over.
My hope was crushed when the man with the tattooed face snatched me to my feet by my hair. With the barrel of his gun pressed against my temple, he forced me to suck his dick.
With my spirit crushed, and my ability to reason gone, I had no mechanism left to mentally fight against what was happening to me.
So, I complied.
I felt like I was another person, one outside of my body who was watching the former me as she performed these vile acts while the real me was elsewhere.
Somewhere safe.
Surreal wouldn’t come close to describing it.
I may have been scared, but I don’t really know. Not really. I was covered in their cum, their scent, their sweat, and my blood. I don’t remember feeling anything but dirty. It was the kind of dirty that sticks with a person for a lifetime.
The kind of dirty that causes a person to stand in front of the sink and scrub mercilessly in hope of somehow cleansing themselves of the filth that they would later find out had become a part of their very being.
The kind of dirty that soap could never wash away.
I was tossed into a room with windows that were boarded shut, a door that only had a handle on the outside, and a bucket that sat in the corner for seven of us to share as a bathroom.
Other than a few blankets, there wasn’t anything else.
We had no clothes.
No toilet paper.
No tampons.
And, no hope.
The days blurred together. Hope faded, and fear set in. Humiliation followed, but it didn’t last long. A lifetime’s worth of pain replaced it.
Then, the eighth girl joined us. She would be the last.
Somehow, she made it into the room without being sexually assaulted, but had been scared and humiliated to a degree that left her stuttering every time she tried to speak. Later, on the night that she came, the man with the tattoos on his face opened the door and demanded that she come with him.
Cowering in the corner, and in fear of what they were going to rip from her, nine-year-old Marbella clung onto a sliver of hope – and my legs.
Yes. She was nine.
I offered myself in her place, but he only grew angrier.
I offered to suck his cock. When he said no, I insisted on it. I told him I craved it. That I loved feeling him pound himself into my throat. As I spoke to him, I fondled my tits in hope of luring him to accept my offer.
Eventually, he agreed.
While he lowered his pants to his thighs, I knelt in front of him with the splinter of wood I’d pried away from the doorframe cupped tightly in my hand.
As I took him into my mouth, I swung the tip of the wooden spike deep into his thigh.
The butt of his pistol against my skull knocked me senseless for a moment. According to the others, he stumbled away with the promise of returning for Marbella, but that time never came.
Minutes later, there was a gunshot. And then another. I counted fifteen more, and then they stopped.
The bedroom door opened.
A tall muscular man wearing a black baseball cap stood in the doorway.
I glared at him. As the other girls sought shelter behind me, I mentally prepared to do whatever I had to do to protect them from the new monster.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
He knelt on the floor and let out a sigh. I looked at him with jaded eyes, but then a tear rolled down his cheek. It was then that I knew he wasn’t a monster.
“In a moment, you’ll hear a terrible thunder,” he explained. “But don’t be afraid. The men who come with the thunder? They’re angels.”
Ten minutes later, there was a horrendous thunder. A thunder so powerful that it shook the walls and the floor.
Then, one after another, the angels came.
&n
bsp; Chapter Seventy-Five
Cholo
Many of the men in the MC didn’t have jobs. They hustled for their money. Debt collectors, bail bondsmen, skip tracers, custom bike builders, and thugs for hire were some of their careers. Although I was completely devoted to the club, I chose to work for a living, and owned my own company.
Purchasing a home in southern California wasn’t cheap, or easy, but I was getting there one kitchen remodel at a time.
I pointed at the corner of the ceiling. “You see that gap in the crown molding?”
Steve nodded. “You can see it looking straight at it, but from the side, it’s barely--”
“It looks like shit. Redo it.”
He looked at the imperfection and shook his head. “That’ll waste sixteen feet of molding, and that shit’s expensive. You don’t even see it if you’re not looking for it.”
“Fix it. It’s either right, or it’s wrong. And that’s far from right.”
I was a perfectionist to a fault, and my work reflected it.
He let out a sigh. “Jesus. Fine. I’ll replace it.”
I looked around the kitchen. “Rest of it looks good as fuck, huh?”
He nodded. “Big change from when we started.”
After eliminating an interior wall, we’d replaced the cabinets, the flooring, the countertops, and fitted new tile for the backsplashes. What started as a dark and dated kitchen was now bright, open, and inviting.
The owner was away on vacation, and was scheduled to be home in two days. It was my hope to have the job completed before she arrived.
“She’s gonna be happy when she gets home.”
He looked around the kitchen. “She ought to be. This fucker looks like it should be in a magazine.”
The doorbell rang.
Steve and I exchanged a look. He shrugged.
“Fix that molding,” I said. “I’ll answer that on my way out.”
I sauntered to the door, pulled it open, and was surprised to see one of my old neighbors at the door. It wasn’t just any neighbor, it was Lucy.
She still looked every bit as attractive as she did the last time I saw her, and it had been more than ten years since that day passed.
I had a severe crush on her for what seemed like forever. She was tall, had long lean legs, and was built like a brick shithouse. She was ten years older than me, but it didn’t stop me. I crushed on her hard all through high school, and until she moved away a few years later. I never bothered to tell her how I felt, though.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Lucy?”
She stood on the porch, clutching her purse and nervously rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. She forced a smile, and then broke down in tears. After an awkward moment of me not really knowing what to do, she looked up and apologized.
“I’m so sorry to… I hate to bother you,” she said between sobs. “But your…your sister said I could find you here. I uhhm. I don’t. The police, they won’t do anything…I can’t…”
“Slow down.” I reached for her shoulder. “What’s going on?”
She looked up and wiped her eyes. “Lex.” She gulped a breath. “Someone’s taken her.”
