by Holly Hart
“Oh Jesus,” I groan in a pained, wheezing hiss. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. I can only imagine how Frankie must feel. “Ye poor girl: what the hell happened to ye?”
5
Frankie
I lie down on the bed. As I move, it squeaks. For a second, as my injured back erupts in fire, I wonder if the sound is coming from my own mouth. The cold air licks at the deep, bloodied grooves on my skin and makes it burn. I grit my teeth. I’m not going to make a sound. I refuse to. I didn’t when those bastards started beating me, and I won’t now.
“What did they do to ye? Ridley gasps.
It’s the first time I’ve sensed that the big Irishman is anything but completely in control since the second he saved my life. I keep my eyes squeezed shut. It’s easier this way: to be enveloped in darkness. It helps me block out the memories of what they did.
The bed squeaks again as Ridley adjusts himself. He stands up, and a tremor of nervousness runs through me. I couldn’t be more vulnerable: half-naked; exhausted; in pain. I don’t know if I’m more scared that he’s leaving me, or that that might hurt me. I really don’t believe that Ridley himself would hurt me; he just isn’t that kind of guy.
But if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that trust is less than worthless.
So why have I put myself into this position?
Why do I trust Ridley? Because that is exactly what I’m doing.
“I’ll be back in a second,” the Irishman says, his voice a whole octave higher than normal. I hear the sound of his feet padding against the worn carpet, then nothing but the sound of his breath as he pauses in no man’s land between me and the bathroom. I can see him in my mind’s eye: looking at the injured, whipped, broken skin on my back.
I sense the look of pity on his face, even if I can’t see it.
I do not want to be pitied.
I hear the splashing of water as Ridley upends the cup full of water into the sink, then a fast, bubbling flow of water as he turns on the sink. It sounds like a burbling brook: peaceful.
Metal squeaks, the water stops, and the sink groans as the water drains away.
Then Ridley’s back. He touches my side and I flinch, almost jump, from his touch.
“I’m sorry, Frankie,” he says, “but this is gonna hurt.”
I take a deep breath in. I want to ask Ridley so many things. I just don’t think I’m ready yet. I want to ask him why he’s helping me. I want to tell him that – no, it won’t hurt. Not really. Because I know that he’s only doing it to help.
But I don’t; I can’t. It’s easier to grind my teeth shut and close my mouth and hide away from the world.
“Hold still,” Ridley says. The shock and anger in his voice has faded away. He’s back in control. I don’t know what it is about his voice, but it inspires confidence. I hang on to it like it’s a life rope hanging off the side of a massive container ship, as its hull slips through the darkness: my darkness.
I shake my head. The rough, old sheets scratch at my cheek as I move. “Do what you have to do,” I murmur. “It won’t hurt. Not really. Not like before.”
I hiss as the towel drips droplets of warm water that might as well be lava onto my back. Ridley mutters an apology. I hear a tinkle as he squeezes the excess water back into the cup.
“Tell me about you,” I say to the Irishman, surprising myself with the firmness of my voice. I’ve got a hundred reasons for asking the question. First, for all my big words, I know this is going to hurt like hell. Second, I’ve already been fooled. I need to make sure it doesn’t happen again. People lie, I guess. But I won’t let myself be tricked so easily again.
“What do ye want to know?” Ridley says. His gruff voice is rough and soothing. It sounds like a heavy-duty handsaw sliding through a thick, hardwood log. I don’t know why, but it relaxes me. Scratch that. I do know why. It sounds like it belongs to a dude who doesn’t take crap from anybody. At least, I know that much is true.
“Anything,” I groan as Ridley tends to one of the patchwork of cuts and whip lash wounds on my back. “Everything: just keep my mind off –.”
Ridley jumps in. I’m impressed with how smoothly he manages it. “Well,” he chuckles, “there’s not much to know. I’ve got four brothers – we’re two sets of twins and Liam. Who the hell knows what happened to that poor kid…”
I bite my lip. The flash of pain it causes shoots through my body, but distracts me from the violent throbbing agony on my other side. “Your twin,” I gasp. “What’s he called?”
