by Pam Godwin
With a heavy heart, she cleaned up the ice cream wrappers and waited for him to come out.
And waited.
And waited.
Eventually, she fell into a restless sleep.
The next morning, she opened her eyes to an empty room. The mattress lay untouched beside her. He never came to bed?
Her heart plunged to her stomach.
You’re leaving in a few days.
Not without you.
His luggage was still here, his clothes draped over the chair.
“John?” She leaned up on an elbow, listening.
Silence.
Sighing, she threw back the soft coverlet, warm and bright with the kiss of sunshine, and went to investigate.
A full breakfast greeted her in the main room, eggs and high-fat pork still steaming beneath the dome covers. She forced herself to eat, needing the calories, but her nerves prevented her from tasting it.
Where was he? Was he already executing some reckless plan against La Rocha? Why hadn’t he woken her? What if he got himself killed?
Cold dread slithered up her spine.
“You’re deranged and paranoid,” she whispered under her breath. “He’s just working out.”
She showered and got ready for the day. By mid-morning, he hadn’t returned.
She went for a walk.
Keeping to the low-traffic areas, she followed winding paths through the gardens and ventured away from the main buildings.
All was quiet here in the morning, opening her ears to the sounds of chirping birds and busy bees. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was in a peaceful place, surrounded by nature and harmony. And freedom.
She’d forgotten what freedom felt like. To exist without someone watching. To run without someone chasing. To make decisions without painful corrections lashed upon her body.
It had been so long she didn’t know how to wish for such an ideal.
Lost in thought, she wandered until her feet carried her to the garage on the far side of the property. The door creaked as she opened it, the aroma of metal and engine oil tickling her nose. A comforting scent. Her sanctuary.
A camera hung high in the corner, tracking her movements until she veered around a large shelving unit and climbed into the back of an old Dodge Dart. The rusted thing might’ve been a rock-star muscle car in the sixties, but the only purpose it served now was a place to hide beyond the reach of the camera.
The paint was so worn and dusty only a few bits of blue shone through. The long backseat, however, made a comfy bed. She crawled in and curled up on the blanket she’d placed here forever ago.
From beneath the seat, she removed a small journal and flipped through the pages, reading her handwriting, savoring the words. Memory after memory filled her vision. Only good memories. The best ones from her childhood. She’d written them all down when she first arrived and added to them over the years. On her worst days, she read them, relived them, and rediscovered her smile.
But she hadn’t come today to recharge with happy thoughts. She was here to think, weigh her options, and make a decision.
The last time she trusted a man, she got schooled. Miguel had promised her a dream and delivered a nightmare.
John had made no such promises, save for one.
He’d said he wouldn’t leave without her.
It was a promise he couldn’t keep. La Rocha would never let her go. Not for any sum of money. Not even at gunpoint. Well, maybe if it was a lot of guns. Like a whole army.
If John was connected to the Colombian cartel, he had the means to gather a militia. But he didn’t know where to send them.
It all came down to the location of the compound.
She couldn’t help him with that, but she could tell him what she saw on the other side of the wall. Maybe it was nothing.
What if it was everything?
The thought slingshot her heart into the garage rafters. She jackknifed up, shoving the journal beneath the seat on her way out of the car.
She wouldn’t be naive, but being stubborn was just as bad. She could help him figure out the location without giving him her name. If his plan went south, or worse, if he betrayed her, her family would still have anonymity.
Decision made, she turned toward the door. But before she stepped into view of it, it creaked open.
She froze, her senses amplified as a single set of footsteps crunched across the dirt floor.
Heart thudding in her ears, she rounded the shelving unit and came face to face with Miguel La Rocha.
“Ven aquí, mi pequeño zorro.” He smoothed a hand down his tie, his Spanish a silken caress. “Are you hiding from me?”
“No. But had I known you were back, then yes, you bet your ugly ass I would’ve hidden somewhere you couldn’t find me.” She sidestepped, veering toward the door.
“Careful.” Graceful and deadly, he moved with her, blocking her escape. “I’m not in the mood today.”
“You’re never in the mood, pachuco.”
His lip curled with distaste. “Watch your mouth, or I’ll find a better use for it.”
A sting of fear knifed through her. “You didn’t come here for a blowjob.”
He would never force her to do that particular act. He knew better. But there were worse ways to hurt her.
“No.” He stalked toward her, dressed in a black suit, shiny shoes, and hair slicked back like he’d just stepped out of a salon. “Quiero tu coño.”
“Nope. No sex.” She eyed the door with longing as her insides tumbled through shards of ice. “Marco sold me to one of the guests.”
“Ah, si. He loaned you to John Smith. You still belong to us.”
She flexed her hands. If she didn’t make a break for it, Miguel would rape her. His intent smoldered in his eyes and filled her stomach with lead.
“Mr. Smith doesn’t share.” She inched toward the exit, her pulse careening into the red. “I don’t want to get in the middle of that, so I’ll just go find him and let you—”
“I saw him.” His mouth spread into a grin—the one she despised, for it promised a world of hurt. “I didn’t get an opportunity to talk to him. Not with his tongue shoved down my sister’s throat and his hands up her dress. They could hardly remain upright as they stumbled and groped like animals into her room.”
