Thud, thud, thud. The pounding of someone walking sounded through the hallway.
My father tensed over me, his finger still inside as he moved my hand to his crotch. He was hard.
I blinked my eyes open as he slid my hand over his covered length. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the light coming from the hallway and my bathroom. There was a shadow in the doorway, and it moved to my bed.
My father was so drunk he didn’t even realize there was a man behind him. A large, powerful man, covered from head to toe in black was standing behind him with a knife that was dripping with something as it was raised high in the air. In the darkness of my room with only my bathroom light giving some visibility, I wasn’t able to make out anything more.
The finger kept plundering in and out sloppily while I absently stroked his manhood out of habit. The stranger grabbed my dad by the hair, and his eyes grew wide. A gasp escaped his lips as I watched the knife come around in front of his neck. Like every other night he visited, I continued to stroke, knowing I couldn’t sleep again until he finished what he had come in here for. Until the big mess came, I wasn’t allowed to stop, and I couldn’t sleep, which meant I couldn’t escape into the land of my dreams.
Counting again, I moved my hand up and down as I watched the fear in my father’s eyes.
My father choked on his words as the knife began to slice him. The blood splattered my face, yet I continued stroking. My eyes came up to meet the stranger’s through his black mask as the finger inside of me pulled out. I watched intently as the man cut my father—my life source—from one ear to the other.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t yell. I didn’t move except to continue stroking my dying father’s cock, as he called it. I merely continued on with my task as I had done for many months now; only, instead of being covered in his sticky residue, I was covered in his blood.
The mess is here. My job is done, I thought to myself.
I stilled my hand then looked up to the man who had most likely killed my mother and was then holding my father as the life drained from his body, and I smiled.
Seriously sick and twisted, I met his dark brown eyes and smiled.
Chapter Two
Angelina Diamante, five years old, I read then flipped the photograph back over. There was another one at seven then yet an even more beautiful one with the writing age twelve on the back. I continued to look through the pictures in the box before me.
The pink and white room reminded me of cotton candy. In a normal situation, it would have made me want to giggle, but given my circumstances, I found a peace in the frill and formality of the room in which I had been stuck in.
I had lost count of the hours, the days, the weeks, or whatever it might have been. The man who had taken me had brought me here. I didn’t remember everything; my mind was racing too fast.
That night, everything felt like I was floating above my surroundings and watching below as I allowed myself to follow the man hidden behind the mask into his van. At first, I was too nervous, scared, and dare I say, relieved to rest. Then, as the miles dragged on, I found myself drifting. I slept for I didn’t even know how long as the darkness of the night allowed one mile to pass into another seamlessly. I couldn’t keep up with my surroundings, and by the time I woke up, an unmasked man was sitting in a chair at the end of the pink and white canopy bed I now occupied.
His features were strong. His tight jawline, dark hair, and dark eyes all carried an air of confidence and slight menace that made me feel protected and scared at the same time. Instinctively, I knew nothing would happen to me. However, natural insecurities allowed me to feel true fear of what could happen to me at the hands of such a strong male. After all, look at what I had already endured. My life was a whirl of shame, terror, and secrets. How much did this man know? More than that, what did he want from me?
The room I now occupied brought me a false sense of security. I could easily become entranced by the serenity of the atmosphere. The white lace curtains, the white dressers, and walls covered in pastel pink were beyond what any little girl could dream of. I had never been given such luxuries in my paltry existence. Even with the extravagance of our home, my parents would never have dared to spend their money on anything fancy or overly girly for me. No indulgences, self-control, my father had always said, making my insides churn at knowing he lacked the latter and totally believed in the first for himself only.
I had been taught to act with respect and trained to behave like a miniature adult. School had been my only interaction with children my own age. Only, with all the shadows from home following me everywhere I went, I hadn’t dared to make friends and share secrets.
This new room bathed me in soft lighting every dawn, and the moon seemed to fall in just the right place to give enough illumination to keep the darkness at bay as I drifted into slumber each dusk.
The man, the stranger, came in at dawn and left a tray. Breakfast was always cereal and milk. The tray contained lunch of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a piece of fruit. There were always three bottles of water and crackers, as well. Every day, he discarded the tray on the bench at the end of the bed and exited swiftly.
He didn’t engage me in conversation. There were no casual pleasantries shared between us. We didn’t even exchange a nod, a grunt, or good riddance. Day in and out, he set the tray out and left me to the room until he returned with dinner in the evening. The attached bathroom was my only place to roam as all the doors were locked, and unfortunately, the window sills were painted shut.
Having only time on my hands, I scoured the belongings of Miss Angelina Diamante, a girl who seemed to have left this room being not much older than me. In the beginning, I had wished for her return. I had prayed for some company, for some sign of life. I was left with disappointment each day that passed. One after the other, the time ticked by as I merely existed.
