When I'm With You (Little Hollow #2)

by Danielle Dickson

  Taz is back with a bang, literally.

  He starts muttering to himself. “You need to calm down, Merl, or you’re not going to have a chance to play with your new toy properly.”

  The sinister tone of his voice makes me feel uneasy and I don’t think I want to know what or who he’s talking about.

  “You’ll have your turn, you’ll finally break her.” He sneers.

  What the fuck is he up to?

  It’s an unspoken rule that Crows don’t beat or rape women. We may have club broads, but none of them are ever forced into doing anything they don’t want to do. It’s about the only rule that’s still adhered to in this club, so hearing this makes my skin bristle and I’m more determined than ever to lock down this asshole.

  This is my third day of being locked up like a creaturel in a dirty, cold cage. I’m beaten from head to toe and the pain radiating through me never gives me a reprieve in its onslaught, which only adds to my misery. This is fucked up. I should be at home reading gushy texts from Sam, pretending they don’t make me feel like I want to puke.

  I’d rather put up with being an outcast a million times over than be here anymore. I’m severely dehydrated and my stomach grumbles at the thought of its next meal. I’ve been given one bottle of water a day and one meal, if you can even call it that. But anything is better than nothing in this situation. I change position slightly, wincing as the scratchy blanket he left me with yesterday brushes against my neck.

  I don’t feel like a human being anymore, I’ve started to feel like the animal that he’s clearly trying to show me I am. He wants to break me, mold me to do anything he wants me to do, I can see it in his eyes every time he looks at me.

  I scratch a jagged line into the wall beside me with one of my broken, acrylic fingernails. It’s taken me nearly two hours to actually get a decent mark going but the third one is finally done. I sit back and look at the marks I’ve made. Three marks, three days.

  I rest my head back against the cold, cement wall and take in a deep breath. Sometimes memories are the worst form of torture, I’d do anything for some coffee right now. A strangled laugh rolls out of my throat and I can’t stop as the high pitched, scratchy sound fills the room. There’s a trillion things I could - and should - be thinking about, but the only thing that doesn’t pain me too much to think about is coffee.

  My laugh reverberates around the small room so loud that I don’t hear the nearing of footsteps. I don’t even know he’s coming until the crash of the door alerts me that he’s here, and I shrink into myself.

  What are you doing, Keeley? You weren’t given the nickname ‘Steely’ for nothing!

  I sit up straighter, waiting for his approach, only he doesn’t move from the doorway and I take in his ragged appearance. He’s wearing his leather cut over a black t-shirt tucked into black jeans. The jeans are held up by a metal studded belt and he’s wearing thick lace up combat boots. Everything is creased and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. Not that he’s ever been handsome, but his scowl on his face makes him hideous, and I screw my face up.

  “Like what you see?” He snarls, finally taking the steps toward me.

  I try not to flinch as he squats down in front of me.

  “The only thing better than seeing you would be if you would poke my eyes out beforehand!” I spit out, and his face contorts with rage.

  He moves within an inch of me and runs a finger down the side of my temple next to my eye socket.

  “That can be arranged,” he whispers.

  His voice is laced with so many sinister promises that I visibly cower away from him, which only makes him laugh. I curse myself, I’ve given him the reaction he wanted.

  My face is turned away from him and I flinch as he strokes my hair.

  “I don’t like your hair long, you don’t look like you.” I stay silent and he continues, “But black is my favorite color, your brown hair was bland compared to this. This suits your feistiness,” he whispers in my ear.

  “Is that all? Or do you have something I’d actually give a crap about to tell me?” I say sarcastically.

  He grips my hair and yanks my head back until my face is practically staring at his crotch. “It’s your feistiness that gets you in trouble though! Reign it in, or I’ll reign it in for you!” He warns, the threat in his voice loud and clear.

  He lets go of my hair and I fall into his lap, hurting my knee as I scramble up not wanting to touch him. He stays watching me for a few more minutes before he gets up and walks out.

