“How long do we have?” I ask the room and I wait for response. Nothing. I try again. “Please, how long do we have before he comes back?”
One woman answers. “We’ve already eaten breakfast and they don’t feed us lunch, so we have until dinner and judging from the direction of the sunshine coming through the door, that puts us at about 2 o’clock right now. I’m going to say we have another three hours to wait before he comes back. Does that help?”
“Yes, thank you. What’s your name?” I ask.
The silence hangs in the air; it’s thick like peanut butter. Weighing us down in here, making it hard to breathe, to think. I need answers if I’m going to get out of here.
“I’m Number 17,” the woman calls out. “You don’t wanna cause trouble; it’ll only bring the hurt down on yourself.”
“Thanks, I’ll remember that. But, please, what’s your actual name?”
“I’m Number 17. He hasn’t liquidated the girls yet, which makes you Number 27.”
“My name is Hannah Brown. I’m from Thornbriar, Kentucky. I’m married to a member of the Brimstone Lords Motorcycle Club.”
“If you think that’s gonna save you, honey, you’ve got disappointment in your future.”
“What’s your name?” I ask again. “And if you say ‘Number 17,’ I swear to God, I’ll strangle you myself.”
The woman snickers. “My name’s Nicola. I’m from Tucson, Arizona. They nabbed me off my college campus. Well, not technically on the campus, but my friends and I were hanging out at a bar real close to campus on a Saturday night. I made the mistake of going off to the restroom on my own. A mistake that, should I survive this, I will never make again. I’m not married to the member of a motorcycle club. I’m not married at all. And now, I don’t think I’ll ever get married. After this experience, no way, even if I make it out alive. You have to trust a man to marry him, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to trust another man as long as I live.”
“I believe that,” I reply. “I hope it’s not the case for you, but I understand why you say that now.” As I talk to her, I press my whole body against the glass, looking down the rows to see if I can see who’s talking to me. There are other arms, some knees and legs of various skin tones. Even a little bit of hair peeks out from the glass here and there, but I don’t know which one is Nicola.
I hear tapping on glass and then I see a hand pressed against it. “I’m here,” she says. “But it’s best not to get to know the women because it only hurts more when they leave.”
“I’m not resigned to being sold off to some slimy asshole in some foreign country. Or used in any way that Escalante wants to use me.”
“You’re her…” a new voice whispers. “The one el maestro was after.”
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“I’m Carmen. I’m one of el maestro’s house bitches,” she answers.
“House bitches?” I ask.
“For his own personal use,” she says. “I’ve heard your name on many occasions. You escaped, too—the Gulf Coast, wasn’t it? I don’t suspect he’ll let that happen again.”
Yeah, I don’t suspect to let that happen again, either. At least not without help.
We fall into silence again, all of us into our own thoughts. I know I am. Raif will come rescue me. The Lords will come rescue me. But we’re also going to rescue these women.
It’s funny how fast hours can go by when you’re stuck in your own head. I’m startled when the door at the end of the stable opens and it’s that soldier again, only this time he’s not alone. There’s another with him. A servant, a man. But this man has been beaten down. He keeps his head hung low, no eye contact with any of the women, only handing out trays from his cart that he rolls down the line as each stall is unlocked and the glass is pulled open for him.
When he finally gets to me, I smile and mouth a “Hi.” His head hangs low, but I see his eyes, they say hello back. They’re scared, but they say hello. In this moment that we share between us, he takes too long handing out my plate, and the brute knocks him across the head. He stumbles forward, bracing himself with one hand while keeping my plate from spilling in the other. And when he opens his mouth to scream, I see that his tongue has been cut out. What kind of man cuts a person’s tongue from their mouth?
Escalante is going to die. He has to.
I’m more enraged that they would do that to a person than disgusted, and it’s been a while since I’ve eaten. I fall on my food as soon as they leave.
Basically, I’m served a salad with an egg for protein. No dressing, which makes sense as they’d want to keep us fit and trim and looking good for the buyers. As I’m nibbling on a piece of lettuce, one of the women calls out, “It’s not just his tongue that they cut.” And now I can’t eat anymore. I set the piece of lettuce back down on my plate and shove the whole tray away. That’s disgusting.