“Mac,” Ridley says. I hear genuine fondness in his voice. If I wasn’t hiding behind closed eyelids, I’d blink. The gruff Irishman reveals a new secret every time he opens his mouth. He’s a goddamn contradiction: there’s no two ways about it. A mountain of a man with a heart of gold, wrapped in a double helix with a darker side: a side that doesn’t blink twice when he shoots a man in the kneecap. I shiver.
“He’s a good kid, so he is. Half an hour younger, and I don’t let him forget it, you know what I mean?”
I shake my head. “No, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“No siblings?” Ridley says. Every muscle in my body tenses at once as – I think – he loosens a huge chunk of dried blood from my back. “Sorry,” he says in an apologetic mutter.
“No,” I reply. My voice is high and reedy with the pain. I’m determined not to cry. I want to show Ridley the kind of girl I am – not the girl those cartel busters tried to make me be.
“Story, Ridley,” I remind him.
“Where was I? Oh, right … five brothers: well, four, and me, of course.”
“What do you do?” I ask. Maybe I’m walking on uncertain ground. Maybe I shouldn’t be pushing my luck. Whatever else he is, Ridley’s clearly a dangerous man. But I do it anyway. Maybe I’m beyond fear. Maybe that is the gift the Mexicans gave me: a gift purchased with pain.
“Yer sharp as a knife, you know that?” Ridley chuckles quietly.
“For all the good it’s done me,” I reply.
“I’m a gangster,” he says with a matter of fact honesty that rocks me back – or would have, if I wasn’t already flinching from the touch of the towel. “We all are, me brothers and me. Even me mam, though she’s getting on. Not the drugs and sex tra-,” he catches himself; “the drugs and extortion kind.”
“What other kind is there?” I ask, trying to distract Ridley – and myself – from his slip of the tongue. I heard how Ridley stopped himself from saying those words:
sex trade.
I know he knows. But at least he knows that I don’t want to get into it.
“The community kind,” Ridley laughs. “I know, I know. It sounds like I’m talking about a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I won’t lie to you, gal: when the time comes to beat a man’s face in for hurtin’ the family, I don’t lose a wink of sleep at night. But he only gets it if he deserves it. We’ve got rules, so we do.”
“What rules?”
Ridley leans forward. I can feel the heat of his lips just inches away from my ear. “Rules like: we don’t fuck with women; for a start. I don’t like men – pussies –,” he spits, his voice hard and bitter, “who get off abusing women. Believe me when I tell ye that.”
“I do.” I whisper. It’s the truth; or the Irishman is the most convincing liar I’ve ever come across. If that’s the case, then all I’ve done is stumble from the frying pan into the fire. But I don’t think so.
“That’s it, doll,” Ridley says, changing the subject with dizzying speed. He stands up. “I cleaned ye up best I could. We need to get some antiseptic on it, but it’ll wait till morning.”
I open my eyes. After so long spent in the darkness, the room’s brightness shocks me.
I sit up. The cool air that’s shifted by a coughing, spluttering air-conditioning unit licks my skin. A thousand goose bumps sprout up like spring shoots on my skin. I look around, and see Ridley looking at me with frank interest.
I know he has
a thousand questions in his mind. I’m glad he isn’t asking them.
“You can cover yourself up, you know,” Ridley smiles, turning back to the sink and tossing another cup of filthy, bloody water down it. He washes his hands.
“I know,” I say. And I do. But after you’ve been through what I have, nakedness doesn’t mean a whole lot. And besides, Ridley’s not looking at me with sexual intent. There’s something different lurking in those glittering hazel and green eyes of his: concern, mixed with darkness.
“What would you do if I walked right out that door?” I ask. Ridley doesn’t display so much as a flinch of surprise at my question as he turns back towards me.
He shrugs. “Probably lie down and take a kip, doll,” he grins. “Why do ye ask?”