  I don’t get him, if he wants me dead then why not just kill me and get it over and done with? He’s already beaten me and made me feel like I’m worth nothing.

  The door opens back up and I try to take back my statement in my head as he drags me back into the same room he made me strip off my clothes in. There’s a chair sat to the side and beside it, on a small counter, are a pair of hair clippers and a comb. My stomach bottoms out.

  No!

  I thrash as much as I can in his arms and he laughs. “What? I thought you’d miss hairdressing and I need a cut.” He smiles through his comment and I stop moving to watch him as he sits in the chair and beckons me over. “Well come on then, I haven’t got all day.”

  I stay rooted to the spot, wondering what the catch is. When he doesn’t move, I step closer to the hair clippers and pick them up.

  “I need scissors, I can’t cut your hair with these,” I state matter-of-factly.

  His hair is too long to cut with just these. Of course, I’m not going to cut his hair, I just want those scissors.

  “Yeah, I know your game. Use them or you can go back to your room,” he says on a laugh. “And don’t even bother trying anything, or I’ll shoot you in your pretty little head.”

  His threat makes my insides turn cold, I may act like I’m strong but self preservation comes before anything. I like to think when the times comes, I’ll embrace death with open arms, but I’m only twenty-four and if I want to live out to see my twenty-fifth birthday in three months, I need to play along with his sick games.

  I look down at his head, at the greasy mop sitting on top of it and cringe, I have to touch that. “Fine. I can shave it, that’s all I can do with these.”

  I’m just pointing out the facts but he grunts at me.

  “Shave it all off and I’ll do yours to match!” He says angrily. “Just get on with it.”

  I turn and wrap the blanket around me, securing it with a simple knot and moving it around so the knot is in the back. I turn the hair clippers on and start sectioning off bits of his greasy hair, if I try to use them as scissors this might work. I take a deep breath in, he really doesn’t have a clue about hairdressing and I’m scared of messing this up. I take another breath before grabbing bits of hair and going to town on them.

  “You’ve always loved hairdressing, even when you were little,” he says.

  I try not to listen to him, it just takes me back to a time where I was just a frightened girl.

  “I’m done,” I announce.

  It doesn’t look completely awful, but it’s not quite right either. He pulls out a mirror I haven’t realized was by the chair and looks at himself. I wince as he grinds his teeth together and his jaw twitches.

  “What the fuck is this!” He demands, pointing to his head.

  I take a step back. “I did the best I could with what you gave me. I told you I needed scissors, so don’t blame me for not listening. I think I did a pretty good job considering.”

  “You need scissors? I’ll get you scissors,” he drawls in an almost sweet voice.

  He gets up from the chair and stalks out the room, it doesn’t escape me that I could try to get away, but knowing he has a gun on him, I don’t want to push it.

  He saunters back in the room and stands beside the chair, holding out the scissors to me. He must’ve got them from a first aid box. How stupid is he blatantly handing over a weapon to his victim?

  I move to grab them off him
with my head down so he doesn’t suspect anything. I should’ve kept my head up.

  It’s what I don’t see that’s my downfall.

  I don’t see the rope in his other hand and I don’t see the vicious smile slowly work its way over his lips as I shuffle forward, reaching for the scissors.

  He grips me by my wrists and pulls me roughly onto the chair, instantly on top of me, wrapping rope around my midsection, tying my arms against my body, my body against the chair.

  I struggle against him but he weighs too much for my weak body, and I start to panic.

  What is he doing?

  He ties the rope in a tight knot and I wince as it cuts off the circulation to my hands.

  “I did what you said! You told me to give you a haircut and I fucking did!” I shout.

  I feel him pull back my hair roughly. “And now it’s my turn,” he says sounding manic.

  I screech and shout, calling him every name under the sun but he just laughs, knowing I can’t get free.

