The Butcher of the Bay: Part I (Mounts Bay Saga Book 1)

by J Bree

  A fucking goddess gets off the flight.

  My breath gets sucked right out of my chest at the sight of her long legs, ass for fucking days, and a rack that would make grown men weep. Naturally blonde hair down her waist, lush lips that would look fucking perfect around my cock, and a waist so tiny my hands would easily circle it. She's utterly fucking sinful.

  My dick has never been so fucking hard in all my life.

  Chapter Five

  Odie

  I wake up in pitch darkness, so complete I'm not sure for a second if my eyes have actually opened or not. I move my arms around until I feel the car seats around me and know I haven't been moved from where I passed out, even if the car itself has been. Panic settles into the pit of my stomach. What if the car has been buried somewhere? Would I know, is there some way to tell even if it's too dark to see anything?

  Eventually my eyes adjust a little more and I can make out another car next to the one I'm stuck in. It's some sort of garage, possibly underground. The clock on the dashboard says 6am. We'd landed at 2pm, how was I unconscious for so long? I rub at my head, finding the sore spot and wincing. When was I hit here? Is time slipping away from me?

  Why can't I remember anything else?

  I wish I had a light and a mirror so I could check my body over. Was I drugged? Beaten? There's a soreness between my legs as well, is that the pain of that man's fingers or was I assaulted further? If I had any tears left in me I would cry but instead I lay back down and try to think of what I should do but there's nothing. I am completely helpless.

  I am left in the car for the rest of the day with no food or water.

  I don't think I could stomach any type of sustenance even if I had some available, but the constant tears I've been in for the last few days and the heavy bleeding of my nose means I'm terribly dehydrated. My tongue feels both cottony and heavy in my mouth, like a dead weight, and my throat burns when I try to swallow.

  A good side effect is I don't have to use the bathroom. For the first few hours I'm too scared to try to open the doors but eventually the thought of suffocating here has me attempting to open one with no luck. I don't know whether the car is sealed enough to take me out with carbon monoxide poisoning, but hours pass without any changes. I don't know if I'm glad or upset at not having the quiet death of slipping into unconsciousness and never waking.

  The terror slowly leaves me and then, all of a sudden, I'm bored again.

  I think my father may have broken that part of me that stays scared. Maybe it was sometime after he beat me so badly I couldn't stand for a week, I remember suddenly becoming reckless after that, like I knew how little control I have over my life so it's all just become kind of... pointless. Yes, I have dreams and hopes. I enjoy my painting and walking by the beach, but I never really do anything. I could never get away with it.

  The hours continue to tick on and my thoughts take a darker turn.

  Is it possible to want to die without being suicidal? I want Odette Archambault to die a fiery death and I want Odie to take her place. I want the woman who is owned by the men around her to cease to be, leaving behind a woman who forges her own path.

  I want so many things that will never be.

  I lose all sense of time, even with the small blinking light of the clock on the dashboard, long before the door opens again with no warning and the garage floods with artificial light. My eyes water after being in the dark for so long, my brain sluggish to catch up to the fact that I'm once again in danger.

  I sit up and look out, squinting against the light and trying to make out where the men are coming from, only... it's not a man.

  A small, older woman with the gentle face of a grandmother walks towards me. Relief courses through my veins as she pulls keys out of her pocket and the car beeps as it unlocks. I swallow. Should I get out myself?

  I have no chance to decide, she moves quickly to the car and pulls the door open, peering down at me with her big, warm brown eyes behind the glasses. I let out a deep breath. Maybe she will help me get home? Wherever that is now, Paris maybe? Anywhere but here with that man who bought me.

  We stare at each other for a minute and then she clicks her tongue in disdain as she grips my chin, turning my head to get a better look at the mess my face must be.

  "Eres una puta barata. Qué hombre va a pagar por ti eh? Cómo chingados voy a recuperar mi dinero si no vales nada?" her voice is warm and low, as if she's comforting me. I sigh even though I do not understand her words, so glad I'm finally being treated with some sort of respect.

  "Ándale, que te tengo que poner presentable para las fotos." she murmurs.

  I stare back up at her blankly, no idea of what she's saying. She clicks her tongue again and motions for me to follow her. My legs shake as I stand, my hands trembling as I clutch at the waist of my pants. I'd completely forgotten the button had been broken off and now they won't stay up. My shirt is covered in blood and the red dirt from the desert of the airstrip. I let out a shuddering breath. It would be good to be able to clean up a little, maybe she has something I can cover myself with?

  "Uhm, do you speak the English? I do not know any Spanish." I murmur, and the woman huffs under her breath.

  "Claro que hablo inglés. Estamos en America que no?"

  I swallow again, wincing at the dryness of my throat. It was worth a shot even if disappointment now burns through me. I swallow and hitch my pants up a little higher from where they've slipped.

  She leads me through the door and into a tunnel-like room without windows. The air feels different here, heavier. Definitely underground. I try not to panic at the thought of the walls closing in on me but then that's all I can think about. Deep breath in, keep walking, this is hell, how on Earth do I get out of here?