I believe him: truly; deeply. There isn’t a shred of dishonesty in the disarming grin he loves plastering across that beautiful face. With that, his question breaks something inside me – a dam or a wall that I had built to protect myself. My limbs go limp: every muscle becomes soft and jelly-like; my shoulders slump over, and I start to talk.
I don’t notice that Ridley is right beside me until the welcoming warmth radiating from his skin gives it away.
“We went on a date,” I say. My eyes flutter shut once again. I’ve lived this memory a hundred times: a thousand times; regretting every moment; hating myself for it.
“He was charming: my age; maybe a couple of years older; well-dressed too. There was no sign he’d be –,” I stop myself. I don’t need to protest. I’m breathing shallow, fast breaths. The panic’s rising in my chest. Ridley pulls me against him, and I nestle my head against his shoulder. My back groans with pain, but I ignore it.
I swallow. “I didn’t know the real person hiding behind that smile.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Ridley says in a soothing voice. He plays with my hair. The panic subsides. “You couldn’t.”
“We talked all night. Until the restaurant closed, and a bar kicked us out. I don’t know why or how, but I told him things I usually never tell anyone else: about how my parents abandoned me; about how my sister died; about how lonely I was; am. He even kissed me good night.” I become silent again, just breathing.
I feel the vibration in Ridley’s chest before I hear the words. “So then what happened?”
I blink back a tear. “He told me to meet him the next night. It was a part of town I didn’t know well; a place I wouldn’t normally go. But he said he’d grown up there; said I’d be fine with him by my side. I trusted him;” I say through gritted teeth and a twisting agony in my gut, “how stupid could I be!”
“That’s when they took you?” Ridley says, asking a question that’s not really a question. “He knew by then you had no one who would look for you. So he took you.”
I nod. Hot lava runs down my face.
“Look at me, Frankie,” Ridley says, his voice hoarse. He puts his finger and a thumb on my chin and turns me to face him. “Look at me.”
I fight to open my eyes. It’s hard: like raising a fifty ton drawbridge all on my own, but somehow I do it. He stares into my eyes, drinking me in. “You’re safe now, Frankie. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
We stay like that for some time; I don’t know how long. It’s long enough that the itch inside me grows; long enough that the pain of my back blends with that need; long enough for Ridley’s eyes to narrow. I know he knows. Just like I know this time he’s not going to stay quiet.
“What did they put you on?” He asks in a controlled, hard voice.
The twisting feeling in my stomach re-doubles. It hurts. I want to collapse into a ball and cry until Ridley leaves me. I don’t want to have to admit this to him. I’m ashamed.
“I’m not judging ye, Frankie,” Ridley says, softening his voice. “It’s not your fault. But you need to tell me. Was it needles; powder?”
“Pills,” I finally admit, forcing out that single, hateful word. My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else, as if I’m just a puppet, saying words I barely recognize. “They held me down: crammed them into my mouth; poured water down my throat so I had to swallow. They did it to all of us.”
“All of you?” Ridley snaps. “There are more?”
I nod my head. “Eight?” I murmur. “I don’t know: maybe ten?. They brought us in and out all the time to keep us disoriented. I tried to get us to work together to escape. But the girls who had been there the longest,” I say, speaking faster, feeling like now that I’ve started the story, I can’t bear to stop, “they just shook their heads and said it was no use. I saw their eyes. They were dead already. I didn’t want to be like those girls.”
“You’re not, Frankie,” Ridley says; “you won’t be.”
I nod, but I still don’t believe it. I still feel like that girl who was taken: powerless; weak; exposed.
“They heard me,” I whisper. “They must have: the guards. They took me out of that room one day. Threw me against a cold, concrete wall and beat me with canes and sticks. Beat me until I couldn’t see, until all I could feel was the warmth of blood running down my back. They told me to stop what I was doing: that I was alone; that I was a dead girl; just a ghost who would be used up and thrown away.” I stop. My throat is choked up. Ridley squeezes me tight to his body and holds me. Neither of us speaks. We lie back against the bed.
“Do you know who those men were, Frankie?” Ridley says, finally breaking the silence.
