Rock Bottom

by Canosa, Jamie

  Too afraid to risk speaking again, I curled into myself and whimpered. He was going to do whatever he was going to do. Words weren’t going to change that. I knew this was coming when I agreed to the detectives’ plan. Now I just had to survive it.

  A long moment passed where nothing happened. It was hard to imagine that even the slightest bit of naivety could still linger in me, but it must have because I actually managed to convince myself that maybe that was it. Maybe he was done with me.

  Risking a peek from beneath my arm, I caught his eye. Big mistake. They flared before the room filled with the sound of his roar. He didn’t speak. Not words. He roared, setting loose the beast inside of him. That was when I knew I’d made a terrible mistake coming back.

  But it was too late.

  I struggled, but I was no match for his size and fury. The shirt I’d been wearing wound its way around my throat. I stared up into cold, flat eyes as my airway was cut off and I fought for breath. Wrapping my hands around his, I clawed at his skin. I kicked frantically against the floor, the couch, anything I could reach. I bucked and squirmed—anything to dislodge him. But he was too strong. And I was too weak.

  The edges of my vision began to blur and darken. My fingers went from digging to uselessly clinging. My mouth hung open, as I begged silently for mercy.

  Not now. Not when I’ve finally found a reason to live again. I can’t die now. Not like this.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Just when I thought it was over—that I’d failed yet again, one final time—air rushed back into my lungs. Coughing and sputtering, I clutched at my tender neck and sucked in breath after greedy breath.

  “Where the hell were you?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but all that came out was a rasp.

  “Don’t you fucking lie to me. You think you can walk out on me? Come and go as you please? I own you, Riley. You belong to me. You do as I say.”

  “I’m sorry.” The words shredded my throat on their way out. “I . . . I got scared.”

  “You got scared?” He was taunting me, but fiery rage still burned in his eyes.

  “Of D-Damien. I don’t know him. I d-don’t want to go to him.” I could sell the lie mostly because it was true. But also because I knew it wouldn’t make a bit of difference to him what I wanted.

  “Well that’s just too damn bad, isn’t it? Who do you belong to, Rylie?”

  I cringed against the thought of admitting it out loud.

  “Who. Do you. Belong to?” Spittle flew in my face as I watched his turn a bright, terrifying red.

  “You! I belong t-to you.”

  “And who tells you what you will and will not do? Who tells you where you will and will not go? Who decides when you eat? When you sleep? When you use the goddamn toilet?”

  “You.”

  “That’s right. And did I tell you to take off and fucking disappear on me?”

  “No.”

  “No. I did not.”

  “I’m s-sorry, Rafe. I just got scared. That’s all. I-I came back, though. I’m here now.”

  “Damn right you are.” His eyes scanned my barely clad body and the scorching flames turned to something else. Something hungrier. “Get your ass up. Move.”

  He stood and I scrambled to my feet in my bra and miniskirt, tears dripping from the end of my chin. “I’m sorry, Rafe. I’m sorry.”

  “You most certainly are. But now you’re going to prove it. You’re gonna show me exactly how sorry you are.” Stepping closer, his hands roughly caged my face, bracing it so he could lick away my tears. “Go.”

  With a harsh shove, I fell away from him into the side of the couch. I knew where he wanted me. I knew I didn’t have a choice. And so I staggered toward the open door of his bedroom.

  He followed. “Damien may be renting your ass, but until the full amount is in my hand, this will remind you who it is you belong to. Who made you. Who owns you.”

  A knock to the back of my head sent me flopping onto the unmade bed. It stank of sweat and pot and Rafe. A nauseating combination, but I didn’t have much time to worry about my gag reflex. Grabbing ahold of my ankle, Rafe flipped me over and climbed on, tearing away my remaining clothes as he went, oblivious to the tears that continued to fall.

  I shut my eyes and tried to float away. I tried to escape as I always did. Without the drugs it was useless. I was trapped.

  Desperate for something to cling to, I tried to picture Elijah’s face, but my mind couldn’t reconcile it with the brutal pounding my body was being forced to endure.