“Give me time, ladies,” I call to the stable. “I need to plan, but I’m getting out of here and I’m taking y’all with me.”
It’s sometime later when the big guy shows up again. Nicola told me his name is Perez, but they all call him el monstruo. The monster. Doesn’t that fit? The sky is starting to darken as he walks through the door with purpose. I know he’s coming for me. Escalante’s let this go long enough.
I brace, waiting to see what’s going to happen. Once el monstruo unlocks the plexiglass wall in front of my stall, I’m beginning to form a plan in my head.
As of right now, I walk with my head held high, my back straight, not wanting to look scared because these women need to see me as someone who can help them. A leader of sorts.
I’m led up to the main house. It’s a gorgeous mansion, Spanish-style architecture. Stucco walls. Wrought-iron balconies. Gigantic archways. Oh, and the gardens. I’ve never seen gardens like this, especially in the dry Texas heat. There’s a beautiful swimming pool in the back that looks like a lagoon at an oasis where there are women, or as I was told they’re called, “House Bitches,” lounging in barely-there bikinis, their toes dipped in the water. He’s setting a scene, staging it. The problem is, I don’t know if he staging it for me or if she’s saving it for someone else.
I know with the bruises on my face, I’m not ready to be sold yet. But as I was supposed to be Escalante’s, that doesn’t mean he’s not going to want to have his fun.
As I pass the women, I see they’re all wearing the same kind of collar. Like one of those dog shock collars. No wonder they’re only dipping their toes in the water; water and electrical shocks don’t mix well. I guess that’s also why they don’t run.
The monster shoves me through the back sliding patio door and I stumble, but I don’t fall. We keep moving until we’ve reached el maestro himself, sitting behind a large mahogany desk, an office filled with books on bookshelves also made of mahogany. Despite the dark wood, the breezy gauze fabric of the open window drapes makes the room feel light and airy.
He’s not wearing his fedora, but he’s otherwise still dressed in that white linen suit with his crisp white-and-blue striped tie. He’s the picture of opulence.
“You must shower, my dear,” he says in his benevolent tone. “And then you will join me in the lounge. We must get reacquainted.”
“Yes, el maestro.” I hate calling him that. I hate it. But he smiles at me like I’m the good little girl who’s done what she’s been told. The first part of the plan is officially activated.
I’m led at gunpoint up the elaborate spiraling, marble staircase with its even more elaborate, spiraling gilded banister to a bedroom. Like the rest of the house, it’s light and airy, very beachy. Escalante loves his gauzy fabrics. I’m not allowed to stop and take in the room, however. The monster uses the barrel of the gun to push me forward until I hit the door to the bathroom, just off the bedroom.
“You will shower,” he says. “You will use the products he’s left for you. You will wear the makeup, you will do your hair, and you will select an outfit from those
that he has left you in the closet. And when you are done, you will pick up the phone and press the nine. I will come retrieve you, to bring you to the lounge. Do you understand?”
I nod my understanding.
“I will warn you now, if you try anything—anything at all, I will not only punish you, but you will be responsible for ending the life of one of the girls.” My eyes grow huge as I suck in a breath. “Yes,” he says. “I see now that you understand. You have thirty minutes. Make them count.”
When the door clicks behind him, I walk into the bathroom to turn on the shower. Escalante has very expensive flowery shampoos, conditioners, and body washes. After a quick scrub-down, I blow-dry my hair and make up my face. Then I walk back out to the walk-in closet bigger than my room at the compound to find something suitable because I will not step one toe out of line, not right now. Not if it means one of those poor girls getting killed.
Apparently, Escalante doesn’t believe in undergarments. And everything he has hanging in the closet is sheer. I slip on the formfitting, one-shouldered, Grecian-style dress made up of a delicate pink gossamer fabric. Every inch of me is visible through the dress. I really don’t know what kind of shoes would go with an outfit like this, and everything in here seems incredibly impossible to walk in. So I choose to go barefoot. It makes the look seem more natural and puts me at least at a little advantage.
