Candi’s Debt

by Aubrey Cara

  I’m still reeling from the hit when my arms are roughly yanked and tied behind me. Then he jerks me around and slaps duct tape over my mouth.

  “Stupid rules,” he says. “It’s not like whoever buys them isn’t going to fuck em’ up before they kill em’.”

  “Yeah, well, the difference is they paid for the pleasure. You and I are just the bastards getting paid to deliver their new toys.”

  I’m not even fully tied before we’re moving. I glance out the window in time to see Hank’s lifeless body thrown in the trunk of a big, black sedan. I feel like I’ve taken a punch to the gut. All the air is knocked out of me. I double over on a sob. Being strong and calm has gone out the window. I’m no longer scared or worried about me. The pain knifing through me at the thought of Hank being dead is too much for anything else to exist.

  For a while the only sound in the vehicle is me quietly crying. I start struggling for breath when my nose is stuffed by snot from crying so hard. I’m panicking and they’re just watching me until baldy says, “You think she’ll pass out?”

  “Give her something to wipe her nose. It would be just our luck she’d suffocate on her own snot and die before we get her to the boss.”

  Baldy holds a smelly blue bandana to my face. “Blow,” he says and I do just for the relief of being able to breath again. But before I can take my first good breath he squeezes my nose until my eyes are running. My neck is strained back trying to get away so I can breathe. Black dots haze my vision before he lets me go. I slump forward, taking large breaths through my nose. The bald dickwad stuffs the snotty bandana down the front of my shirt, then squeezes my breast hard enough I know it’s going to bruise.

  “Too bad you already have a buyer and I like my job. I would fuck the shit out of you, honey.” The way he looks at me makes me want to gag. “You ever think about it?” he says conversationally to the Average Joe.

  “What? Fucking the girls?”

  “No man, well yeah, kind of, but buying one. You ever think what it would be like. What

  you’d do?”

  The other guy shrugs and the one who hit me slaps his buddy on the leg good naturedly. “You have! I know you have. How could you not, doing what we do?”

  Their sick, casual banter on owning a fucking slave goes on, background noise to the buzzing in my head. I’m about to be shipped off because I’ve been sold, and the one man who cares might be dead. Hank. Pain grips my chest and I almost double over again on a sob. I breathe deep through my nose, blinking back tears. If I start crying again I won’t stop. And I can’t fall apart. Not yet.

  Hank, god, please be alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  HANK

  Consciousness is a strange thing. I feel like I’ve been hit by a buffalo tranq. I can’t move my arms or legs. I can’t really even feel the bumps we’re going over but I’m aware of them. I can hear the crunch of gravel. The sound of the engine. I know I’m in a trunk. I can even hear the murmur of voices.

  I’m drifting.

  Next time I come to, the drive is smooth and I can tell we’re going fast. I swear we’re on open highway. All I can hear is the rush of the road buzzing in my ears like white noise. In and out of consciousness I swim. When my body finally joins the party it’s with throbbing pain. Head, face, arms. The zip ties they used to bind my wrists are cutting into skin. I can snap zip ties, but not now, not at this angle.

  Also, I think I may have a cracked rib, which means they kicked me when I was down. It sure as hell feels like I’ve been used as a human piñata.

  I angle my body around and kick where the tail lights are, ignoring the pain in my ribs. We’re probably being followed closely by the rest of Huntington’s men, but I’m getting satisfaction out of kicking out the tail light just the same.

  Candi steals cars. I destroy things. We’re quite a pair. Thoughts of her make my mind stutter. I can’t even think about what might be happening to her. I led her straight into an ambush. If one hair on her head is harmed, it’s on me.

  Something jostles loose from my boot and I remember I have the phone. Scooting my foot behind me I try to kick my phone up to my bound wrists but black swims over my eyes from the pain. Those assholes must have really worked me over. It takes me two more tries before I reach it with the tips of my fingers, arching back to snag it.

  Phone in hand I power it up and try to look around to try to see what the hell I’m doing. This is some yoga crap, right here. If I weren’t praying a rib doesn’t snap and puncture a lung, I might even find this funny.