No.
No, John wouldn’t do that.
Except he’d told her that was precisely what he would do.
Agony like nothing she’d ever felt seared through her chest and wrenched a horrible sound from her throat. She rubbed a hand over her mouth, trying to conceal the shameful reaction. She didn’t have feelings for that man. She couldn’t. She fucking wouldn’t.
But her damn heart took a detour around logic and self-preservation and attacked her with everything it had. She couldn’t breathe against the onslaught. It hurt too badly—the pounding, caving, internal pressure. She gripped her throat, her chest, and raced for the door.
“What’s wrong?” Miguel was on her in a flash, an arm locked around her waist and a fist in her hair. Then he slammed her back against the wall. “You like this John Smith?”
He drew a featherlight finger down her temple, tracing the creases of her fractured expression, his gaze sharp and observant, seeing too much.
“You know how I feel about your sister.” She gnashed her teeth, bucking uselessly in his grip. “You also know how competitive I am with her. If she’s moving in on my turf, I’m going to fucking defend it!”
“Oh, sí, lo sé.” He flipped his hand over, brushing the backs of his fingers across her cheek, making her shudder. “You were possessive of me once.”
“Until I saw the size of your dick.” She held up her pinkie finger and wriggled it. Delusional pervert.
His expression clouded over, and the cords of his neck strained beneath his collar. She knew the strike was coming before he reared back his hand.
Hard knuckles collided with her jaw, and she deliberately fell
to the dirt floor. Pain ricocheted through her face, bringing tears to her eyes. But it was better than the alternative.
Miguel abused her either through sex or violence. Never both at the same time. She’d baited him and taken the hit because she couldn’t endure his rutting. Not after John.
John, who was currently fucking that bitch.
Her insides bled venom, and her vision tunneled in blinding rage. She had to go to him. She needed to see for herself.
Not once had she thought he would choose her over his mission. But had every touch, every look, every intimate whisper they’d shared been just a task for him? A means to gather information? Had he felt even a fraction of the beautiful chaos she felt when they were together?
Or was she just a stupid girl who continued to let herself be fooled by assholes?
“Are you finished?” She tipped her head up at Asshole Numero Uno. “Or do you want to hit me a few more times while I’m down?”
He scoffed and shook out his hand. “Not worth my time.”
That much was true. He could beat or fuck anyone he wanted. He didn’t care about her or his sister or any other woman in this god-forbidden place. He was motivated by money, plain and simple.
As he glowered down at her, she thought he might kick her for good measure. But instead, he adjusted his tie, brushed off his suit, and strolled out the door.
It shut behind him, and she let out a stream of shaky air. Then she ran back to the old car, where she kept a few medical supplies just for these encounters and cleaned the blood from her face.
Everything hurt. Not from the punch of Miguel’s hand, but from his words. From the images they evoked.
John with another woman.
She wanted his kisses to herself. She wanted his affection, his honesty, his story, good or bad. She wanted a shot with him because he was the first man in her life that made her feel significant.
She didn’t need anyone to validate her worth, but it was really something to spend time with someone who treated her like an equal.
He’d bought her, and not once had he made her feel like a whore.
Maybe he was just really good at deception.
Stowing the medical supplies, she made her way to the estate. She knew where to find him, her steady strides carrying her to a part of the compound she’d avoided since arriving.
When she reached the breezeway to those lavish private quarters, she stopped. Glared at the door. And waited.
If John was in there, he wasn’t having goddamn tea. If he wasn’t in there, he was resourceful enough to find her.
Minutes passed. Hours. Years. She waited long enough to lower to the floor and take the weight off her feet. Then she waited some more.
At last, the door handle jiggled. The door opened, and she rose, standing twenty paces away with a vise around her chest.
The first thing she saw was red hair. He stepped into the breezeway, and her heart shattered upon the floor.
Head down, tie loose around his neck, the collar crooked and unbuttoned, he tucked in his shirttails and closed the door behind him.
Paralyzed, she couldn’t move. No matter how badly her legs burned to run, no matter how hot the pain stabbed behind her eyes, she ached to see the look on his face.
He sensed her instantly, his head snapping up and gaze glowing, stark and bright. “Gina.”
“That’s not my name.” She directed her focus at the door behind him, refusing to cry. “Did you get what you came for?”
His jaw set, and his presence grew dark. Menacing. “Go to my room. I’ll be there in a moment.”
He might as well have hit her, in her stomach, her chest, her face.
“Sure, John.” She curled her lips into the shape of a smile and hoped he couldn’t see them quivering. “Whatever you say.”
His eyes turned to hard slits. Yeah, he hadn’t missed the livid sarcasm staining her voice.
The next thing he said was lost beneath the hollow drum in her head as she pivoted and strode away. The moment she turned the corner, she flew. As fast as her legs could pump, she sprinted away, away, away.
Then she heard him. The fall of his footsteps, racing, chasing, gaining speed.
She ran harder.
Bitter tears stuck in her throat like sand, and the dirt path blurred beneath the speed of her feet. Given John’s longer strides, he would catch her quickly. She needed to reach the grove before that happened.