  The older woman stops and pulls open another door, ushering me in. I smile and nod at her in thanks when I see the shower. The room is clean enough, very dated and roughly put together. This is definitely not her home, at least I hope not. The thought of this little old lady living underground... it makes my skin crawl.

  She closes the door behind her self and motions to the shower. Oh. She wants me to shower with her in the room? I glance at the door and there's no lock on the door. I guess I'd rather her be in here with me than to be naked and vulnerable with those other men. At least one of them is here, the man who broke my nose and drove me here.

  I smile at her again and let go of my pants to let them drop at my feet. The woman nods and bends to grab them, holding them up and frowning at the damage. "Pendejos arruinando mi mercancía."

  I smile and lift my shirt over my head, careful to not catch my sore nose on the fabric. I catch my reflection in the mirror over the sink and see the bloody mess my face is in, grimacing. I look as though I’ve bathed in blood, as disgusting as that sounds.

  The woman starts clicking her tongue at me again, startling me back into moving. I slip my bra and panties off, dropping them to the floor and starting the water in the shower, stepping in once the water warms up. The soap doesn’t smell very nice, like the type a man would use to cut grease, but I soap up and scrub with it anyway. Washing my face is harder but I make it work, swiping gently with my fingers until I think the blood is gone.

  The woman watches me carefully for a while and then moves to open the cupboard under the sink, pulling bottles out and handing them to me. I recognize the English words, shampoo and conditioner, and smile at her in thanks.

  They smell a little better, floral enough to hide the smell of the soap, and I give my long hair a good scrub. The sore spot at the back of my head is still tender but getting clean helps to wash away what happened yesterday… enough that I can take a breath.

  The woman starts poking around in the cupboard once more, pulling out a hair dryer and some make up. I frown. I don’t want to use another woman’s makeup and I certainly do not want to be fussing over my injuries.

  Why would I even need it?

  She stands up straight again and shu
ts the water off for me, motioning me to step out as she plugs the hair dryer in. There’s no towel, so I stand there awkwardly as I drip water all over the floor and she dries out my hair. It’s so strange, not something I’ve ever experienced before, but what can I do if she cannot understand my questions? And now I am naked so I can’t just flee the room, run screaming through the underground halls when the men who assaulted me will probably find me there.

  Once my hair is dry, she starts to style it, fussing and primping it carefully. She hums under her breath, happy in the work and the tension again eases out of me. All must be okay, she couldn’t stand here with me like this if it wasn’t.

  Once she’s satisfied, she moves me back over to the mirror and starts to do my makeup, just a quick coverup of the slight bruising I have around my nose. It still looks straight and I can breathe the same so I must have gotten lucky and it doesn’t need to be reset. I watch as she carefully lines my eyes with a dark kohl and then paints my lips in a deep, blood red. I always did look good in that color.

  Finally, she packs the supplies up and bends down to stash them away again. I stand there, still a little awkward in my nakedness, and hope she’s about to pull out some clothing or at the very least a towel.

  She doesn’t.

  She pulls out a camera.

  A camera.

  Dread thrums through me once again. There’s only one reason she would need a camera, my makeup done, and my naked body. My brow furrows and I shake my head, trying to stop myself from screaming. Water still drips from my body but she doesn't care about that.

  She starts taking photos, none of them of my face, and she murmurs under her breath to herself. I raise one of my hands to cover my breasts and her face completely changes.

  There is nothing about this woman that is a sweet, little old lady.

  She slaps me across the face, harder than my father had ever managed, and stars burst across my vision. I stumble and catch myself against the tiles.

  She leans forward and speaks slowly but in perfect English, "Your father stole a lot of money from me. You are going to get me every penny back. Do you understand me now, whore?”

  A different man escorts me onto the airplane.

  It makes no difference to me, I have learned my lesson. I do not try to speak to him or argue with with as he grips my elbow, only following his every direction promptly.

  After the photoshoot with the cruel old woman, she left me in that bathroom for hours. Completely naked and without food. I’d been able to drink some water but my stomach had begun to feel as though there were claws digging inside it with hunger. How many days had it been since I last ate?

  The old woman had returned with clothing for me, throwing them at me and clicking her tongue at me to hurry me along. I took my time in putting the scant lingerie on, then the cheap, but sensual, dress on. The heels she threw at me didn’t fit and the look she gives me is one of censure, as if my feet had grown overnight in spite.

  I consider gouging her eyes out with my bare hands, but I was raised to be a good girl. Good girls don’t attack other women, even disgusting ones who work as sex traffickers.

  Once I’m dressed and ready for my new buyer, she walks me back out to the garage, shoving me into the back without ceremony. The new escort shadows her the entire way, the gun strapped to his hip in clear view as if to subdue me.

  It works.

