I’d poured my heart out to a stranger and all she could do was stare.
“Can I borrow your phone?” My voice wavered; tears threatened. Being so close to freedom made me jittery.
She nodded hesitantly, clearly not quite understanding. I spied the phone behind the counter and snagged it, leaning over a plate of bagels and muffins.
My hands shook, apprehension tickled my spine. Fingers hovered over the emergency call buttons, but I couldn’t dial. I needed to hear another voice first.
I pressed the number I knew by heart and tears burst forth as the call connected. It rang and rang for an eternity. Please, pick up. Please, be alive.
The woman scowled and disappeared into the back of the restaurant, reappearing and dragging an elderly chef. Both of them wore yellow uniforms with white pinafores, and the same ‘what the hell’ expression.
I bounced, waiting for the phone to connect. My time was running out.
Hi, you’ve reached Brax Cliffingstone. I’m unable to get to the phone, but you know the drill. Leave your details, and I’ll get back to you. Or, if it’s life and death, please contact my girlfriend, Tess, and she’ll help out. Her number: 044-873-4937. Cheers!
Beep.
Something snapped in my chest. I hadn’t heard my name in so long. Hearing it in Brax’s voice robbed my fight, and I shrunk into the tame little girl I’d been before Mexico, before Q, before I knew what I was capable of.
I crumbled, sobbing. Brax’s voice resonated around my heart, vibrating with longing. Why wasn’t he picking up? Was he dead, or just busy? So many questions and I wouldn’t get answers from a machine.
Sniffing back tears, I warbled, “Brax, it’s me. I’m—I’m alive. I was sold to a man named Q. I’m not hurt and I’m on my way home. If you get this message, I’ll be at the Australian Embassy, hopefully working out passports and things.”
I sucked in a deep breath. I wanted to tell him so much: how I changed, what I lived through, but I would never be able to tell him what Q did, as I’d never be able to hide the sick, messed up desire in my voice. He’d know Q turned me on, even as I lied that I preferred tameness. I burned that bridge when I showed Brax my vibrator, asking for more.
Urgency itched; I had to get off the phone, time tick-tocked away. I could break down and find myself again once I was home.
“Brax, if—if I don’t get home, promise me you’ll find a man named Q Mercer in a small region of France. He has a big house, staff. Tell the police. I love you.”
Tears streamed anew as I terminated the call, and instantly dialled another number. The chef, covered in smears of sauce and flour, yanked the phone out of my grip.
“Hey!” I glared.
He shook his head, anger blazing. “You spreading lies. I do not believe—” Eyes shot past me. The door slammed open, bell clanging with warning.
I spun in terror.
Oh, my God. Franco stood in the doorway, eyes bugging out of his head. He froze for a millisecond before launching into action. Hands flew to his jacket, fumbling in the inner pocket. What was he looking for? A gun?
I didn’t mean to find out.
I ran.
Pushing past the man and woman, I charged into the kitchen and thanked God for the exit. The door rocketed open as I slammed it with a shoulder.
The back street was salvation, and I sprinted with every bit of strength. My sore ankle yelped as I flew over uneven cobblestones, darting down another alley. I zigged and zagged, trying to get completely lost, hoping Franco would lose all sense of direction.
A grunt and shout obliterated the hope; I ran harder. I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t. Q would punish me, and I didn’t know how much more my mind could take. I might never get another chance to escape.
Changing course, I charged for the main street, exploding from the alley into on-coming traffic. People scattered as I careened out of control, panting hard, eyes wild.
Car horns blared as I slammed to a halt in the middle of the road. My gaze darted, trying to find someone, something, to save me. I daren’t look behind to see if Franco was close—my entire body felt hunted. Any moment, a bullet would tear through my brain, putting me down like the rabid runaway I was.
Battling useless thoughts, I put all focus into finding a saviour.
A car screeched to a halt, missing me by millimetres. My heart catapulted into my throat as the bumper whispered against my knees. Shit, am I so willing to sacrifice death for survival?
“Putain de merde!” What the hell? The youngish man with browny-red hair opened the car door, waving an angry hand. “I could’ve killed you!”