I was lost. “What?”
“Lex.” She exhaled heavily. “She was at the 7-Eleven. A bunch of people were there and saw it, but the police haven’t done anything. I just…I thought maybe…you were the only person I could think of…”
Still confused, I reached for her other shoulder, steadied her shaking body, and looked her in the eyes. “Breathe. Just slow down. What’s going on?”
She took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled. “You remember Lex?”
I shrugged. “No.”
“Alexandra?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Your little sister.”
“She’s not my sister.” Her eyes fell to the porch. “She’s my daughter.”
Now I was really confused. “Alexandra’s your daughter?”
She looked up and nodded. “Yes. And, someone has taken her.”
“What do you mean?”
She brushed her hair away from her tired eyes. “She was at the 7-Eleven. She was uhhm. She was…they kidnapped her. While she was getting in her car.”
“Holy shit.” I released her shoulders and crossed my arms. “Did you talk to the cops?”
The last time I had seen Alexandra, she was eight or nine years old. The thought of her driving didn’t quite register. The thought of her being kidnapped didn’t either.
She nodded. “The cops are a bunch of idiots. The guy at the register saw it all, and he gave a description. I just. With your connections…you know, to the gangs,” she stammered. “I thought maybe…I thought you could…”
“I’m not in a gang anymore,” I said. “Well, not really.”
All the air shot from her lungs. “You’re not? Oh God. I--”
I wanted to comfort her, but didn’t really know what to do. As I considered hugging her, she all but fell against me.
Out of reflex, I wrapped my arms around her and held her close. “Tell me everything you know. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Do you think you can--”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I assured her. “Did you get a good description of the car? Of the guys?”
“Uh huh. They were Mexicans, and they all had tattoos. The guy at the register got a good description of everything, even their tattoos.” She reached into her purse. “I’ve got a copy of the police report.”
If they were Mexicans and had tattoos, my guess was that they were in a gang. If they were, I could find out who they were. I didn’t want to give her any false hope, though.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
She leaned back, wiped away her tears, and then looked at me. Even with her make up running down her cheeks, she was beautiful.
“Thank you,” she said.
I looked her over, and couldn’t help but smile. In ten years, she hadn’t aged a bit. It was sad that her daughter’s disappearance brought us together, but I wasn’t about to complain.
Hell, maybe after I found her daughter I’d take the time to tell her how gorgeous I thought she was.
Maybe.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Lex
Standing up to our abductors wasn’t possible. Their overall treatment of us was proof that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill us if we challenged them.
As I was the eldest of the group, I felt obligated to take charge and attempt to protect the others from the wrath of the monsters who held us at their mercy. With limited resources, I had only one bargaining chip.
Offering myself any time the man with tattoos on his face wanted someone for sex.
I reached a point that it didn’t matter. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, because I did. But the only control I had left was to not react. And, not reacting meant nothing mattered.
I wouldn’t allow it to.
I decided I wasn’t going to allow them to cause me any more harm. So, what they did to me became insignificant.
I was done feeling. And, when I was numb, I could protect my captive family.
The minutes clicked passed one by one and managed to eventually shave an hour off the clock. The hours merged into one another, with us whispering stories of who we were and where we were from, and when it finally got quiet, we knew another day had passed.
With each passing day, as the girls went to sleep, I prayed. Not for freedom, for food, or for better conditions, but for strength.
I knew it was going to take a miracle for us to be freed, and I prayed for the strength to live long enough to witness it.
We memorized each other’s names, addresses, and telephone numbers, repeating them over and over while humming a song we made up. If one of us escaped, we were going to tell the authorities each of the other girl’s names and addresses.
We made a pact.
Sarah was the dreamer, and to pass the time and keep everyone’s spirits up, she led a nigh
tly discussion of what we were going to do when we broke free. Our conversations typically included where we were going to eat, who we were going to see, and what being in that horrid place caused us to miss about the freedoms associated with living our day-to-day lives.
The list of the things we’d taken for granted was unbelievably simple.
Me: Being clothed.
Sarah: Sunshine.
Marbella: Her bedroom.
Kate: Going to the bathroom.
Jess: Not having to ration water.
Debby: Food
Leah: Hearing the birds sing.
And, Mary: Taking a walk.
Making simple choices no longer existed, and we were well aware of it. If freed, I told myself I would never again complain about the tag on my tee shirt causing me to itch, or how southern California’s sun baked my pale skin. I’d comply gratefully when my mother asked if I wanted to meet for lunch or go shopping.
Although I took part in the talks, I had very little concern with what my first meal was going to be, or how much I missed my family. My only real worry was survival, but I wasn’t about to share that with the other girls.
Somehow, be it a result of fate or by my insistence that he choose me first, none of them were abused after I was abducted. As a result, they all looked at me as their guardian.
In that type of situation, a person needs something to hold onto. Something that offers hope. A photo or a good luck charm would have been nice, but we had nothing but each other.
So, every night when it got quiet, we huddled in each other’s arms.
And, I prayed.
To live long enough to see the miracle.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Cholo
The rotten stench of the adrenaline-laced sweat that leached from the pores of drug dealers and their prey lingered in the air. Two stoned Hispanic men who looked like they hadn’t showered in a month were seated on the filthy tan sofa that was shoved against the far wall.
Beside the couch, a broken-down recliner that appeared to be stuck in the recline position sat empty – short of the half-eaten bag of chicharrones that sat on top of the pile of dirty clothes that littered it. The coffee table in the center of the room was covered with the previous night’s beer bottles, money, an electronic scale, a box of granola bars, and enough cocaine to get San Diego high for a year.
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