  ***

  Surveying my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I clung to the only silver lining I could find. Despite how sore I felt everywhere, there was only one visible bruise that needed to be covered. After the third application, I abandoned the concealer and dug through the dresser for my one and only lacy scarf. Not exactly hooker-wear, but I could find a way to make it work. Besides, like Rafe said, guys like Damien Cross wanted class, not call-girls.

  It did the trick nicely, and I could only hope the deep purple markings ringing my throat would fade quickly.

  “Fifteen minutes!” Rafe had been shouting a countdown at me every five minutes for the past half-hour. My time was almost up and I still hadn’t dressed for delivery.

  Rechecking the curls in my hair and the rest of my makeup, I nodded to myself. From the neck up, I was ready. Now for the tricky part. Standing in front of my open closet, I surveyed the contents in dismay. Short skirts, fishnet stockings, tank tops, halter tops, midriffs . . . Nothing even remotely classy.

  Sighing, I decided to start from the bottom up. I had a pair of peep-toe stilettoes that hurt like a bitch, but were fancy enough to work. Rafe hadn’t provided me with a bag or told me to pack anything so I could only assume Damien would be providing my clothing from here on out. At least I had that much to look forward to. All I needed to do was piece together one presentable outfit.

  There was a black skirt that covered slightly more than my ass. Rafe had told me to hem it shorter, but my academic success hadn’t extended to home economics. I laid it on the bed and moved to the dresser in search of a more appropriate top. The pale blue transparent lace chemise looked slutty as hell over nothing more than a black bra, but if I combined it with one of the black camis . . . Not exactly formalwear, but it would do the trick.

  A peek into the living room assured me Rafe was occupied as I nudged the door shut and made one last stop at my dresser. I had nothing of my own. Nothing to cling to, draw comfort from. Nothing except for a single five-by-seven photograph. So many times I’d considered tearing it to shreds, throwing it in the fire, but I’d never had the strength to go through with it. Instead, I’d taped it to the bottom of my underwear drawer. Out of sight, out of mind.

  I peeled it loose and laid it on the dresser top. Elijah’s handsome face smiled up at me—a sight I was going to need to get through whatever came next.

  “Five fucking minutes! Your ass had better be ready to go.”

  I took a deep breath and folded the picture in half, tucking it away inside my clutch along with a little gift from the detectives before burying them with enough cosmetics to repel any man. I looked the part. Now I just had to figure out how not to walk like a ninety-year-old grandma. The shoes only served to exacerbate the soreness in my lower body and my head ached something fierce, but I’d survived. I’d made it this far and I was moving on, taking the next step along the path that would lead me to freedom. To Elijah.

  “Let’s go.”

  Rafe spent the entirety of the car ride reiterating his expectations. I had a job to do—impress Damien Cross. Enough so that he chose to keep me. For once, Rafe’s goals lined up perfectly with my own, so I listened attentively and nodded through his instructions.

  We were met at the door to the building by the same concierge who escorted us to Mr. Cross’ private elevator when we’d attended his party. The elevator to his penthouse suite might have been private, but the young man in the
collared uniform seemed to have little interest in keeping the passcode that way. I watched his lean fingers jab at the buttons right in front of us—7631—and stored that little tidbit away for later. I had a notion it would come in handy.

  Damien’s suite was on the sixty-fifth floor, an assent that took several long, tense minutes to complete. Rafe didn’t speak. No last minute demands. No threats. Not even a half-assed goodbye. Only silence. I wondered if that had something to do with the small black dome in the corner of the ceiling.

  Is Damien watching us right now? What is he thinking? What is he planning?

  Sweat broke out on my palms and tickled the back of my neck. This was it. There was no turning back.

  An all-too-innocent ding announced our arrival. I don’t know what I expected. The tolling of some ominous gong, maybe? The doors slid open and we stepped out into a grand foyer. It wasn’t overly gaudy, but you could practically taste the money on the few carefully chosen items. An enormous painting of some landscape I’d never see for myself. A marble table with an empty antique vase perched on top. A backless velvet bench positioned below a bay window, overlooking the park.