I latched onto his eyes, entreating instincts to say if he could be trusted. Could he save me? I ran to the driver’s side, and gripped the door with white fingers. “Please. Take me to the police. I’ve been kidnapped.”
I looked behind me, expecting to see Franco within grabbing distance. I was an exposed target, standing in the middle of a blocked road.
The guy looked me up and down, nostrils flaring as he ran a nervous hand through his hair. Brown eyes glazed with confusion, and I suffered a pang of fear. He wouldn’t help.
I backed up, bunching muscles to run again.
Just as I was about to take off, he shouted, “Wait! I take. I take.” He ran around the front of the car and opened the passenger door.
Hesitation filled me, looking into the small sedan. Was this a case of jumping out of the pan and into the fire?
Who else do you have to save you?
“Esclave!”
Heart spurted with terror; I threw myself into the car. “Get in. Get in!” I couldn’t breathe as Franco fought his way through lingering pedestrians, eyes locked on me.
The guy jumped into action and ran to the driver’s seat. He slammed the car into gear, and we peeled forward with a roar of the engine. Franco slammed the car roof as we zoomed away, bypassing other cars, and jumping the curb.
I peered at the guy—my rescuer. His mouth thinned to a white line, navigating the road at hyper speed. I wanted to hug him, crush him in thankfulness.
Twisting in the seat, I stared out the back window. Franco jumped up and down in the street, yanking his black hair. He yelled something and threw his hands up, before sprinting back to where he parked.
Breathing hard, I swivelled to face the front, trying to calm down. I’d done it. I was free.
We didn’t say a word as we drove from the postcard perfect township onto pretty country roads.
Silence lurked like a third passenger. I stared out the window, tension knotting my stomach. I wanted to dance in happiness, but I wasn’t free yet. I needed to stay collected, stay wary. I frowned. After three weeks of torture, could it really be that easy? Uneasiness pricked, and I bit my lip. Surely, it couldn’t be that simple?
The GPS! In my rush, I’d forgotten about Q’s freakin’ tracker. Shit! I brought my leg up, resting a heel on the seat. Fingers fumbled with my jeans, pushing them up to access the anklet. I tugged hard, trying to wedge fingers beneath the twist-tie, but it only tightened, cutting off blood supply to my foot.
I huffed with rage. How the hell would I get rid of it?
The guy looked over, eyebrow cocked. “What are you doing?” He navigated a turn, before glancing again. “What is that?”
We made eye contact. His face seemed kind enough, not handsome, but not ugly. Mid-thirties with early wrinkles around brown eyes. Deciding he seemed trustworthy, I said, “I need a knife, or some scissors. Do you have anything like that?” I fiddled with the anklet. If I could raise my leg to my mouth, I could gnaw it off. The image made me want to laugh —I escaped, only to have chew my own leg off like a starving rat.
I expected him to say no. I mean, this entire thing seemed too perfect. Who could say their knight in shining armour almost ran them over, then whisked them away in a crappy Volvo?
My mind shot to Franco. Had he called Q? Arranged a search party for me? Q wouldn’t let me go easily. He’d hunt, but I
didn’t intend for him to catch me.
Urgency pumped blood faster; I wished the driver would step on it. I wanted Formula One driving, not sedate Grandma.
The guy shifted, his foot pressing on the accelerator as he fumbled in a pocket. He frowned, wiggling his ass, reaching for something.
I watched with an incredulous expression, trying to figure out what he was doing. After a few awkward moments, he smiled, pulling his hand free.
With a flourish, he passed me a miniature Swiss army knife.
My eyes popped wide, and I accepted it with shaky hands. “Thanks.” My voice whispered with awe. From now on, I would carry a Swiss army knife—never know when one would come in handy. Bet he didn’t wake up this morning expecting a runaway to use it to cut a tracker off her body.
I took the red case and flipped open a serrated blade. I blew blonde bangs from my eyes, sawing through thick plastic. It took a lot of energy, and my skin grew clammy beneath the jumper by the time it snapped and fell away.
