by Denise Wells
His face lights with realization. “Babe, it’s fine. Shit smells. No biggie. I’ll go get you some of that poop-pourri or whatever it is. Does that make you feel better?”
I sigh. He doesn’t get it. Do I tell him or don’t I? I can’t believe this much effort and thought into my impending bowel movements. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
“I can’t wipe my ass, Mack.” I gesture to my broken wrist as I say it. Annoyed all over again that I’m in this situation, needing help, unable to care for myself, and all because I was a dumbass. Well, the guy who shot up my car more so, but me too.
He stills. His face goes blank as it dawns on him what I’m saying.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” I say, gesturing toward his expression.
He scoots his chair back from the bed and covers his mouth for a moment, holding up a finger when I begin to speak again. I wait, letting him do whatever he needs to in order to back out of this, go back to his job, and let me hire a nurse that I can yell at.
He stands and walks around in a small circle in the middle of the room, holding that same finger out all the while to keep me silent. His face reddens, and his cheeks puff.
“Are you laughing?” I ask.
He buries his head in his chest and shakes it.
“You are laughing, aren’t you?”
He turns his back toward me, standing up straight after a moment before pivoting to face me once again. “No, babe. I was not laughing. I would never make fun of your shite. I mean plight.” He convulses into laughter finally, loud guffaws that echo off the walls of my hospital room. I look around for something to throw at him.
“I’d make a poop joke here, but the one I have is really crappy.” He bends over at the waist, his hands on his knees, laughing so hard he coughs, trying to catch his breath. “Wait, wait, we could watch the movie constipation while you poop, except it never came out.” He continues to roar with laughter.
I’m trying to be angry with him, but it’s hard when he’s obviously enjoying this so much. Regardless, I steel my facial expression and wait until he’s finished.
“Are you through?” I ask.
“No, I got one more, wanna hear the poop pun?” He barely waits a moment before continuing, “Never mind, it’s too corny!”
Watching him in near hysterics makes my heart happy. I’m not happy about the two of us discussing my bowel movements or the aftereffects. But I know the last few days had to have been hard on him, and if I can give him a bit of brevity, I want to. So, I say nothing as he continues to poke fun and laugh at my expense. He saunters toward the bed and he controls his mirth, leaning down to kiss me lightly on the lips.
“Baby, there is no one’s ass I’d rather wipe more than yours.” He winks and returns to his chair, still chuckling to himself.
And it hits me—hard—just how head over heels in love I am with this man. I’m at my absolute worst and he still looks at me with such admiration shining in his eyes. We are stuck in a situation so fucked up we should be sinking in self-pity. And instead he tells me he’s happy to wipe my shitty ass, then he makes jokes about it.
How can I not need this man in my life forever? I’m keeping Mack as mine. No more taking it slow. The minute I can move without pain, I’m going to fuck the shit out of him.
No pun intended.
18
Reed
So far, the work I’ve done for Andrei has been about an inch onto the left side of the law. I justify it in my mind by reminding myself that it’s for the greater good. I’m doing what the FBI can’t. And if I’m to believe what Viktor says, the bureau not only knows about it, but they condone it. Which is why I’m able to take pleasure in beating the shit out of this guy in front of me.
I don’t know what he did specifically, and I don’t want to. I balked at first when Andrei asked me to take care of him until I heard he’d tried to sample the goods of the girl Andrei’s got tucked away. Which is one hundred percent against the rules. Andrei’s and mine. Because if there’s something I hate more than that oafish Russian excuse of a man, it’s men who abuse women.
Andrei couldn’t give a fuck; he just doesn’t like that the guy didn’t follow his orders. According to the thugs that brought him down here to me, they caught this guy just in time, whatever that means. There aren’t degrees of no. If the lady didn’t want it, the guy needed to leave it alone. Assault isn’t defined by penetration; it’s anything unwanted.
My fist glances off the side of his head, causing me to lose my step a bit. We were drinking vodka again this morning. A lot of it. That’s what we do, apparently. I try to keep a clear head every so often just for the fuck of it. The rest of the time, I give into the temptation that is the blur of the booze. Because it’s good to forget. Forget how I’ve treated Quinn. Forget the laughable excuse of a career I lost. And the absolute mess I’ve made of my life.
If you’d told me a year ago that I’d discover my best friend was trafficking women right under my nose, that I’d give in to blackmail and become some sort of Russian mafia errand boy, that I’d throw my entire career with the FBI in the toilet and be drinking to forget, I would have said you were fuck nuts crazy.
I stop to catch my breath and wipe my hands on a nearby rag. I can’t tell if the moisture on my hands is from blood, sweat, or the guy's abundant use of hair grease. Not gel. Grease.
For that all day dripping wet look, I suppose.
It’s not attractive on him, and it’s a fucking mess to deal with. The more he sweats and bleeds, the more it runs down his face and neck, under his shirt, pooling in his nether regions. Speaking of, part of me wants to cut this guy’s dick off. But another part of me doesn’t want to touch it.