  I hit my last called number, which is Slater. I doubt he’ll hear anything I have to say. When our car starts slowing down I don’t even try. He knows this is my number. I lock the screen and awkwardly stuff the phone back in my boot, hoping like hell Slater knows enough to track me to my location.

  The vehicle is rolling to a stop and I hear multiple doors slam. Too many to just be from one car. The trunk pops open and my eyes squeeze shut, suddenly blinded. We’re under a parking lot light. It takes two guys to haul me out of the trunk and I take stupid satisfaction in going dead weight and making them work for it.

  I hang my head like I’m still out of it as I shuffle forward in the direction they push me. From my peripheral, I spot Candi. Her arms are bound behind her back, and tape is over her mouth. When she spots me she stumbles like her legs have given out and one of the guards with her drags her the rest of the way across the gravel lot. I memorize his face and pray I get the chance to knock his teeth down his throat as we’re led up to an old warehouse.

  Nothing good ever comes from old warehouses. Especially if you’re going in one at gunpoint. We’re shoved through the door and the smell of sweat and blood hit me. It’s an all too familiar stench.

  We’re led inside what seems to be a loading bay. There’s a big door to the left, the kind semi-trucks back up to, to pick up or unload from. On the other end, a heavy metal door looks to lead to a bigger warehouse. Probably a storage facility. To the right is another door to the gravel parking lot, much like the door we just came in. In the middle of it all sits an old utility desk.

  Our steps echo in the cavernous space. I’m pushed back onto a hard, metal chair that screeches on the concrete when I sit. Candi gasps, struggling to break free from the asshole shoving her down onto the chair to the right of me, and I have to keep from reacting. I turn to look behind us. That’s when I notice Dylan’s bloody form strung up and passed out in the corner.

  God, I hope he’s only passed out.

  “Howdy, you all.” Huntington sounds so snide I want to rip his head off. He ambles into the room with the use of a cane and sits behind an old, metal desk. He has a cast on his foot. I have to stifle a grin knowing I did that to him. I should have shot him between the eyes and really made it count. “It’s been a busy day,” he says. “What with getting shot in the foot and all.”

  Huntington nods his head to a guard on his right. The guard pulls out his gun and fires before I can even blink. The sound echoes off the metal walls, along with Candi’s muffled scream. I stare down at the hole in my foot filling with blood before blazing pain shoots up my leg.

  “Hurts, doesn’t it, Mr. Buchanan?” he asks.

  I’d already assumed the asshole had discovered who I am, but now it’s confirmed.

  I grit my teeth, trying to breathe through the searing pain making all my nerve endings snap to agonizing awareness.

  “Ms. Dawson,” the smug fucker continues. “You’ve found yourself quite the decorated military man. Rose rather quickly through the ranks, this one did. Had a promising career ahead of him, too. That is until he was dishonorably discharged. Seems he has a problem controlling his temper. He nearly beat his commanding officer to death. Did he tell you that?”

  That fucker hadn’t been my CO and I should have killed him for what he’d done. I look over and Candi’s brow is furrowed as she looks at the ground. She looks so fucking vulnerable I want to scream and bash Huntington’s face
in.

  “Ms. Dawson, I do hate when your mind wanders and you don’t answer me.” With a snap of his fingers, a guard has a gun pressed to Candi’s temple. Her eyes squeeze tightly shut. The guard rips the tape off her mouth and she cries out. Her lips are cracked and bleeding. It’s obvious someone had hit her before they’d taped her mouth shut.

  “Now, what were we discussing?”

  “N-no, he didn’t tell me,” she stutters.

  “Was that so hard?” He shakes his head with a tsk-tsk. “I’ve been too lenient with you. That’s my mistake. One I won’t be making again.” He snaps his damn fingers again. “Oscar. Would you please relieve Ms. Dawson of her clothes and string her up next to her brother?

  “I usually don’t like to send damaged merchandise to my buyers,” he continues. “Gives me a bad reputation and all. But I’m making a special exception for you, Ms. Dawson. You see, I’ve been thinking about what you’d look like writhing in pain from the moment I met you. I almost thought about keeping you for myself, but you’re worth so much more to me sold. That doesn’t have to stop me from having a little fun before you go.” He drops a coiled rope on his desk and I realize it’s a fucking whip.