I pick up the phone and dial nine exactly as I was ordered. Nobody says hello. Instead, I hear, “Be sitting on the edge of the bed, your hands folded in your lap when I open the door.”
Quickly, I do exactly as he says and sit down on the edge of the bed facing the door with my hands in my lap. It’s not but two minutes later when he opens the door without knocking, gun pointed in the room as if he thinks I’m going to ambush him. When he sees me, he smiles his greasy smile and orders, “Up.”
I do as directed, walking with him back down the grand stairway, where he leads me to the lounge. I know he’s been checking me out the whole way; it’s disgusting and makes me feel dirty. But what makes me feel worse is when I enter the lounge and Escalante sits on a beautiful baby blue sofa with a rounded back. He’s no longer wearing his linen jacket; the sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows. His arms are resting along the back of the sofa and he has what appears to be a whiskey on the rocks in one of his hands.
Shit.
I knew he was going to try to have his way with me tonight. I’m married. I love Raif. I can’t… I just can’t.
“I knew your mother,” he says. “She was an exquisite woman. I quite enjoyed her while I had her. But then, there was another who found her exquisite too. And so, I decided to part with your mother. But you,” he goes on, his eyes fixed to my breasts. “You have surpassed her beauty. And therefore, even though I believe we can enjoy each other’s company, I find myself open to seeing if others find you as exquisite since your little stunt at the Gulf Coast. If you had stayed with me, I would have given you everything. I would’ve shared my bed with you, not just your body. But now you must earn that back. So you will sit, you will drink with me, you will let me touch you if I feel like touching you, and you will begin to earn my trust back.”
I feel sick. But what choice do I have? Instead of responding to him, I walk over to the sofa and sit down close enough for our thighs to brush. He reaches for a crystal decanter sitting on a silver tray on the coffee table and pulls the stopper. Then, using tongs, he reaches into the silver ice bucket sitting next to the decanter, pulls out two pieces of ice, and drops them into a short, round glass. He pours the whiskey in the glass and hands it to me.
“Thank you, el maestro.”
“You are most welcome, my dear,” he says back.
With his glass in hand, he leans in to clink the glasses together, but at the last minute, he presses his lips to my neck. I close my eyes and swallow hard.
I got off easy that first night. We only talked—or he talked, explaining the rules of the compound. I spent my time answering, “Yes, el maestro.” Or “I understand el maestro.” Two days have gone by, and he hasn’t touched me other than those simple touches. A brush of his hand. A kiss to my cheek or the pulsing vein on my neck. He likes that spot the best. I sleep in the room that I showered in, I rise when he tells me to and wear the clothes that he directs me to. I walk around the compound with a smile on my face saying, “As you wish, el maestro” and “Thank you, el maestro.”
With each passing hour that he doesn’t try it on with me, I become more nervous. When is he going to strike? Because he’s going to strike and I don’t know how much more my nerves can take.
Why hasn’t Raif shown yet? He’s smart. He’s the best tracker there is. It’s taking too long.
We’ve finished dinner, just the two of us out on the veranda off his private suites, when he orders me to bathe. As this is a strange request for the time of night, the fine, little hairs on the back of my neck raise, but still, I do as directed.
Tonight he has rose petals floating on an already drawn bath for me in my room. I strip down and sit in the tub, my hair up in a clip so it doesn’t get wet. The water submerges me up to my neck.
It’s a scene of luxurious decadence that I wish I could enjoy because I know once I’m out of here, I’ll never be able to enjoy it. Not without thinking of him. A servant enters the bathroom holding a fluffy, white bathrobe open for me, which means it’s time to get out. I stand, dripping water onto the fluffy, pale blue bathmat underfoot to let the wrinkled, old woman wrap me up.
She’s left a sexy, lacy, pink satin negligee, again with no undergarments, lying out on the bed. I slip it on and let my hair down, fluffing it out with my fingers before walking to Escalante’s suite.