  I’d seen it all before, of course, but I was seeing it through new eyes. Last time, it was the just fancy décor of a rich man throwing a party for his rich friends. Now, each item held potential clues to the man I was about to belong to.

  He had good taste. Not too flashy, but obviously proud of his success and not afraid to flaunt it. Clearly, he took care of his belongings—not a scratch, dent, or mote of dust to be seen. That bodes well for me, doesn’t it? Unless someone took care of all of this for him. Then I was back to square one.

  Rafe steered me to the left with a firm grip on my wrist that I almost appreciated. My knees were knocking so hard I wasn’t sure I could have covered the distance on my own. A muffled chime sounded from inside the thick wooden door and when it swung open, I expected to see the frighteningly handsome face I remembered from the night of the party. What I was met with was . . . empty space.

  About a foot and a half south of where my gaze was fixed stood a petite woman with straight black hair tied up in a neat bun. Wrinkles lined her mouth and eyes, but they didn’t look like they’d been caused by laughter. She was dressed in black slacks and a white button down with a black collar that looked unmistakably like a uniform.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Cross,” Rafe announced.

  The woman’s puckered lips took on an even more sour expression as her dark eyes traveled over me from head to toe.

  “Señor Cross said give you this.” She handed an envelope to Rafe, which he accepted greedily, grinning ear-to-ear.

  “Alright. She’s all yours.” He placed my wrist in her hand as though it was a leash, and she tugged me inside, shutting the door on Rafe.

  As glad as I was to see him go, part of me quailed at the loss of the only familiar face I had left.

  Chapter Forty-three

  “This way.” Without waiting to see if I’d obey her command, the woman strode away.

  The black leather sofa and expensive artwork all looked vaguely familiar, but without bodies crammed into every available inch or the buzz of a high rolling around in my brain, the space transformed. The most noticeable change . . . the view. How I had missed it the night of the party was beyond me. I suppose I had other things on my mind, but now it was impossible to ignore the floor-to-ceiling windows making up an entire wall overlooking the city skyline.

  “Wait here.” I was given my orders and then she turned and marched back the way we’d come.

  With no clue what I was supposed to do next—other than ‘wait here’—I wandered across the room, drawn to the dizzying sight. Concrete peaks and metal spires stabbed upward at the clouds. Cold and unforgiving, the city suddenly seemed a horribly brutal place.

  Sidestepping a glass coffee table, I tried not to catch my heels in the long stone-colored threads of the throw rug in front of the fireplace. Far below, cars inched along crowded roadways like children’s toys. People hurried here and there, following preset courses, one right after the other. Strangely, it reminded me of the ant farm our teacher had brought in to show us in fourth grade.

  “Star.”

  I spun around to find Damien leaning casually against the wall. He radiated tailored masculinity in his pressed slacks and black button-down. The kind of power and confidence that no doubt had women falling all over him everywhere he went. I hated him for it. Couldn’t the monsters of the world at least have the decency to look the part?

  “Welcome to my home.”

  He turned to the woman who’d escorted me in and exchanged a long string of rambling Spanish. I’d studied the language for six years and yet he spoke so fluently, I only picked up a few words. Feed. Clean. Room. Guest, maybe? Or maybe that was just my wishful thinking. I was no ‘guest’ here.

  In case I needed a reminder of that, the woman’s head bobbed in an abrupt nod and Damien returned his attention to me. “Rosita’s English is minimal and she’s been instructed not to speak to you. She needs this job for her green card. She’ll do anything to keep it, so don’t bother looking to her for help.”

  The fear that had been coiling in the pit of my stomach all afternoon struck out, flooding my veins and clouding my vision, but I did what I’d been trained to do. I locked it all away and plastered on a smile. “Why would I need help?”

  A devastating smile. The man was dangerous in more ways than one. “Oh, Rafe has taught you well. I’m going to enjoy having you here, my dear. Very much. But first . . . you must be hungry. Come, let’s eat.”

