by A. C. Bextor
Now, I sit alone in this room, unable to move and tied to a broken and splintered wooden chair. My ribs are screaming in vacillating pain, throbbing with each beat of my broken heart. My hair is plastered to my face. My mouth is full of the metallic taste of my blood. I should be terrified of what comes next. The unknown should shake me to my core.
“I’m not afraid of dying,” I tell myself on a listless whisper before closing my eyes for sleep.
Finally, it comes.
The door opens and I jolt in place. The familiar sound of determined clicks beat against the concrete floor. The agonizing scent of a woman’s perfume comes at me from all sides.
She’s here. She’s come back. She’s close.
For what? What do I have left to give?
I swallow hard in an effort not to vomit.
Rough hands are used to loosen the binding before the rank material is pulled away. I narrow my eyes at the single bright light from above.
I aim to focus, exerting the half-vision of the good eye I still have.
Standing over her victim, the woman grabs my hair, forcing me to wince before she bends to make us level.
“You’re still alive,” she hisses, not in surprise, but disappointment.
I cast my injured gaze down, having learned my lesson.
“Do you know your father?” When I give no response, she yanks the gag from my mouth. Her long fingernails scrape against the open flesh of my battered cheek. “Answer.”
Taking in a deep breath, I obey, “I know who Tyler Roberts is.”
“Why, girl, does your father hate you so much?”
An avalanche of reasons tumbles through my head, none making anymore sense than the one before.
Because he was born a heartless bastard.
Because I was born a girl.
Because I was born at all.
I have not one good reason a father would hate their child, so I offer nothing in return.
“We spoke this morning,” she coos, as if the knowledge should please me. “He’s looking forward to seeing his little stolen girl again.”
I’ll bet he is. Not for the first time, I couldn’t hate my own blood more.
“Terese,” she bids my given name. “Is there anything you’d like to say before the men do to you as your father requested?”
Before I can muster the courage to reply, the woman’s spiteful disposition shifts to unadulterated fear.
The music from the next room no longer plays. In exchange, loud voices, heavy gunfire, and men howling in pain fill the air. In my bounded state, my body rocks with the force of my weak escape.
When the heavy door bursts open, I turn my head in its direction, cursing that I can’t see what’s coming.
“No. No more,” I whisper. “Please, no more.”
The woman screams, thrashing to get free as a large man in a black suit reaches out to nab her. Her eyes fall to mine as he holds her in his grasp. Panic gone, she smiles, actually smiles, before rearing her head back and blasting him in the face. The man howls. Stepping back to grab his nose as it oozes from the wound, she tears off in a rush, passing two men, maybe three.
Another explosion rings in the distance. Black smoke crawls into the room at its wake.
Heavy hands grasp my shoulders, and I manage to get out a half-muted scream. Adrenaline sets course, and I fight against the bindings pinning me to the chair.
“Hold still,” a man’s lethal voice clips. His touch to the knots around my wrists isn’t gentle. Yet, not as callous as the others. “And do not fight.”
Desperation guides my instincts, and I do as he tells me, precariously hoping I’m not being traded from one nightmare to the next.
Moments pass and my hands are freed.
“Our orders are to not harm you.” The man speaks carefully, setting about freeing the knots at my feet.
Before I’m able to kick, to defend myself as best I can, he locks both of his hands around my ankles, lifting them each from the ground. When his vague silhouette takes in the damage that’s been done, a snarl of anger rips from his chest.
With his mouth at my ear, he says, “We’re here to take you home.”
Home. He said home.
“The others…” I stop to clear my throat. “The other girls. You have to find them.”
My pleas are ignored and the man wraps one arm around my back.
“I need to lift you,” he explains, positioning his arm behind my knees. “This will hurt, but you must come with me, and it must be now.”
I open my eyes, accepting the stabbing behind the right. The room is dark again, the overhead light having gone out. I can only make out the vaguest of features of the man holding me. Broad shoulders. Short hair. Closely shaven jaw.