  My blood turns to ice at the implications. I can’t sit and watch this shit. I gauge how long I’ll be able to put pressure on my foot if I get my wrists free.

  My head is fuzzing with pain, but I have to stay aware.

  The cold barrel of a rifle presses to the side of my head as if the guard could sense my energy. The asshole behind me must be smarter than he looks.

  Oscar, a big guy that looks like he has more muscles than brains has a sick smirk as he stands Candi up and cuts her clothes from her with a hunting knife. She’s visibly trembling and biting her lips so hard she’s going to draw blood. This time when I grit my teeth it has nothing to do with the pain. A tear rolls down my princess’s face as the last of her clothes are torn from her body and I swear to make each and every bastard in here pay.

  Oscar cuts her wrists loose and she goes berserk, scratching the bastard’s face and screaming. The asshole backhands her, sending her sprawling back. My heart stops in my chest. I don’t know how, but she’s snagged the dumb prick’s gun.

  Before I can wonder what she’s going to do with it, she blasts off three rounds, rapid fire, aim wild. One more shot rings out before she’s tackled from behind by the guard who had been on me.

  Surging up, I smash my wrists down and apart, breaking the zip ties. Everything hazes and my focus narrows. Adrenaline pumping through me I plow my fist through the nearest guard’s face, snatch his gun and fire. Not even turning I fire again, taking out the guard behind Huntington, then shoot the gun out of Huntington’s hand.

  I’m dimly aware of Huntington screaming, “Get HIM!” I’m zeroed in on grabbing Candi and getting the hell out of here. I take a step in her direction and nearly crumple. All the air is kicked out of me from the pain screaming up my leg. Fuck.

  Only a second. I pause only for a second and it’s just enough time for a guard to swing around with the butt of his rifle. This time I see it coming and block it. I grab ahold of the barrel, yanking forward, using the momentum to jack the stocky guard in the face.

  Candi’s scream has me yanking around to see the big guard, Oscar, has her. His arm is tight around her throat, his .40mm pressed to her cheek. He’s dragging her back to the heavy metal door leading to the bigger warehouse with her pulled up in front of him like a fucking shield.

  I don’t have a clear shot.

  Huntington raises his Glock with his left hand and I feel the zing of a bullet whip past my ear before the doors bust open from every damn direction. All kinds of fucking Feds are streaming in, guns drawn. Candi’s released and Oscar’s gun is ripped out of his hand as he’s shoved to the ground.

  All Huntington’s paid-for-hire goons scatter and are giving up their weapons. Some more grudgingly than others.

  Huntington stands within the middle of it all, with his hands casually raised in the air. He’s got an arrogant cocksure look on his face when Slater comes up to him, gun drawn and shoves him down over the desk to cuff him and pat him down. He probably thinks he’s going to get out of this like he has every other time he’s been arrested. I hope to hell they can make it stick this time.

  Slater pulls .22 caliber from Huntington’s pant leg and hands it to a waiting agent, along with a knife and a .32.

  Someone knocks me to the ground from behind, snatching my gun and I let them. I hear Slater call out, “He’s one of ours,” and whoever’s pulling my arms behind me backs off.

  “Sorry man,” the agent that had taken me down says. “Medic over here,” he calls before patting me on the leg. My vision is swimming in and out as I lie on the ground, my eyes seeking out Candice.

  “Hank!” she calls out, pushing away from an agent to run over to me. I’m dimly aware she’s sobbing. They’re calling for more medics. Paramedics are pulling her brother down. I push to my back letting her fall over me, wrap her arms around me. My ribs are screaming, but I don’t care. It’s over.

  Pushing the hair off her face I drag her up to kiss her. “Let’s not do this again,” I joke, but her eyes are still wide, tears pouring down her face.

  My tongue is feeling thick and my mind fuzzy. My adrenaline’s dropping and I can feel blackness creeping in.