Even though she wasn’t there, I had decided to make her my friend. Her dark brown curls fell just below her shoulders, much like my hair. Her golden eyes danced with a vibrancy I only wished would be reflected in my own. I often wondered if her daddy touched her like mine had me. I saw the pictures of her with the stranger and a beautiful woman. They appeared to be very much the happy family.
Having posed on more than one occasion for my very own portraits, I knew it could easily be faked. Smile on cue, Fallyn Nicola Valencia—it was a practiced art and one I had become very accustomed to even at a young age.
As a toddler, my mama would pinch the back of my arms to get me to stand up straight, a flick to the back of my earlobe if I didn’t smile just so … Children were resilient, they said. No, children were much like pets and easily trained. Behave appropriately and there was no punishment. For every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction—they had taught me that in science class at school.
That also applied in life trainings of a child. A hand around the back of my neck was a reminder to be ramrod still, for if I wasn’t, a broomstick carried the rest of the day behind my head was sure to teach the posture of a proper lady.
Had life been the same for Angelina? I hoped not. In my mind, for the well-being of my imaginary friend, I gave her the freedom of smiling a real smile and loving the fancy frills of her cotton candy room. I passed the time by telling Angelina my hopes, my dreams, and I secretly whispered my nightmares, knowing they fell on her deaf ears.
We spent hours together, Angelina and I. She had a three-story doll house. Together we redecorated it multiple times. Apparently, my friend once liked to read as she had two floor-to-ceiling, built-in book shelves which I spent time perusing. She had quite the collection, and some were beyond my reading capabilities.
In my mind, my friend taught me. I traced the binds and waited to feel myself called to a specific title. Most days, I read the books aloud so as to share with her the words she was no longer actually there with me to read.
My mind drifted quite often. Fear gripped me at the thought of the unknown
. Why had the stranger taken me? More than that, he was a killer. I had witnessed this first hand. Trepidation and anxiety strangled me every time I thought about that. Would he kill me? Why was I there? Did I even have a future?
The night he took me was the first week of summer vacation from school. What would I do about going back? Did it matter? I remembered Mama telling me I couldn’t miss days of school. She hadn’t been around me much, but the woman had gotten up every morning to wake me for school and drive me in our big car, and she had been there every afternoon to pick me up. We couldn’t mess up the appearance of our well to-do family, so no matter how tired or annoyed Mama had been, she had made the drive to drop me off and pick me up. A Valencia was far too good to ride a school bus.
How long had I been here? The more I thought on that question, the more I realized I needed a diary or something to track the nights. If I was going to think of a future, I had better keep track of my present. Did I dare to have hope that I could find my way out of this new situation? How many days had I lost to my day dreaming? Had I gotten too comfortable, only for him to hurt me worse than I had been before?
Apprehension filled me. I stood at the window for what felt like the millionth time. Reaching out, I held the lace curtain, twisting the material between my thumb and pointer finger. The top under my thumb felt smooth compared to the bottom as the pockets of air in the design gave hesitation to the movement of my fingers.
Hesitation.
I couldn’t allow myself to hold back. If I was going to live, really live for the first time ever in my life, I couldn’t simply feel out my situation like the curtain. I couldn’t allow myself to hesitate at the first bit of resistance. I might not be able to escape just yet, but I was alive, and therefore, I must learn to live again in this life.
Papa Valencia, my grandfather, would tell me, if he was still here, “Nicola, do not hold back. Give it all you’ve got, so as to not look back and wish you had done more. Failure and success can sometimes happen based on one’s ability to push on and not hold back.”
Spending all of my time surrounded by adults except when I was in school, Papa Valencia had been my very best friend. I missed him even still. Thinking of him, I once again had hope in a hopeless situation to one day see my way through.
The days continued to pass in a blur, and the nights were filled with me chasing away one nightmare after another. I found peace when I woke up alone. Solitude was my friend in the darkness of the night.
One night as the stranger entered to bring me dinner, his clothing was disheveled, something that was unusual. His dark eyes met mine as he placed the tray in its usual location, and he then turned to leave.
Barely above a whisper, I muttered the two words that changed the course of my newfound reality yet again. “Please stay.”
I hadn’t realized the severity of my deprivation until he took pause to look at me. His gaze burned deep like the night he had found me, the night he had saved me, and the very night he had taken me. Silently, I pled with him not to leave me.
Solitude, I found safety in it, but it fed my fears at the very same time. On one hand, if I was alone, I was safe. On the other, not knowing what would happen next allowed my mind to wander to places I didn’t want it to.
Fear hit me. Should I have asked him to stay? Mama had always told me not to talk to strangers. Father had always said children were to be seen and not heard. Had I spoken out of turn in my request?
Without a word, he moved to the chair beside my bed then dropped his head into his hands and looked to the ground.