This makes no sense.
I shake my head, biting my swollen lip. Tears spring to my eyes, burning the open cuts as they drift down my cheeks.
Deciding I’d rather walk myself into this lion’s den rather than lay as open prey to the one I’ve met before, I wrap my arms firmly around his shoulders.
He positions me safely in his arms, cradling me like a child. The hold is comforting, warm. I clear my head and pray to whoever will listen.
Let this not be a lie.
“Jesus Christ, how is it we’re goin’ over this shit a-fuckin-gain?” Elevent seethes, his thunderous expression inches away from mine.
Fisting my shirt tighter in his grasp, he starts to say something but stops. He shakes his head, then shoves my back into the wall.
If anyone else were to put their hands on me as he just did, I’d come un-fucking-done. But the man beside himself with worry isn’t just anyone. Elevent means something to me. He’s a brother, a friend, and though I’ve only met a few that do, he’s also a man who’s earned my respect.
James ‘Elevent’ Scott is the president of Saint’s Justice.
Judging by the worried and sick look he’s worn since Cricket’s disappearance, he’s feeling every bit as responsible for her absence as the rest of us.
Three days have passed and we’ve had nothing from Cricket’s old man, Tyler ‘Steel Toe’ Roberts.
All members of Saint’s, including the hang arounds and old ladies, have called in favors, going as far as to offer bribes to get a line on who Roberts could’ve sold her off to. So far, every hint, every lead, has come up empty.
That was, until this morning, before Elevent got a call that had the potential to change everything.
“Get a lock on your shit,” Elevent chastises both Gypsy and I. “We’re close to bringin’ her home, and still you two are determined to tear each other apart.”
Ten minutes ago, I was sitting with the others at the bar, looking down at my half empty beer. I was on edge more than most.
Guilt had exhausted me, knowing Cricket being taken was my fault. I did this. I should’ve watched her closer, kept a better eye. Because of that, my anger and annoyance was tipped over the edge when the cause of Cricket’s constant heartache waltzed in as if he’d never left.
When Gypsy’s eyes hit mine, they narrowed, and he shook his head in disgust. I took his welcome home as invitation to get in his face. I slammed my beer down on the bar, took long strides toward him, and went directly for his throat.
“We already have enough to deal with,” Elevent further scolds. Stepping back, he regains his composure. “Both of you are done with this.”
“Elevent’s right,” Mia, the president’s old lady, admonishes. “This isn’t helping.”
Mia Zanders—soon-to-be Mia Scott—is a fiery-tempered, newly-claimed biker bitch. She comes from a loving family, but one that’s all but gone from this world.
On the outside, she looks and acts the part of dedicated old lady. Save for the sweet tone she uses on a select few, the little woman curses like a sailor and gives no fucks about bossing the brothers around.
On the inside, Mia is sweet, kind, and pure. She’s clean in all ways. And it’s been Elevent who’s ensured she’s k
ept this way. He likes her soft. He enjoys her carefree, unjaded view of the world. The rest of us do as well, but he enjoys it in a way he’s never had before.
Life hasn’t always been good to Elevent. Before Mia, he’d never felt the peace Mia gives him every day just by being at his side. I’m glad he has that. I’m also envious.
“Mia,” I call. At my voice, she pierces me with narrowed eyes.
“No!” she snaps, her tone inching toward panic. “Just stop it. Both of you.”
Gypsy balls his hands at his sides, glaring at the floor as if it’s able to lend him patience.
“Something else to say?” Mia questions. With her hands on her hips, she kicks her foot to the side. A clear sign she’s about to throw down.
The woman is hellfire when she’s on a rant, and I’ve never been a fan of them. Especially when, more than once, I’ve been the target of her aim.
“Got nothin’,” I return.
Without delay, Gypsy includes himself in surrender. “No more here, either.”
Unfortunately, Mia’s not burned out yet.
