by Mason, V. F.
“You never learned manners. Get up,” he orders, and my jaw about drops.
“You have to be kidding me.”
“Get up,” he orders, and with a huff I do then sit down normally without rattling the entire thing, and he nods approvingly. “That’s better.”
Considering his OCD with manners and tones, one might think he’s from high society and not a rough biker. He once said no one would take me seriously if I acted like a savage and scared everyone. “What do you plan to do once you’re out of here?”
I frown, resting my elbows on my knees, and simply say, “Punish everyone.” But then I have another eighteen years here, so I’m not sure there will be anyone left to punish. I’ve gathered names though. All twenty names who were involved in putting me behind bars, and all of them will pay.
“And how will you do that?”
“What do you mean?”
He removes his glasses, places them between us, and then clears his throat, raising the book higher. “What do you think of this quote: ‘Et tu, Brute?’?” I blink at him and then rub my chin, pondering the quote.
“Sorry, I’m really not into poetry and shit.”
“Those are the words Julius Caesar said to his friend when the friend stabbed him in the back in front of everyone else. The translation is ‘And you, Brutus?’”
“Fascinating.” What else is there to say? Fox had his weird moments, but I usually don’t pay much attention to them. We all have quirks.
“Betrayal that comes from the people we love is the hardest one to accept,” he says in a wistful tone, and I wonder if he thinks about his ex-best friend who still lives out there.
“It’s unforgivable.”
He doesn’t flinch at my harsh voice, but then again, I never made a secret of my emotions. He puts the book aside and then moves a little to face me better while he continues to talk. “However, forgive you must.”
I hold back the laugh wanting to spill from my lips and just shake my head, because is he fucking insane?
What has been done to me can’t ever be forgiven. Greed ruined my life, killed my father, took away my clean name, not to mention….
No, I don’t go there. I never go back to that laundry room and revisit the memories that haunt me at night. Memories that don’t leave me. I still can’t stand anyone being behind me or so much as touching me.
Never again will I be a helpless guy who takes the punishment men dish out on him. “I won’t do it.”
Fox huffs in exasperation, running his hand through his gray hair. “Otherwise, the hate will eat you alive.” A beat, and then, “Forgive and move on.”
Bitter laughter erupts between us, and I stand up, too charged to sit this one out. “Really? I can’t move on from what has been done to me!” I shout at him, but he just listens without moving. “Did you forgive your friend too? The one who killed your family?”
Something dark crosses his face, but he still keeps his voice calm. “Yes. I did. I forgave him so he wouldn’t be here anymore.” He points at his heart. “So I would spend my time remembering my family but not him.”
“I can’t do that. I can never do that,” I repeat once again and sigh, and weirdly a small smile pulls at his lips.
“What do you think will happen when you see her?”
“I will get my revenge.”
“Even if she’s someone’s mother?”
I swallow, because the possibility of her getting married and having kids with anyone but me never crossed my mind. But in twenty years, those things are bound to happen.
Can I destroy her life then? But I shake off uneasiness. No one showed me mercy, so why should I?
“Yes.”
He studies me and then laughs, as if it’s fucking funny! “Oh, boy, you have a lot to learn about life. But you can’t do it here.” He pats the bench again. “Come here and listen carefully.” I follow his command, and in a barely audible tone, he shares with me a plan that will help me escape prison once and for all.
Island, United States
August 2019
Emerald
I sit on the bed, my stare glued to the door while the AC blows on me, breaking goose bumps on my skin while my torn, soaked clothes send shivers down my spine. I can’t concentrate on anything but the soul-shattering feeling of hopelessness and agony, because my torn dress reminds me of what he has made me experience.
Of how ready he was to rape me just to replay the pages from the statement or whatever it was.
And how easily I forgot about it all and was ready to succumb to our desires.
I rub my arms, wincing when I graze the bruises on my arms from his fingertips, each of them dark blue because he held me so tightly I was afraid he might break something.
I glance down to see hickeys on my collarbone from his suction, and I probably have them on my neck too. It has to bring him sadistic pleasure knowing that I’ll see his marks on me for days.
Those marks when done gently used to be my favorite, because I thought they showed his desire for me, his possessiveness on staking a claim. Only it was never about the claim, but a reminder for him. He wanted to play with my body, but he never needed anything else.
I close my eyes, and the acid taste in my mouth returns while I feel like it’s all traveling up my throat, wanting to escape. I barely push it back, stopping myself from barfing all over the floor.
All this though isn’t as unsettling as the confession he’d read to me.
Based on the book, I loved him so much. So much, I could never have written that letter, or whatever he called it. Which brings only one conclusion to mind.
He did it, and the fantasy in my head… is just a fantasy I created to numb the pain. If he raped me, it means I slept with the man who raped me. How could I have done it?
My body starts to feel too heavy for me; his scent surrounds me, and I can’t shake off the disgusting feeling of being smeared with his dirt. My rubbing turns into scratching while I fiercely try to remove the feeling of him away from my body and senses, so the growing revulsion will go away and leave me alone.