I have an entire selection of instruments and tools to use, I’m sure one would hold his appendage without my having to touch it, but I’d have to unbutton his pants. And the very idea of that disturbs me. I’d have him do it, but judging by the way he sits slumped against the back of the chair I have him bound to, I don’t think he’s able.
If he were, I’m sure he’d be trying to break out of his confines. The duct tape has since loosened because of the bodily fluids he excretes and ice water I douse him with to keep him awake. We learned the basics of torture techniques in the FBI, but nothing like this. Nothing like what Andrei has down in this basement of his. Most of the implements of pain are self-explanatory, others I improvise with.
Like the tire iron looking thing with the hook on the end that I just impaled into the side of his neck, giving him a too easy way out of this. I tuck my fists into a bucket of ice water to take some of the sting away. That and the blood, more his than mine. His nose still drips from when I broke it, but the large gaping wound in his neck seeps more.
He’ll bleed out soon. It’s disappointing because I was kind of enjoying myself. But at the same time, it’s hella fucking exhausting trying to beat someone to death. I mean, I’m not in poor shape, but I’ve not been working out like I should, my diet lately is shit, and I’m pretty sure more vodka than blood is leaking through my pores. At least if the way I smell is any indication.
I should go for a run in the morning instead of chasing the hair of the dog with more hair. As someone who spent most of his life following the rules, doing everything right, believing in justice, and that right will always win out over wrong—well this new sloth-like alcoholic devil may care existence is a nice break from it all.
I wipe my hands for the last time on a cleanish rag and leave the body for someone else to take care of. Andrei didn’t specifically say I should kill the guy, but he also didn’t say I shouldn’t. I figure it’s his problem now and he can deal with it however he wants.
I leave the room and head down the drafty hallway, pausing near a door where I’m almost certain I hear a woman crying. I wonder if it’s Andrei’s woman, the one he’s so obsessed with. I try the doorknob, but not surprisingly, it’s locked. The minute I rattle it, the sobbing stops. She’s scared of whoever might come in, that much i
s obvious. With what she’s just been through—if it is the same woman—who can blame her.
Leaving well enough alone, I continue on down the hall and make my way up the cement stairwell toward daylight and civilization. If we’re to consider Andrei and his cronies civilization, that is.
I head into Andrei’s study, where he and the men sit furtively discussing something I’m only able to catch the tail end of.
“—will pay for this,” Andrei growls. His face still has a big bandage over his left eye from where Ronan clocked him with the crystal tumbler. That was a sight to see for sure. One second, Ronan is chilling in his chair, and the next he’s flattened Andrei. It was impressive. Made me almost like the Ronan guy a bit.
Almost.
Only because Ronan doesn’t seem to be as big an asshole as Andrei. At least not from what I’ve seen as of yet. Smashing the glass into his face aside.
Truth be told, they are all a bunch of assholes just worse than others.
I look back and forth between the men, waiting for someone to catch me up on what’s going on. None seem ready to talk.
Time for me to perform. I jump on my toes a few times and shake my arms out. “Who’s gonna pay? Tell me, I’m ready.”
Andrei considers me for a moment before rising from his chair and coming to stand before me. “I think perhaps you are not ready.”
“Really,” I scoff. “You should see the body I just left downstairs.”
“He is dead, no?” Andrei asks.
“He is dead, yes,” I answer.
“And what will you do if this new person is a friend?”
“Of mine? I don’t have any friends.” I keep with the story that Viktor came up with. I’m a lone wolf, no attachments, no commitments. Unless Andrei’s found out who I really am, in which case I’m pretty sure I’d be dead, he can’t know of any friends of mine.
“You know her father, no?”
I laugh. “That depends. I try to never meet a lady’s father, if you know what I mean?” The men laugh, Andrei remains stoic. I stroll to his bar cart and pour myself a healthy serving of vodka. Holding up the decanter in question to see if anyone else wants a refill. Andrei motions for me to bring the decanter to him, back at his desk.
“Okay, Rico. I will trust you this one time.”
“Put me in, coach,” I joke. Not a one of them get it. I take the seat opposite him on the front side of his desk, tempted to put my feet up on it, such as he is doing, just to see if I can get away with it.
“Daria Limonov must die.”
I falter slightly. Hopefully, none of them see it, I try my best to cover by bringing my glass to my mouth and drinking. I take a moment to compose my thoughts before responding. “Isn’t she some kind of famous femme fatale who can pretty much kill a guy twice my size with one hand tied behind her back?” I chuckle nervously, pretending to be afraid of her. Though, in some ways, I’m not lying. When Viktor fully explained the full extent of Daria’s skill set, I was floored.
“She has talents, yes,” Andrei says. “But surely someone such as you can conquer a mere girl, no?”
“I don’t hit women,” I say flatly. Knowing that’s not going to get me out of this, but wanting to take a stand against something that’s not going to immediately get me killed. At least I don’t think it will.
“How fortunate for you,” Andrei laughs. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you are afraid.”
“Of course, I’m afraid. That chick is legendary.”
Andrei waves his hand in the air dismissively and grunts something in Russian. “She is nothing.”
“Why do you want her dead?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.
“She killed my brother.”
“That’s a good reason,” I play along. “How do you know it was her?”