  “Hank?” Candi has a strange look on her face. “Are you okay?” She runs trembling hands over my face and beard caked with blood. “I thought they were going to kill you. I thought you were dead.”

  “I love you,” I slur. I meant to say something like I’m hard to kill or I’ll be alright. My brain to mouth is no longer functioning right. Someone is covering Candi with a blanket and easing her out of the way.

  “I think I have a concussion,” I tell the medic flashing a penlight in my left then my right eye.

  “Man, you have a hole in your foot, too.”

  That makes me smile. “Hurts like it’s been blown off.”

  “Nope. You were lucky. It’s still there.”

  “You look like shit,” Slater says standing over me.

  “Crap party. No one told me I was going to be the pinata.”

  They load me on a gurney and pop it up in place. I grab Slater pulling him down to whisper in his ear. “They were waiting for us at the fucking safehouse. Know anything about that?”

  Slater’s eyes register his surprise before his face is a blank mask. “Throwing guys under the bus isn’t my style.”

  “I didn’t think it was. Guess it’s time to switch the lights on and see what tries to scurry back to the dark.” I lie back and let them wheel me out to the waiting vehicle.

  Locked and loaded in the ambulance, they’re shutting the doors when I ask, “Where is she? Where’s Candice?”

  The guy with me shrugs and asks up front about her.

  “The naked blonde? She’s riding with the other guy we loaded up. They’re right in front of us,” the driver, a no-nonsense older brunette assures me.

  “How is he? The other guy?”

  She shrugs. “Not great. Dislocated shoulder and we think he may have a broken leg, maybe a rib or two. He was coming to when they loaded him.”

  We’re driving, siren’s blaring and I’m trying not to be all asshurt over Candice not being here with me, which is stupid as hell. It’s only right she went with him. I would have been shocked if she hadn’t gone with the kid. Dylan needs her now more than I do. She’s the only family he’s got.

  Who the hell am I to her?

  I mentally block that question on the grounds I probably wouldn’t like the answer. It’s bad enough I want to mean something to her. Hell, who am I kidding? I want to mean everything to her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CANDI

  I’m exhausted, but if I close my eyes I hear gunfire. I feel the warm sticky spray of someone else’s blood on my face. I can taste the coppery tang on my lips. I see Hank on the ground looking bloodied and p
ale.

  “Are you sure you’re up for your shift tonight?” Hank asks, leaning over the couch where I’m lying.

  “Yes, daddy,” I say rolling my eyes. The moniker falls easily from my lips. I’ve been calling him that whenever we’re alone. It just feels natural, and makes something warm and fuzzy spread through me. Also, it doesn’t hurt to know it pleases him. I’m not sure why, but pleasing him also gives me that same warm fuzzy feeling.

  He runs a knuckle gently down my cheek, tracing the circles under my eyes which I know are smudged dark with fatigue. I can see the worry on his face. There’s a tenderness always with how he deals with me now. The first few weeks it had felt like a healing balm, but lately it’s starting to feel more annoying. I just want everything to be back to normal, even though things are anything but.

  I’ve been living at John’s or staying with Hank, for the past two months. Dylan too. The first week home, Dylan had spilled the beans on how I’d been sleeping, or not sleeping. I woke screaming every night that first week. Hank had moved us in here. I complained, but I was secretly relieved. When I’m not reliving actual events my imagination is working overtime on creating new, horrifying scenarios just waiting for me to fall asleep to play themselves out.

  The silent biker from the poker game had turned out to be Hank’s friend, Slater. I overheard Slater telling Hank about the buyer Dom had lined up for me. Some sicko who’s rumored to buy girls so he can torture them to death over weeks and months. However long they last.

  My nightmares that week had been especially messed up. So yeah, I’m pretty sure what little sleep I do get is because I’m tucked up against Hank. Every time I wake up I can reach out and curl into him.

  John doesn’t like that we’re sleeping in the same room. He thinks we should be married first. Hank laughed and pointed out John was always quick to pull the trigger when it came to marriage. It hasn’t been brought up again, although Hank has his own place now and wants me to move in permanently with him, which freaks me out.