  Ebony granite countertops and stainless steel appliances gave the kitchen a utilitarian feel. No drawings or photos hung on the fridge, no clutter marred any surface. The faux weathered gray cabinetry would have given the room an almost cavernous appearance if not for the sliding glass door, letting in the last of the late afternoon light. Beyond it, several tall, leafy plants and a small iron dinette set gave the private patio a tropical appearance.

  “I hope you like Italian.” Damien reached around me to pull out one of four black leather stools tucked away beneath an island counter. “Rosita makes an incredible garlic and basil sauce.”

  My fingers creaked when he removed my clutch from my near vice-like grasp and deposited it on the countertop with a heavy thud. If he noticed, he didn’t let on. All of my thoughts centered on that bag and what lay hidden inside. My focus was so intent that I feared Damien would read my mind—or my body language—and be pointed straight to it.

  Redirecting my attention to the meal in front of me, I took a cautious bite. The sauce was as good as he claimed. Nothing at all like the canned pasta I’d been picking at for months. “This is delicious.”

  “I’m pleased you like it.” The sentiment struck me as odd. I was his prisoner—his property—I wasn’t going anywhere. Why should he care what I thought of the food?

  All I had were questions about this man. If I started asking myself them, I’d never stop. To occupy my mind, I watched noodles wrap around my fork again and again in near hypnotizing spirals, until, before I knew it, there were none left.

  I was aware of Damien’s eyes on me the entire time I ate. The weight of his regard was difficult to ignore. He was waiting for me, even now, with a patience I hadn’t expected. Fingers running along his jawline, idly stroking his neatly groomed beard, he had a hint of a smile playing on his full lips.

  I couldn’t understand it. He was a handsome man, painfully so. Educated, charming, more money than God . . . Why on Earth would he have to resort to buying a companion when he could clearly have any woman he chose? Was it the power? Because there were women that were into that sort of thing, weren’t there? Why me?

  A burn started in my chest and traveled upward to settle in my cheeks when I realized his bowl was still more than half full. I must have looked like some kind of wild beast, devouring its prey.

  “Come, Star.” Pushing away from the island, he offere
d me his hand. “Allow me to show you around your new home.”

  The golden chain-link strap of my bag was wound so tightly around my fingers I was beginning to lose feeling in the tips of them as he ushered me down a hallway that led away from the kitchen and living room, past the door where I’d entered.

  “I’m sure you must have questions, concerns, so let’s set a few things straight. I didn’t bring you here to be my slave. You’re not here to do the cooking and cleaning. That’s Rosita’s job. You’re more like my . . .” Damien came to a sudden stop outside of a closed door. Barely an inch apart, his eyes traveled over my face, my lips, my shoulders, my chest, and lower. I felt like goods on display. Approval mixed with blatant lust in his gaze as he fingered the strap of my camisole. “My pet. There are a few rules you’ll be expected to follow, but you’re a smart girl. I’ll have you house trained in no time.”

  His pet? House trained?

  The absurdity of it was not lost on me—after all this man had purchased me, expected to keep me, to do with as he pleased—but the designation made my skin crawl worse than any of that. This was how he was able to buy and sell women like commodities. He didn’t see them as people. He saw them—me—as ‘pets’. Animals. Lesser life forms.

  I vaguely registered some of the ‘rules’ he was laying out as he continued to guide me down the hallway. “My office . . . off limits . . . No phone . . . Password protected internet.”

  I got the point. Escape was futile. Good thing I wasn’t trying to escape.

  “In here.” Firm pressure applied to my lower back propelled me across a threshold until my steps faltered.

  The room was decorated lavishly in burgundy and deep purples, giving it an almost . . . regal feel, but it was the king-sized four-poster bed draped in black silk that commanded my attention.

  A delicate touch skated down the side of my neck, over the curve of my shoulder and along my arm to my fingertips. Goose bumps sprang up along the path and a shiver traveled inward. “Lie down, Star.”