I nod, and nestle my head against Ridley’s chest. He smells warm, soft, and like he knows the meaning of hard work. “Yes,” I whisper. “They’re the cartel: the Templars.” I feel the rustle of clothing as Ridley nods his head.
“You know them?” I ask in a high-pitched voice.
“I do,” Ridley growls out. His voice threatens violence. We both fall silent once again, dropping the topic. Neither one of us wants to take it any further.
I don’t know when my eyelids flutter shut for the last time. Somehow – for the first time in days – I feel safe.
At least, I feel safe enough to sleep in Ridley’s arms.
6
Ridley
A shaft of bright springtime sun wakes me up. I scrunch my eyes and turn away from its arrogant caress. It doesn’t make sense. I always close the curtains. Other sensations don’t square up either. The world rushes back. I remember I’m not at home.
It takes me a few seconds to realize where I am; and who I’m with.
When I open my eyes for the first time, it feels like I’m breaking a spell. Frankie is still asleep, lying snuggled in between my arm and body, face nestled against my chest. I don’t move – I barely breathe – in case I wake her up.
Right now – this moment – is perfect. I can almost convince myself that Frankie’s been with me for years; that she’s the missing piece my aching soul has craved all this time. But as second after second ticks away, I know I’m losing the moment. It won’t be long before Frankie wakes up, and everything will go back to normal.
The thought causes an ache – scratch that – I feel it physically grate against my heart. I can’t bear looking down at Frankie, because the sight of her perfection reminds me that this can’t last. The glow of the early morning sun shining on her face and her gorgeous, bright red hair looks like a filter from a Hollywood film. It’s surreal, ethereal. She looks like an angel who has fallen from heaven: fallen through no fault of her own.
I slide out from underneath her. The second the heat of her cheek torments my skin with its absence, I feel a shiver run down the back of my neck. It’s a sign – perhaps – that I shouldn’t have moved. But I had to move away. Her closeness was too tempting, her perfection too inviting. I let out a deep breath and climb off the tiny mattress that’s barely big enough to fit me, let alone the pair of us.
Frankie is damaged. She’s broken. She needs a man who can fix her, not a man like me.
I walk quietly to the bathroom and splash water against my face. The cold shock feels like I’ve taken a dive in
to Boston Harbor from atop a container ship.
When I turn back around, Frankie’s rubbing her eyes. She sits up, and the single thin white sheet slips off her naked upper body. She looks down, her cheeks blazing red; I know in that moment that the spell is broken for her, as well. Suddenly, she’s ashamed of her nakedness, embarrassed. I look away.
“How are ye feeling?” I ask. When I look back at her, Frankie is cuddling the sheet to her body. “Sleep okay?”
Frankie blinks: almost as if I’m speaking in a different language. I have to resist kicking myself. Suddenly, I feel like we’re out of sync, like the closeness we shared – just the night before – has flown away on the lightest of breezes.
“I –,” Frankie croaks, her throat still dry from sleep. “I need to go,” she says. The declaration feels like a punch to my gut. I don’t know why – I don’t know this girl – but for a moment I was holding onto the strangest idea that she might want to stay with me, by my side. “I need to get out of this place: this city.”
“And go where, doll?” I ask.
I mean the question kindly, but Frankie doesn’t take it that way. Her head flinches like I’ve slapped her full force across her face, and I regret saying a word. Frankie is a brave girl. I don’t doubt that even for a second. No girl – kidnapped girl, at that – tries to organize her fellow captives to revolt, then tries to escape, and gets beaten for it, without a set of balls between her legs that most men would kill to have.
“I’m sorry,” I grunt, holding my hands up in front of me in apology. “I didn’t mean it like –.”
But Frankie cuts me off. “No, you’re right,” she says, chewing her lip. “I’ve got nowhere to go. No money, no clothes, no family.” She slumps back. “I’m screwed.”
“They’ll be chasing after ye, you know…” I say.
God only knows what is going on inside my mind. After the way Frankie reacted to my last comment, she would have every right to punch me in the stomach for saying something that stupid. But she doesn’t. A wan smile breaks out on her face instead.