  He grips my hair as he says, “I told you, you’ve always loved hairdressing, can you remember?” He pulls and it irritates my already tender scalp. “I said, can you remember?”

  I nod my head even though it hurts to as he doesn’t let his grip on my hair go.

  “Good.” He says that one word and I hear the snip of the scissors as he chops a chunk out of my hair. “You’re going to look pretty when I’m done with you, just like those barbie’s you used to play with.”

  He picks up one of my Barbie dolls and walks it toward me, but I just look up at him with wide eyes.

  “Hello, Keeley, don’t you want to play with me?” He asks in a high-pitched voice.

  I bow my head and shake it, looking down at my own doll.

  “It’ll be fun,” he states in his normal voice.

  I shake my head furiously, ignoring him as I continue brushing and cutting away at my dolls hair.

  “Do you think she likes you doing that to her hair?” He sneers, and I recoil.

  “What are you doing? Get away from her,” mom says, picking me up.

  He stands up and narrows his eyes at her. “I was only offering to play with the damn dolls, Kirsten.”

  His sweet tone doesn’t match the look on his face and I bury my head into my mom’s chest.

  “Mommy? Can I go play with Hunter?”

  She places her mouth next to my ear and whispers, “Great idea, you run on over and tell Arlene to call your daddy and say that mommy needs him home. Can you do that for me, sweet girl?”

  I nod my head as my feet touch the ground and I run out the door, hearing her cry out as I cross the threshold. I don’t stop running until I’ve ran to the other end of the street, to the blue house with the white shutters that is slowly becoming like a second home to me.

  I don’t even knock, barreling into the living room and running through the house to the one place that makes me feel safe. I open his door and he’s sitting on his bed listening to his MP3 player. He takes in my scared face and opens his arms for me to run into. I bury my head in his chest and he strokes my hair in a soothing motion.

  “Shhhh, it’s alright. I’m here,” he says calmly.

  “Mommy said I need to tell Arlene to call my daddy and tell him she needs him home,” I breath out into his chest in one big rush.

  He stiffens and lifts me off his chest with a serious look on his face. “Kee, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I heard pop say they were busy at the club today.”

  “But mommy said-”

  “How about we go get my mom to make us some dinner then we can go to the fort?” He interrupts me, instantly changing the subject, and I hesitate before taking his outheld hand and nodding.

  “You fucking psychopath! You need professional help,” I shout through my tears.

  “Hmm, you’re right, a professional might be able to tell me where I’ve gone wrong.” He bends down and picks up the discarded mirror and pushes it in front of my face.

  “Tell me what you think.”

  I snap my eyes closed. I don’t want to see the damage that he’s done to my hair. When I lived back home, my hair was a chocolate brown with a few flashes of red running through it. It was cut into a long bob with choppy layers. I wanted to get away from that image of myself and dyed my hair black and grew it out, using it much like a shield to hide myself away from people. He’s taken that away from me.

  He yanks my head back. “I said look at it and tell me what you think,” he spits, crouching low near my face.

  I shake my head roughly and he forces one of my eyelids open. I gasp.

  “What have you done?” I cry out, opening my eyes fully.

  “What? Don’t you like it?” He leans close to my ear. “Now we’re even.”

  I stare at my butchered hair in the mirror being held up by his dirty hand. There’s bits cut to only about four inches short, slightly longers bits, then he’s left some of the length still on. I can’t bear to look at myself any longer, not that I can as tears blur my vision.

  I sob uncontrollably, not even caring that he’s enjoying every salty tear that stings the cuts on my face. How much more is he going to torture me before finally ending it? Something tells me he’s just getting started, if there’s a way to get out of this, to end it all, I will take it with open arms.

  He cuts the rope and I fall to the floor with a thud, landing in a pile of my hair. I clutch at it and it sticks to the wet trails the tears have left on my body, that bastard!

  “Let’s go,” he says, but I hardly hear him over my sobs. “Don’t ignore me, sweet girl. You know what happens when you don’t do as you’re told.”