His dark hair was ruffled, as if he had been pulling at it, and his dark dress shoes were polished to perfection, followed up with tailored charcoal dress pants, leading to a crisp white button-up shirt that for once was rolled up to his elbows with four buttons undone, revealing the dark hairs of his chest.
Shame washed over me as he sat there, unmoving. Why wouldn’t he engage me in some form of chatter? Was it because of how he found me that night? Did he find me revolting?
A thought hit me and I scurried up the bed until I reached the headboard where I curled into myself. What if he was angry with me for not touching him?
He hadn’t visited me at night like my father would. How was I supposed to know he needed those things from me? That was what father would whisper in his drunken haze. Over and over, he would tell me he needed release.
Did my stranger need release?
Slowly, timidly, I uncurled and moved to him. My stomach twisted as anxiety filled me, and trepidation once again washed over me.
I placed my shaking hand over his wrist, tugging at him to gain his attention. He looked up at me, his exhaustion showing. I traced my finger down his forearm as my body tightened in fear. I didn’t know what else to do for him. He could have killed me, yet he hadn’t.
I was suddenly tossed backward to the ground as he jumped up from his seat as if my touch had burned him. Confusion ran through me as fear overtook my body and adrenaline kicked in.
“Don’t!” he barked at me as he towered over me. “Don’t touch me! That is not what you’re here for!” he roared as he stomped out of the room, leaving me once again to my solitude.
Tears ran down my face.
Feeling confused and dirty, I went to the bathroom and turned on the shower, not paying attention as I discarded my clothing.
No, her clothing. Angelina’s clothes. I had nothing of my own anymore. Was one hell any better than the next? My destiny was my eternity, wrapped in darkness. Crazy questions continued on in my mind as I let the water spray harshly against the tiled walls.
Stepping into the shower, I wanted to cry out in pain. The water scalded my skin as the steam filled my lungs, and the small room spun. I didn’t move. I let each drop prick and burn my body while I silently wished for it to burn away the memories of my existence. I didn’t allow myself to think of turning it down or stepping out. Like everything else in my life, I didn’t allow myself to escape.
I was dizzy. I was lost. I was drowning in a sea of uncertainty and filth. Still, I didn’t move.
There was a noise on the other side of the shower curtain, but I was stuck in place. The pain became real as I looked to my now reddened arms. Then the rings scraped against the metal pole of the shower curtain rod, and I gasped in surprise when my stranger suddenly was standing in front of me, wrapping me in a towel while yanking me harshly out of the spray of water.
“You can’t do this!” He covered me in the towel then carried me effortlessly to the bed.
“You … You need release,” I stammered, trying to explain. “If you don’t want me, why did you take me?”
His eyes went wide at my question as he released me. “You are just a girl. Of course I don’t want you.”
“But … but … my father,” I stuttered as he stalked fiercely around the room without a second glance back at my naked body.
Going to the dresser, he tossed clothes at me before turning to face me.
“He’s no longer around.”
“Yeah, but you … you…” Fear rose inside me.
“I’m not him. I’ll never put my hands on you like that. He never should have, either.” His voice was calm and slightly gravely like he had smoked one too many cigarettes.
Did the stranger smoke? I didn’t know. Why did these random questions fill my mind? I needed to say something, do something, or he would leave me all alone again.
“Why did you save me?” I whispered. Why did you kill my family? I wondered, but I didn’t dare ask.
“Your eyes saved you, but that didn’t come from me.” His answer was simple yet complicated, and I didn’t know what to make of it.
What in my eyes? I wanted to ask.
He turned away from me as if he couldn’t bear to look at me, and I realized I had clothes in my hands, but I wasn’t getting dressed.
Relief filled me as it settled in. He wasn’t going to touch me. There was no need to fear that from him.
I scrambled to dress as my new revelation hit me in the gut. He is not going to touch me, I thought to myself again. I didn’t know if I wanted to dance in pure joy or cry in fear as I wondered what he wanted with me in return. Could it be worse than what I had left behind?
He stomped into the bathroom where I heard the clattering of him working with the pipes. He then returned, carrying the showerhead and faucet back out with him.
“When you can behave appropriately, you can have these back. Settle in, sunshine. Your life begins now.”
Continue reading here!
In The Red
Devil’s Due MC Book One
Written by
Chelsea Camaron
Copyright © Chelsea Camaron 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of Chelsea Camaron, except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.
This is a work of fiction. All character, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
1st edition published: May 23, 2016
Editing by: C&D Editing and Asli Fratarcangeli
Cover Design by: Cover Me Darling
Formatting by: IndieVention Designs
ISBN-13: 978-1530882601
ISBN-10: 1530882605
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Thank you for purchasing this book. This book and its contents are the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied, and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download/purchase their own copy. Thank you for your support.
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