Bending slightly at the waist, leaning herself in his direction, she stabs her finger into Gypsy’s chest. “Good you have nothing to say, because you have no say in this at all.”
Rearing back as though Mia struck him, Gypsy tenses. “What the fuck?”
“You don’t get to come back and pick up where you think you left off with her.”
His face hard, his brows furrowed, he grinds out, “You wanna explain that?”
Mia’s eyes fill with unshed tears and her face flushes. Whispering, she tells him, “You hurt her. You keep hurting her.”
To placate, Gypsy holds his hands in front of him to warn her off. “Mia—”
Leaning her back against Elevent’s chest, Mia tells him, “We all hurt with losing Pyke and Lane, but Cricket hurts more than anyone.”
Gypsy takes this, as he should. He keeps quiet, waiting for Mia to finish.
Her voice gentles as she explains, “You care about her, Gypsy, I know you do. But you left when she needed you to stay. I’m sorry, but right or wrong, you don’t get to feel anything about Cricket, or Leglas, or the two of them together.”
Elevent wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her as close to him as he can.
I straighten my shirt and peel my back from the wall. Gypsy says nothing when I cross my arms over my chest and level him with a glare. I know the kid’s got a lot to say about what happened. I also know he blames himself and me for Cricket being taken.
I don’t give a fuck about his guilt. Not when I carry enough of my own.
“All right, then,” Elevent settles, placing Mia to the side and moving to stand between me and Gypsy. “Are either of you interested in the fact that we know where Cricket is? That she’s not only alive, but as far as we know, she’s safe?”
“Where is she?” Gypsy snarls. “We don’t fuckin’ see her, so how the fuck do you know she’s safe?”
Ignoring Gypsy, Elevent informs, “Zalesky’s right-hand called this morning. They know who has Cricket. We’re to report there so he can lay everything out.”
Zalesky. Christ, the goddamn Russian. The menacing mob boss, and also an ally of sorts to Saint’s.
Most men fear him. Women steer clear.
Vlad Zalesky has tortured, maimed, and killed many. He’s a man who knows what he wants, expects to get what he’s after, and doesn’t give a shit who’s standing in his way. If he knows where Cricket is and that she’s safe, then she fucking well is.
For now.
Elevent looks between Gypsy and myself before nodding down the hall. “If you two can handle yourselves, you’ll stop wasting time. We have a meeting to get to.”
The door opens and I startle awake. Under the covers, I turn my head, listening to the semi-hushed voices from across the hall.
I’m groggy from a fitful sleep. I don’t know where I am. The natural light coming in from a window across the room tells me it’s morning.
Taking inventory, I note that I’m overly warm. My body is cocooned in heavy blankets, tucked on top of what feels like a luxurious mattress. Lifting the covers for view, I cringe to find I’m wearing the same shirt I was given before my ‘welcome’ with those men began.
I wince at the crimson stained reminder, wondering how I must look.
Closing my eyes, the terrifying memories assail.
That menacing woman’s face comes into view. The smell of her expensive perfume. The horrifying dance the devil paraded in her eyes. The harshness of her accent as she ordered those men to give me pain.
So much pain.
Before that day, I’d never known of her existence. I wouldn’t have looked twice at her if I passed her on the street.
The most alarming question is how she knew me. Knew me in a way that no matter what I do, I can never erase. Such is a blessing that I hadn’t met with our mutual acquaintance, my father, during my stay. Somehow, not having to stand face-to-face with him made those hours and days more bearable.
Slightly more bearable.
How ridiculous to think he’d ever want to see me again, anyway. How certain I am that I never want to see him.
“Ah, you’re awake,” a woman’s singsong voice calls. “Finally, I get to meet our new guest.”
Dropping the blanket from my eyes, but keeping my face hidden, I wince at the unwelcomed intrusion of more light.