  I have one last pity party before steeling myself and standing up, brushing the hair off my hands.

  On the outside, I probably look like a rabid, wild animal. But inside, I’m feeling a sudden strange sense of calm wash over me. As long as I’m alive, there’s a chance I can get away. So I limp ahead of him into the room that has become my prison, and I slide down in the corner again, not giving him the time of day.

  I wake up the next morning to Jacques puking his guts up in my bathroom, at least he made it there in time, I’d of kicked his ass if he hadn’t. I stretch out my achy muscles and rub a hand down my face, running my fingers through my beard. Getting up, I stretch once more and make my way over to the bathroom and lean against the doorframe. He has his hands braced against the porcelain, head straight down the toilet, retching. I laugh to myself and he flips me off.

  “Fuck… You,” he says in between retches.

  I wet a wash cloth and drape it over the back of his neck. “It serves you right for drinking half the bar last night. What the fuck got into you? And don’t think you’re not telling me about those bruises on your face.”

  I see his back tense up and it’s nothing to do with puking. He pulls off the washcloth and wipes his mouth with it.

  “Nothing you’ve never done before,” he states weakly.

  Can’t argue with that, I’ve been in this state more times that I’d like to count. “Still, I wanna know where you were.”

  “Let it go, man. I’m allowed to party, I’m eighteen,” he coughs out.

  “Technically, you’re not. The law says twenty-one, dipshit. Now get a shower, then I’m taking you for a ride.”

  He rolls his eyes but pulls himself up off the floor and starts to peel off his clothes, shaking uncontrollably. I back out to give him some privacy, I want to give him a beating for not answering his phone all day yesterday, but I feel like a hypocrite. It’s always alright when you’re the one doing it, but when the shoes on the other foot, you see how damaging it is for people to worry about you all the time. He’s never really been a drinker, sure, we’ve got drunk together a couple times, but never anything like the state he was in last night. And the talking in his sleep? That was some disturbed shit.

  I hear the shower turn off and he walks out with a towel wrapped around his waist, looking paler than usual. “Got any as
pirin? It feels like my heads gonna explode,” he moans, rubbing his temples in a circular motion.

  “This won’t help then,” I say mischievously, turning my speakers up full blast so heavy metal booms out of them.

  I just can’t help myself and I feel satisfied as he groans and clutches at his head.

  “Hunter!” He grinds out.

  I chuckle. “Alright, alright.”

  I turn it off and watch as he flops back on the bed and I point at him. “I’m taking a shower, you better be dressed and ready to go by the time I get out.” I raid my closet and grab the first pair of jeans and t-shirt I see, then I point at him. “I mean it, Jacques.”

  I told him I was taking him for a ride but I didn’t tell him where. He won’t be happy with me when he finds out and I couldn’t give a shit, she’s the only person who’ll ever get him to open up properly.

  Much to my surprise, he’s actually fully dressed as I walk back into my room so I pick up my keys, thread my arms through my cut, and motion for him to follow me. I hear him sigh but I ignore it, some fresh air will do him good.

  I’ve got three hours until I have to be at work, so I need to make them count. He throws a leg over his bike and takes a moment, closing his eyes tightly.

  “Get on,” I command.

  He opens his eyes and I’m waiting for him to protest but he doesn’t, he just gets off his bike and swings a leg over mine. “You tell anybody I was ridin’ bitch and I’ll bury you myself.”

  My laugh booms out over the parking lot. “Yeah, and if you puke on me I’ll veto that and tell everybody. Got it?”

  I see him nod out the corner of my eye and back out of my spot, peeling out onto the open road.

  I park up outside the florist and I don’t stop to answer his questions as I walk inside and buy a bunch of sunflowers, her favorite. I climb back on my bike and hand Jacques the flowers, he narrows his eyes at me but I still don’t think he’s caught on to where we’re headed. That is until we turn a few more corners and he tenses.