  I sit silent in the backseat with nothing to look at outside my windows but the same red dirt of the desert. I am careful with where I look while my escort is watching me, but I never stop looking for a way to escape him. I try the locks on the car doors but they do not open from the inside. I grit my teeth with frustration, the plan to roll out of the car into oncoming traffic an appealing escape. The death would have been quick that way, only we do not pass any cars and short of breaking the window, there’s no way out of here.

  After an hour of staring at the same nothingness, we finally start to see life.

  The road gets busy quickly, as if I’ve blinked and suddenly we’re in a city. Maybe it’s not that way and the bump to the head has me forgetting things. I secretly hope I have a slow bleed that will take me out but no, I stay conscious as we slow and begin to weave through traffic and into some large city. The man escorting me switches the radio off and hums under his breath as he navigates the road, completely at peace with the work he is doing.

  These people are sick.

  Finally, we pull into a real airport and leave the car with the valet. He grips my arm in a firm hand and directs me into the building, bypassing the security with a simple jerk of his head at the workers there.

  Despair settles deep in my stomach.

  So they all know him, know what he does, and probably know I’m here against my will. The chances of finding someone who can help me are not great here, better to be silent and cooperative until I reach my destination. Maybe an air hostess or someone at the next security gate will help.

  Maybe if I scream and make enough noise as I run away from him, someone will notice and help me.

  We walk through to the first class lounge, the man showing our boarding passes and my passport as we move through. I didn’t even know I had a passport. I barely catch a glimpse of it but my name and details seem to be correct.

  I need that if I’m ever going to get home.

  The flight is commercial but with only four other people in first class. The air hostess who shows us to our seats is pretty and smiles at me a lot, complimenting my dress. I try to smile back but I’m too aware of the man’s firm grip on my arm to react as I should.

  She doesn’t seem to notice, probably used to rude and entitled women in this section, and she moves away quickly.

  I settle into my seat, clicking the seatbelt and glancing around as if there’s going to be some big sign lit up; ‘help is here’. No. There’s nothing but the air hostesses and businessmen around me.

  So I wait until we’re in the air before I press the call button, ready to start a very public fight with this man to get the hell away from him and out of this sale. He angrily jabs at the button to stop the call and I turn on him, opening my mouth to speak when his hand slides between my legs to cup me intimately.

  My entire body freezes.

  “Do not attract attention, little whore. I have been paid well to get you to where you’re going but no one told me I couldn’t sample the product if you give me trouble.”

  I can’t breathe. I barely manage to jerk my head into a nod and he chuckles under his breath, sliding his fingers over me once more before moving away. The hostess walks up and speaks, but the terror is still pumping through me too hard to understand a word of what she’s saying. My escort speaks for me, dismissing her and then turning back to his drink.

  I sit frozen for the rest of the flight, too scared to move or smile or even think.

  Maybe my half remembered assault did more damage than I originally thought.

  The flight only lasts an hour, thank god, and when we’ve landed I stay seated until my escort tells me to move. Adrenaline shoots through my veins even as I walk off of the plane on jelly legs. I need to get out.

  I need to escape and find someone to help me.

  My escort tucks his hand into the crook of my elbow again, guiding me as we both step into the airport terminal and past the staff. I’m ready to jerk away from him and run the second I can. My eyes scan over the entire first class lounge, only to find myself staring at the most terrifying man I have ever seen.

  A shiver runs down my spine as I take in every terrifying inch of him. The tattoos and weapons strapped to his body, the sheer mass of his hulking body, he is like no man I’ve ever seen before.

  He is a monster, only worse because he is flesh and blood.

  And he’s here for me.

  Chapter Six

  Illi

  Her eyes burn brightly and her body is fucking perfection.

  No wonder she went for such a high price.

  The
cartel who escorted her over doesn’t utter a word, just holds her elbow to direct her over to me and then turns on his heel to get back on a plane home. Huh, no fucking love lost there. Maybe he’s an ex, pissed she’s moving on to greener pastures.

  I'm glad she isn't quaking in her fucking sexy heels, I'd have to get her the fuck out of here if she was being trafficked. Fuck, to go for such a high price and be willing... she must be fucking legendary between the sheets.

  I can't get my dick under control.

  "We're this way, baby girl. Do you have any luggage?"

  Her eyes flash at me as she shakes her head and, fuck me, that only makes the situation in my pants worse. The anger there is enough to know that she'd be fucking unreal. Those lips wrapped around my dick... fuck, I need to get her moving out of the airport before I bend her the fuck over something.

  Fuck this is it.

  This is my fucking side project.

  I'm going to do whatever the fuck it takes to get her warm and willing and fucking fiery underneath me, on top of me, wrapped around me... fuck. I'm just standing here staring at her like a fucking dick because she's knocked the brains out of me with all that she's working with.

  She's working with a lot.

  I could afford her. Even double the price, I could make it work. Fuck, it's so tempting to offer her the money to come home with me right the fuck now instead of the rich dick who has already paid for her time. She's sex on legs that go for fucking miles. But I don't want to insult her by offering her the money. She might be a pro but, fuck, you meet someone like this? You fucking keep her, whatever it takes, and I'm not sticking my fucking foot in it so quick.