He’s not in the room when I get there. My mind is racing. What can I use for an escape? There’s a rug on the floor over the hardwood flooring. There’s another heavy, crystal whiskey decanter on the bedside table… Hmm…
A brilliant idea hits and I set about staging my escape first by bunching up the corner of the rug closest to the bedside table and then sit on the edge of the bed, with my hands folded in my lap, directly in front of that portion of the rug.
Escalante must have been on a phone call because he leaves me sitting in that spot, waiting for him for a half an hour. When he comes in, he’s not looking at anything but me, in the negligee, sitting on his bed, as he unbuckles his belt. There’s a look of utter surprise on his face when he hits the bunch in the rug and tumbles forward. He lands on me, his face in my chest, and I reach for the decanter, knocking him over the head with it. But more importantly, knocking him clean out.
Then I push him off and get the hell out of there, closing the door behind me to keep anyone from finding him too soon. If anyone asks, it was an accident and I ran to find help.
What I need to do is run as far away from here as possible. What I do is make a turn to head for the monster’s room instead but get sidetracked to the back patio. I throw up in my mouth a little when I see him going at one of the shock-collar girls from behind. They’re both naked. I want to help her, but there’s literally nothing I can do for her right now. As quietly as possible, I crawl over to his discarded pants. While he groans and slaps her ass, I dig through his pockets to find his keys.
My biggest problem is making it to the stable without being seen. Keys in hand, I say a prayer to the universe, and while he’s distracted, I make a run for it.
I’m almost to my destination when I hear him yell, “The fuck?” And I know I’ve been made. In my nervousness, I fumble the keys, dropping them once. Then it takes me a couple of tries to find the correct key to unlock the stable door. He’s almost on me when I get it open, slamming the door and relocking it.
He’s outside, pounding on the door—literally pounding hard enough to make the wood splinter. Again, in my haste, I fumble the keys, trying to find the correct ones to open each stall.
The wooden door is about to give. “Stay in the stalls,” I order i
n a whisper. “Pull the glass closed so he doesn’t know I’ve unlocked them.”
That last sentence barely has time to register with the women when the door cracks open. The monster is naked, bloody and raging. “You stupid fucking cunt,” he roars. There’s only one way out and he’s blocking the exit, but I attempt to dodge him and run, easily being overtaken by the massive man.
I fall to the ground with his hands around my neck squeezing the literal life out of me. It hurts. Orange and red spots pop in front of my eyes. My lungs burn, unable to take in a breath. He’s crushing my larynx. He’s crushing everything.
“Run!” one of the women calls, but he doesn’t know she’s ordering the other women in the stable. The doors fly open at once and he’s taken so off-guard that he neglects to stop their escape.
All that achieves for me is to piss him off more. My consciousness begins to wane. This is where I’m going to die. I wish for so many things in my final moments. That Raif is okay. That he finds love again. That my sister is happy, that she and the baby are healthy.
Tears leak from the corners of my eyes, but I think they’re from the pain of choking more than my imminent death.
Before my eyes close for the last time, the form of a woman appears behind the monster. She’s like a mirage. I’ve seen her face; she was locked in one of the stalls. The shirt she was wearing is raised up over her head, while he’s trying his best to kill me, she flings the fabric around his neck, capturing the end and twisting. The monster bucks and swings as he tries to grab her and dislodge the pink cotton choking him.
The way he swings at her forces him to release me. I’m too injured to take in the large, gulping lungful of air that my brain tells me I need to take in. The small, shallow ones through my nose have to do. Air is air.
As I scramble, I’m slow and awkward from the lack of oxygen, I notice a healing 17 carved in the woman’s shoulder. Number 17, that’s what she called herself. Nicola.
He swings out, catching her in the ribs, and her hands slip. She fights to right herself and not lose momentum with the tourniquet when a second woman runs into the barn. She’s wearing a shock collar and bikini bottoms, as if that was as much time as she had to dress. This is the woman the monster had by the swimming pool. She shoves a thick stick down between the twisting fabric and the monster’s neck. “Knot it!” she shouts at Nicola. The women work together. She tries to keep the pressure on his neck while Nicola knots the shirt. Then together, they twist the ends.
Blood Revealed (Brimstone Lords MC Book 6) Page 21