I jump from the bed and quickly grab the bottle of water, open it up, and pour it over my head. What little of it there is cascades over my body while I take the nearby sheets and wipe it away, but my skin still itches like insects are biting me.
“Need to… I need to—” I murmur, but then the door swings open with a loud thud, and as it crashes against the wall, I cry out, kneeling on my knees and closing my eyes, because the monster is back.
Who knows what he wants to collect?
Emerald, is this how you greet the man who loves you?
Please don’t; please don’t touch me.
The voice from the past crashes back into me, bouncing in my head while different images of me in pain flash so fast in my mind none of them is clear. However, the piercing pain and despair is very real, and tears stream down my cheeks as I shake with my sobs while the voice continues to speak.
So pretty, so, so pretty and mine.
Don’t touch me. Please don’t ever touch me.
Of its own accord, my mouth begins to hum a melody I don’t recognize. I rock back and forth, my hands wrapping tightly around my knees, and my hum is so loud it slowly blocks away the outside world while I can only focus on the vibration of my body. “Hmmm hmmmm hmmmm.”
But the voice still stays.
Emerald, no one is going to come. No one will help you.
I still hum with everything in me, while I inwardly reassure myself that he’s lying. What he says can’t be the truth; I have people who love me.
“Look at the mirror, Emerald. You know what you need to say, right? Be a good girl and repeat.”
I raise my eyes to the huge mirror standing right in the middle of the room while he drags me to it by the hair, pointing at the reflection. “What do you need to say, darling?” I shake my head, holding back a sob, but he fists my hair and pulls at it, and I scream, because my earlier bruises still hurt.
“What do you need to say?”
I just cry, and he has enough of it. He kneels behind me, presses the knife to my throat, and seethes in my ear, “Say it, Emerald. You will regret it if you don’t.” Fear rushes through me, because I know he’s right.
The last time I disobeyed him, he unleashed hell on earth on me. So with a trembling voice and chapped lips, I whisper, “Who is the best man for me among them all?” I ask the stupid and hated phrase, but his entire face lights up, and he kisses me soundly on the cheek. I bend forward, unable to stop the gagging reflex, but he doesn’t care.
Instead, he pats my back, and says, “Good girl. See? You can be so good when you’re not stubborn. Not everyone is born a survivor, my kitten. Some are born victims meant for suffering. And you are the prettiest of them all.”
I sob, hitting my head on both sides, but it doesn’t help, because I can still smell him next to me.
The monster who destroyed my life. Who hurt me and brought me so much pain. I remember everything he did to me so clearly I can’t breathe normally.
Someone touches my back and I snap, punching everything I can get my hands on while a haze blurs my vision. All I know is that this man doesn’t get to touch me, doesn’t get to hurt me anymore.
I’m not his prisoner; I’m not a victim.
But then the man grabs my arms, kneels in front of me, and gives me a harsh shake, which snaps me out of my stupor. I see crystal clear blue eyes in front of me, and my heartbeat calms while a smile spreads across my face.
“Brochan,” I whisper, palming his face, and then I press my forehead against his, sobbing a little. “You came. I’ve waited so long.” I circle his neck and rest my head on his shoulder as his arms lock around me.
I close my eyes, because I know he’ll handle everything.
No one will hurt me as long as he’s close.
Micaden
Shifting her to her side, I pick her up and gently place her on the bed, her mascara smeared-face looking troubled as she whimpers a little in her sleep.
I throw the blanket over her, and check her forehead, but she doesn’t have any sign of fever. However, her skin is hot and flushed, while her breathing is raspy.
I’ve never seen her like this.
What the hell was that earlier on the floor? She seemed like she was in a trance, miles away while her completely blank stare could send a weaker man running.
With her pale skin, she almost reminded of a ghost who relived her nightmare, but it couldn’t be right. What nightmares did she have besides those I intended to give her?
I spin around to go up on deck, because all this creates nothing but havoc inside me, when her soft hand clasps mine. She pulls it closer to her cheek, and with a sigh rests her chin on it as the whimpering finally stops.
The right thing to do is snatch my hand back and let her deal with her distress. The wrong thing to do is sit next to her and watch over her so she can have some rest, because seeing her earlier broke something inside me.
But I’ve never been known for doing the right thing.
Chapter Twenty-One
New York, New York
Micaden, 24 years old
Adjusting my hoodie firmer on my head, I walk through the empty streets of New York and wince at the disgusting smells filling the night air. My phone shows me I have three minutes to go before my final destination, and my fist tightens around it.
Fox created the plan with a guard who owed him big for something, and they helped me escape. Cruz initiated a fight with me in prison and punched me so hard I hit my head on the floor. It bled a lot. The guard took me to the doctor, but on the way, he injected me with a special medication that slowed my heartbeat. The doctor didn’t check for much, declared me dead, and they took me to the morgue. There, a man got paid to allow me to leave once I woke up.
Fox said for the record, I should be dead, so no one would go looking for me. I don’t understand why he helped me this much, but questioning him was useless anyway.
They gave me a hundred-dollar bill and a cell phone. I followed the instructions to the letter, but in the end, something went wrong.