The large windows I’d assumed were there, highlight the entire room. The dark walls, painted in rich red tones. The ornate carving in the crown molding of the ceiling. The four-poster bed which is nothing short of breathtaking. The silver lamps spread throughout the vast space.
Not a penny has been spared to fill this room with a wealth beyond anything I can imagine.
“I’ve brought up some clothes for you to change into once you’ve had a shower,” the woman continues, farther away this time. “You’ll feel better after you wash what you can away.”
My eyes traverse the area to find her standing in front of a large, polished, wooden dresser. Her back is to me. A black and white maid’s uniform covers a large, round, plump body. Her all gray hair is wound tightly in a bun on top of her head.
Her jolly expression turns imminently grave when she catches my gaze in the mirror’s reflection.
Slapping her hand against her large chest, she lets out a strangled yelp. I drop the sheet from the rest of my face, bracing for what else may come. Her features soften as my eyes widen at her horror.
I knew this wouldn’t be good, if the pain radiating from my eye and cheek were any indication.
Hissing under her breath, she walks toward me in quick steps. Her angry face, heavy with wrinkles and pale in complexion, dips closer. Her flesh-colored lips spew violently in another language. I’m not afraid, fearful she’ll do as those men did. However, I stay quiet.
“Can you move at all?” she queries, scanning my body.
I nod in answer. Then, going about trying to please her in order to make her agitated state lessen, I attempt what at first seems impossible.
Slowly stretching my arms above my bed, I feel the itch, not the burn at my wrists. Cautiously shifting my legs beneath the silky sheet, I twist in place, happy to be free of the bindings that held me captive. My back arches with ease, no longer suffering under the weight of my shoulders throbbing as my hands and arms were tied at my back.
“My name is Agatha,” she informs, pulling the covers tightly and tucking them in at my sides. The gesture is maternal and welcome. “I’ll gather up breakfast while you shower. Then we’ll have Doctor Z come up to have another look at you.”
I nod again, my stomach rumbling in rejection.
I don’t remember much of my way here. Quiet murmurs spoken in another language. Gentle voices coaxing me to safety. Being carried and laid to a comforting rest.
“Where am I?” I chance, my voice lost to a raspy whisper.
“That’s not for now,” she tersely dismisses, and I
frown. “Not until you’ve had some rest.”
Within seconds, a finger snap of time, all thoughts of rescue, relief, shower, and food, come to an abrupt end.
“The princess has finally awoken,” a deep voice resonates.
Hearing the accent, much the same as I heard in my restless sleep of her, takes away all the ease I’d felt just moments ago.
Agatha’s eyes widen and she turns toward the voice. “Nikolas! You can’t be in here!” she shrieks. “Our guest is hardly decent!”
Again, that word. Guest.
Peering around Agatha’s thick frame and toward the door, I gasp and pull the covers to my chin.
The man she called Nikolas is tall. With light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a strong jaw, he’s the epitome of status and position. In a pressed and expensive suit, he looks over the room. There’s no malice in his stare, no malevolence in his stance.
Only curiosity.
When he steps inside, making his way closer to the bed, Agatha positions herself between us. She shakes her head. At whatever she’s silently relayed, the man’s response is a sigh of annoyance. The two seem to have done this before, the dance between them both practiced and easy.
“Agatha,” he prompts quietly. “You see yourself she’s awake, and more importantly, she’s covered.”
“Still, she’s indecent!” Agatha rattles out with added frustration.
If I weren’t scared out of my head, I’d smile, already deciding that until I can get out of here and find my way home, Agatha is my kind of friend.
“I need a word with her,” he explains, his tone firmer than before. “See to the others. You can come back once I’ve finished.”
The others? My chest swells, hoping the other girls had been taken away as well.
A few confusing seconds pass before Agatha gives in. Glancing back to me, she rolls her eyes playfully.
“Shower first,” she directs, patting my leg gently. “Then food. Lots of food, and even more rest.”
“Agatha,” Nikolas calls again, before ordering, “Be on your way.”