The moment it dropped to the floor, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. The nightmare was almost over, one step closer to Brax.
The guy watched closely. His intense gaze sent flutters of awareness as I returned the knife. I kept my face blank when he palmed it, shoving it back in his pocket.
Perhaps I should’ve kept it? You’re not thinking clearly, Tess. Don’t trust anyone.
He gave me half a smile, light returning to his eyes. Fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “What happened?”
I managed three words: “Q Mercer happened.” Then weariness smothered and the thought of reliving it was too much. I couldn’t talk about it; I might not ever be ready to talk, and that was fine by me. It would become an unspoken moment of time and fade into oblivion.
Huddling, my chest clogged with emotion. So close… so close. I grew heavy as the adrenaline in my blood abandoned me. “I just need to get to the police.”
He nodded. The afternoon sun dipped through the windshield, highlighting the red in his hair. “Pas de problème.”
I gave a watery smile and settled back, looking forward to the future.
* * * * *
The sound of tyres on gravel roused me, panic flared like an old enemy. Gravel—please tell me we aren’t back at Q’s.
I shot upright, blinking out the window. Adrenaline and jittery warmth made my breath come fast. I’d become so used to terror overflowing, I wondered if I’d ever feel safe again.
It was dark; no population, no township, nothing in the looming blackness. I glared at the man supposedly saving me, trying to figure it out.
He smirked, slowing to a stop. I stared out the window again, disbelieving. Where were the bright lights of a police station? The comforting sounds of people?
Brakes squeaked and he grinned in the shadows. “Come with me.”
“But this isn’t a police station.”
He chuckled. “No. Not going to the police. But you’re home now, just the same.”
My world slammed to a halt; I gawked. He wasn’t serious. He couldn’t be serious. It couldn’t happen. It just couldn’t. Hadn’t I dealt with enough in Mexico and with Q?
Ripe anger gushed, and all I saw was red. I wouldn’t let this happen. I wrenched open the door and toppled from the car.
“Hey, arrêt!” The man fumbled with the seat belt, but he was too late. I shot to my feet and ran.
He screamed obscenities, curses licking my heels, urging me faster. My head swivelled, looking for solitude, a place to run to. But all around, rolling country hills and patchwork farmland imprisoned better than any barbwire. I didn’t even know where he’d taken me. I could run for miles and never find help.
My heart ached, pushing my body past endurance. I burst past a row of soaring pine trees and my mouth fell open.
A sprawling country estate rested under moonlight. Inviting with arched windows and Tuscany appeal, but instincts beat an uneven tattoo in my chest. Evil. The house reeked of evil.
I darted to the right, running as far from the estate as possible. I came to a wooden fence and scaled it. The moment my feet touched ground again, I jerked my arms, propelling forward. Pain from bruises and ribs were inconsequential—running was paramount.
I stumbled in the dark, the only light came from the silver, pregnant moon. My ankle rolled on a row of potatoes ready for hoeing. I looked around—acres and acres of potatoes, all resting in blankets of dirt.
Keep running!
Breath rasped in the silent night, and legs burned, but I never let up the pace. I bounded over rows of potatoes like a gazelle hunted by a lion.
A little further, then I would be hidden by the night. I could find help elsewhere. But as I ran, my faith in humanity died a fiery death. All my life, I believed in the goodness of people. Never seeing darkness for myself. But now, I hated everyone, suspected everything. Another part was broken: the ability to trust.
A shape blurred in the corner of my eye and I screamed. A hard form slammed into mine, crushing me against soil and produce. The smell of earth assaulted and I flared with pain.
Heavy breathing filled my ear as I fought. We rolled, caking ourselves in dirt; I tried to bite but nothing came within teeth distance.
I was no match for the new brute. A boulder from the night—he loomed twice the size of Q and fear sliced as hands pawed, rough and angry.
He pulled me to my feet, black eyes glinting. “Hello, treasure.”
I kicked and snarled. “Let me go.”
He threw his head back, laughing. Thinning brown hair and wrinkled face put him somewhere in his mid-fifties. But no middle-age spread covered his body—it rippled with compacted muscle. With barely any energy, he dragged me across the field as if I were a flea. I stopped struggling; this battle I lost, but I’d save my strength to fight again.