And although I wanted to stay and face the consequences, the guard didn’t allow that and told me Fox wanted me out. So with a heavy heart, I ran away, and pretty much everyone thought I was dead.
Dizziness overtakes me, and I rest my shoulder on the nearby wall between the buildings, breathing heavily and touching my wounded shoulder. I think it’s dislocated. I can’t move it without pain, and it hurts like a motherfucker.
After I got on the train, I discovered people in big towns rarely gave a fuck about you, and most were too busy with their noses glued to their phones to pay any attention to strangers around them. In my hometown, you couldn’t go to the grocery store without people knowing all about your shopping list.
The cabbie I used just ten minutes ago told me he wouldn’t drive farther than where he pulled over, because the neighborhood is suspicious as fuck. He literary stopped the car and told me to get out.
A homeless man passes by, rolling his cart with some old crap, and salutes me. “This place is mine,” he informs me, digging his finger in my shoulder. “You can stay the night near the fire since it’s cold as a witch’s tit.” Several feet away, I see smoke rising from a steel trashcan, and a few people gathered around it. Sure as fuck, this January air requires additional heat. “But then you get out,” he finishes sternly, and I nod.
He leaves, and that’s the moment my stomach growls and I wince. I haven’t had food in the last forty-eight hours. I hope Fox was right about his friend, and he’ll help me out.
Otherwise, I’ll have to search for my own spot between buildings in this fucking town.
Willing all my strength into my fist, with a small groan, I resume my walk and glance again at the phone that tells me it’s now one minute away.
I look around, but nothing really reminds me of an expensive club that is run by a powerful businessman. Only some lame-ass one-level building with the window shutters closed, steel bars, and graffiti-painted walls.
The app beams with a happy person telling me I’ve reached my destination. “Fuck. The old man must have been mistaken.” But the minute this thought enters my mind, the door to the building opens and a tall bouncer emerges from it, shouting into a phone. “Lachlan will kill me…”
Lachlan.
You need Lachlan Scott. Tell him Fox Daniels sent you. Remember, Brochan. Lachlan Scott.
The bouncer dude darts to the other end of the street, still in a heated argument with whoever is on the other end of the line.
I jump inside, hopping down the stairs quickly and then walking through three doors. Finally, I end up in a huge room, which has club lights all over the place, a bar in the far corner, various round tables, and a stage for live music. It also has pool tables and a huge dance floor, although the place seems dead. In the back, I can see different doors from where strange sounds are coming, like people groaning and moaning, and the energy has a very weird vibe to it.
Do they run a sex club?
I have only a second to dwell on it though when the bouncer comes back, shouting, “Who the fuck are you?” He darts toward me, grabs my shoulder, and his fist slams into my face. Instantly, pain appears in my nose and blood spills, but I don’t pay attention to that. Instead, survival mode that I got familiar with in prison takes over, and I ignore all my body’s limitations, driving on an adrenaline high.
He swings his arm again and I dip, avoiding it, and then hit him in the stomach. He groans, bending in two. I punch his back, kicking his knees so he collapses on them.
He tries to get up, but I don’t let him, kicking him in the shin this time, and his cry fills the space as his nose crunches under my fist.
For such a beefy guy, he isn’t strong enough if I can take him easily in my current condition. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks again, spitting blood on the floor, and I breathe heavily as my body catches up, the pain assau
lting me all at once.
Fuck, so much for getting help from Fox’s friend.
I hear applause from behind me, and I turn around, my eyes widening at the picture presented to me.
Four men watch me with interest, each one of them striking in his own way.
The one on the left has blue hair and silver eyes that scan me from head to toe while he flips a lighter through his fingers, flashing a bit of fire every now and then, the sound exceptionally loud in the otherwise silent room. The two on the right have dark hair, but that’s about all the similarities they share, although both of them have blank stares. By the looks of them, I wouldn’t want to meet them in a dark alley.
And finally the man who clapped, he has the most dangerous energy around him as he steps closer, giving me a good view of him. He wears a perfectly tailored, three-piece suit that emphasizes his status, which I assume is the boss. His blond hair and blue eyes give him an even more sinister appearance, if that’s possible, and finally I notice a metal cane he holds under his armpit. It reminds me of the bats the guards used on me, and I swallow back the bitter taste in my mouth.
“Impressive, very impressive,” he muses and comes toward the guy still groaning on the floor, whose sounds become less audible. I think he even stops breathing when the blond dude shifts even closer. “Who are you?” His voice echoes off the walls, and although he doesn’t raise his voice, there’s such authority lacing it you know you have to answer or he’ll kill you.
“My name is Brochan.”
“And you are in my club because?”
“I need to find someone.”
His brows rise, and he’s about to say something, when the guy groans again. The blond rolls his eyes and flicks his cane, and instead of a round edge, a sharp knife appears. He kicks the guy in the gut, who falls on his back, and quickly the blond stabs him right in the fucking heart.
“The fuck?” I mutter, stepping back, because it’s clear as day the assholes here don’t operate a sex club. A man who can kill so easily without remorse must do it often.