Because she was unraveling. Splintering apart by the second. She’d reached her breaking point and needed to be out of camera range when she self-destructed.
This was why she never subscribed to hope. There was always disappointment, and this time, it hurt beyond reason, crippling her with every punishing step.
When she’d learned of Miguel’s betrayal three years ago, it had crushed her. But that despair wasn’t in the same realm as what she felt now. As she sprinted harder, faster, she tried to process and compartmentalize her thoughts.
Her brain, however, wasn’t working right. Grief watered down reasoning. Panic drowned out logic. She swam in anguish, unable to surface for air.
If only John would suffer the same betrayal. Heartbreak. Loss of love and faith. He deserved nothing more than to spend the rest of his days alone, miserable, and forgotten.
When she reached the field, she sensed him slowing behind her. He knew where she was going, their confrontation inevitable. She girded herself for it.
In the grove, safe from the cameras and shaded by the canopy of trees, she skidded to a stop and spun to face him.
“What happened to your face?” He stalked toward her, eyes blazing with temper. “Who the fuck hit you?”
“Doesn’t matter.” She blinked back tears. “No one can hurt me as deeply as you have.”
“I want a name!” he roared so viciously it rattled her nerves. “Answer me!”
Her mouth opened, vocal cords and tongue working and failing to produce discernible sound. When she found her voice at last, it broke with a sob. “Miguel is back.”
“He’s a dead man.” He charged closer.
She stumbled away, enlarging the space between them. “How could you fuck her?”
“I didn’t.” He pounced.
She dodged. “Liar! I saw you!”
Back and forth, they went. Lunging and darting, they circled each other through trees. He chased, and she evaded, nimble and furious. Then he caught her. Tangling her up in his muscled arms, he pinned her against the trunk of a large oak.
She grasped at breath and engaged her entire body in a frantic burst to break loose. Squirming and writhing and thrashing about, she snarled her wrath and spat noises of defiance.
“Shh.” He remained calm, pressing a forearm against her throat, his strong, agile physique coiling about her like a kingsnake constricting a wriggling mouse. “It’s all right.”
“No! It’s not all right! It’s not fine!” Tears fell too hot and fast to stifle, further enraging her. “Nothing in my life is all right!”
She escaped from his hold only to be snatched again by a hand as unbending as stone. He hauled her back so forcibly her trapped limb felt as if it pulled from the socket.
Gathering her wrists, he held her against his chest, his mouth a severe slash. “My name is Luke Sanch.”
“I don’t give a fuck! It’s too late.” She bucked, her vision smearing with tears. “Let me go!”
“You will hear this.” He shook her until her head tipped back and her watery gaze snapped to his. “I lived on the streets in Texas until I was nineteen. Until I was abducted, snatched off the park bench where I slept, by a small-town sex trafficker.” He lowered his face to hers. “He raped me in his attic for eight weeks. Whipped me every day until I learned how to enjoy giving head and getting fucked in the ass. Then he sold me to a monster for six figures.”
Good God. Her heart surged and spilled over in waves of denial. “You’re lying.”
“His name is Van Quiso. I was his fourth captive
. Tomas, number three, escaped before I arrived. The day I was delivered to the man who’d bought me, Tomas—along with Van’s other escapees—showed up, shot my buyer, and took me in. That was eight years ago.”
“You had sex with a man? You?” She laughed upon a slapping breeze, her pulse stammering and mind whirling in flux. “How can I possibly believe anything you say?”
“Listen. Hear me. Then decide.” He released her and ran a hand over the top of his head as though it might arrange the order of his thoughts.
“You have five minutes.” She folded her arms across her chest.
“I’ll see your defensive posture and raise you fifteen minutes.”
“Eight.”
“Ten. It’s a complicated story.” A rough finger crooked beneath her chin, forcing her head to turn so he could examine her swollen jaw. “Then I have a man to kill.”
“Just spit it out.” She knocked his hand away.
A crease appeared between his copper brows. He dragged a palm down his face, over his mouth, and stared off in the distance. Then he started talking.
He told her about a woman named Liv Reed, who gave birth to Van’s baby in captivity. Van’s father stole the child to control Liv. She became Van’s accomplice. A captive-turned-captor. From there, the tale spun into the far-fetched land of make-believe, packed full of courageously gruesome misadventures about how Van’s nine slaves escaped then befriended their captors. Afterward, they all banded together with the Colombian cartel to take down other sex traffickers.
Freedom fighters, he called them. As part of this vigilante group, he said they infiltrated the darkest corners of the world and fought evil-doers outside the boundaries of the law.
Seriously.
His story had no merit. Nothing he said sounded sane or credible in the slightest. What kind of fool did he take her for?
He was a liar and criminal. She’d encountered enough of them, so full of their own poison they couldn’t fathom how a woman could resist drinking the Kool-Aid and falling in line.
“This isn’t Gotham City, Batman.” Her head pounded. “I live in reality.”
“Open your mind.” He stepped into her space and, for a moment, the sliver of air between them seemed to lengthen, over-stretched and fragile, like a strand of hair pulled too taut.