“I just know.” Andrei studies me for a moment, too long to be comfortable. Something’s up, I just don’t know what.
God, I hope he doesn’t know who I am.
He turns to one of his men and says something in Russian, then back to me as he says, “Go with them. Bring me the girl.”
Great, now I’ve got to watch them do shit to some innocent woman on top of everything else.
Fuck my life.
19
Quinn
I still don’t know how long I’ve been here or when I’ll be able to leave. I go back and forth between hating myself for wanting to do something so stupid as this to begin with and hating everyone else I know for not rescuing me yet. I mean, what the fuck? My three best friends consist of two FBI agents and an assassin for hire, yet here I sit. In this weird little dungeon room like a sitting duck waiting for every Tom, Dick, and Harry to come in and try to rape me.
Which is exactly what happened this morning. Luckily someone heard me screaming and stopped the guy who’d come in here. For now—at least—I’m off-limits. Which lends little comfort when I have no idea how long it will last.
The guy didn’t even get as far as pulling his pants down before they pulled him off me. But he did rip my dress, bite my breast, and choke me to the point of blacking out after I scratched his face. Plus, I’m fairly certain he split my cheek and blackened my eye. And I can’t breathe through my nose.
I’m in pain. A lot of it. Mostly if I try to move. If I just lay here and stay still, it becomes a dull roar, almost like white noise coursing through my body. Which, in a weird way, is comforting. I guess if I can still feel pain, it means I’m not dead.
I don’t touch my face for fear of getting all the filth and grime on my hands in the cuts. Then they would get infected, and I would die in here alone. Would anyone even notice before days had gone by? Anyone who didn’t also want to rape me? I rub absently at the sore spot marked only by the teeth marks he left behind.
Do I even have the energy to fight someone off if it happened again?
Or would I just let it happen—settle myself early into this new fate that is my life?
I haven’t seen the big guy, Andrei, or the suave guy, Ronan, again. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t around. I have a feeling Ronan is the reason I’m hands-off to the men. He’s the only one who seems civilized enough to give that order.
Even though the possessiveness in which Andrei initially looked at me could not be ignored. So maybe he’s just saving me for himself. Not that anyone talks to me or tells me anything. I mean, the only men to come in here is the creep from earlier or the young guy who brings my food and water.
Someone twisted my doorknob a while ago, only to find it locked.
My knight in shining armor? Doubtful.
Another rapist? Probably.
If it hadn’t been locked, would the person have gotten in? Only to finish what the other guy started? I can’t even find the energy to be anxious about it. Panic attacks are a thing of the past when you are this tired, hungry, and run down.
After I met Ronan, I made the mistake of thinking I would be safe here. And that everything would be okay. If for no other reason than because he seemed like a reasonable man. But that’s hardly been the case. Case in point: I’ve been out of toilet paper for a while now, using scraps of my dress ripped from the hem.
I’ve sunk so low I’m not sure how to recover. Does one simply bounce back from something like this? Is this how the women felt that David was always kidnapping? Did they spend days on end in isolation to slowly break them down before selling them into slavery?
Maybe if one of the guys comes back, I’ll just let them rape me to get the first time over with. It must get easier after that, right? What’s that saying—it takes twenty-one days to form a habit? If it started today, I’d be used to being victimized in just three short weeks.
Would I still be in this situation if I hadn’t had the idea to get myself kidnapped? Would I have been taken otherwise? Will I ever know? I lay back on the thin mattress and stare at the ceiling. It’s free from stains or water spots. Almost like it’s been freshly painted or something, which makes no
sense given the condition of the walls and floor. And how is it they have concrete walls and not ceilings? Although how would the cement stay up there long enough to harden? That doesn’t make sense, right?
It would be like that time I tried to lay wall tile in my bathroom, and every time I spread the cement-like stuff on the wall that the tile sticks to, it would fall right off. At least that’s how I imagine it would be. Or that other stuff that goes in between the tiles, that I just ended up pushing in the space with my index finger.
I pick at a loosened thread on my dress, pulling until it’s as long as my finger and the surrounding material had bunched and pursed in its stead. Wishing I was laying tile instead of here. I’d rather be anywhere else than here, really. I’m through trying to send Daria and Reed telepathic messages. If they wanted me to be free, I would be. It’s that simple.
I can almost give Reed a free pass since he’s undercover and might not even be in the same state as us any longer. But Daria? And Mack? They have no excuse. And since Daria knows these guys who’ve taken me, she should be up their asses right now trying to find me. But she’s not.
I feel weighed down by the amount of despair that fills me with. To know that you love someone enough you would do anything for them, and they can’t—won’t—even do something for you that is second nature to do for strangers. She frees abducted women all the time.
All the fucking time.
This should be a cakewalk for her.
If I still had my phone, I would now look up where the term cakewalk came from. I like to know things like that. Random things that others take for granted. Fun facts, where sayings come from or why we say them, tidbits of information that don’t really matter but are still interesting. If nothing else, it makes for good party conversation. Some people use questions as ice breakers, I prefer random facts.
Did you know the Cookie Monster has a real name? It’s Sid. Cookie Monster is a nickname because of his love for cookies.