The driver waited, slouched over the wooden fence. He leered as the brute picked me up, helping me over the slats. The driver caught me, running hands sickeningly up my ribcage, brushing the sides of my breasts. “Nice of you to try and run. We always like a chase.”
I dropped my eyes, taking in my dirt stained clothing. I prayed for that vacant part again, the cloud of uncaring, but as they pulled me, struggling, into the Tuscan inspired house, it never came. My mind shackled me to endure whatever would come next.
The brute shoved me through the door, and I jumped as it slammed shut. My throat dried, noticing how many locks braced the exit. It looked like a bunker—someone who didn’t trust a dead-bolt but had to have a chain and bar, too. What the hell did he do in here? Don’t answer that.
I tried hard not to panic, but breath came faster.
The brute strode fast, fingers bruising my upper arm as he pushed me through the house. Rooms of understated elegance and money greeted, but cobwebs laced chandeliers and dust rested on unused furniture. What the fuck was this place?
“Why are you doing this?” I asked as he opened a room and shoved me through. My jaw fell open.
The ballroom of the dilapidated house had been turned into a sadistic fun-room. Plasterwork of roses and angels on the ceiling smiled down on rows and rows of dusty floggers, whips, restraints, and so many toys it could’ve been a sex shop. Two expanses of the huge walls were mirrors.
I immediately looked away from the image. I couldn’t stand the sight of being entrapped by two men. My life had fallen into the devil’s clutches and I’d done this to myself! I ran from Q. I’d been stupid. So, so fucking stupid!
The brute grabbed my chin, making me look into black eyes. “I’m doing this because it’s high time that bastard Mercer gave me some pussy. He thought he could stop farming out women? Too bad, he has customers, and customers have needs.”
My world fell apart. That couldn’t be true. Q was many things, but I couldn’t see him sharing women, trading them, renting them out. But some terrified part wondered if that’s how he earned his money. Where did he go during the day? Were there other girls, hidden in the house, being used, abuse
d?
I shook my head. Q hated himself for what Russian Lumberjack did. His apology ached with remorse. He couldn’t have those sort of emotions and be a trafficker, too. It didn’t make sense!
The driver spoke up. “That cunt Mercer has a lot to answer for, and we’re gonna take those answers from you.” He licked his lips. “The moment you said he was the one you ran from, I couldn’t believe my fucking luck! He lied to us, and now you’re the one who will pay.”
I whimpered as The Brute grabbed the back of my neck, shoving me toward the massive mattress on the floor. I fell, coughing as a billow of dust surrounded me. My eyes smarted but I refused to let any moisture fall.
The men laughed and punched each other in the shoulder, as if they were about to get lucky on a date. The world was infested with evil. I hated them. Hated, hated, hated!
I glared up. “I’m not an object to take your revenge out on. If you have issues with Q, take it up with him!”
Brute laughed, slapping meaty thighs. “Oh, treasure. You are the perfect revenge.” He removed his brown jacket, shrugging it to the floor. “I am curious, though. How many girls does he have now?”
I clamped my lips closed. Q conned me into believing I was his only slave—his only plaything. Once again, jealousy gripped my heart. Everything Q made me believe was a lie. He didn’t care about me. He didn’t have emotions, and he trafficked women. He was worse than the men who kidnapped me—at least they wore their true colours. Q was a chameleon, so clever at hiding the truth.
Driver went to one of the racks and chose a flogger. Heartbeats raced as he swatted his hand, testing the sting. He grabbed a couple of packets from a dusty bowl and threw one at Brute.
The man nodded. “Merci.” His eyes fell on me and darkness took over. I wouldn’t be able to reason as no soul remained. I knew with deadly certainty they would kill me after. I wished they’d kill me now, before they ruined me.
Driver went behind me and I swivelled my neck, hating him being there.
The air thickened and all three of us froze—caught in a tiny window where normalcy reigned—then my life ended for the third time.
Tears of Tess Page 16