DIESEL DADDY

by Naomi West

  I bolted up, sweat covering my body. Sure enough, motorcycles were pulling up to the house—I could hear them loud and clear. I grabbed my phone and saw the time. It was only seven—if that was Dakin, he was early.

  I jumped out of bed and ran to the living room window. Peering out through the curtains, I saw Dakin and even more of his buddies than had been here yesterday pulling right up onto the lawn, the grass turning to mud underneath the wheels of their bikes.

  “Where’s blondie at?” he yelled out, stepping off his bike.

  Part of me wanted to protest what Dakin was doing, to tell him that I had until nine. But I was stupid for thinking a man like him would play by the rules. He was here to take the house over and to do God-knows-what with me, and I knew I needed to leave right now.

  I ran to my bedroom, tears in my eyes as I shoved in whatever I could fit into my backpack. I didn’t even have time to pack a proper suitcase; I stupidly figured that I’d have time this morning. Once my backpack was full of clothes and other essentials, I closed it, the zipper straining against its contents. The front door opened with a slam, and I could hear the raucous sounds of the bikers filling the living room.

  “Oh blondie?” called out Dakin. “Wakey wakey!”

  I slammed my hand over my mouth, forcing down a scream. My hands shaking, I pulled open my bedroom window and prepared to step through. But before I jumped out, I remembered the one thing I couldn’t forget—my grandma’s pendant. Rushing back into my room, I snatched it from my nightstand and put it on. Now I was ready. Stepping out of the window, I escaped into the long stretch of backyard. I turned my attention to the woods off in the distance and, without thinking, just started running. Minutes later, when I reached the tree line, I turned back to the house and figures moving around through my bedroom window. I wanted to stop, to sit down against one of the nearby trees and start crying, but that was a luxury that I just didn’t have time for.

  Instead, I ran and ran.

  It wasn’t until I reached the road leading into town that I realized with horror just what I’d forgotten: all the money I had left, the money that I had been counting on to live, was still under Grandma’s bed.

  Hot, acidic anxiety pooled in my stomach as I realized it was as good as gone; there was just no way I could go back to get it, as it was clear as day to me that Dakin and his buddies had no intention of playing by the rules. God knew what they’d even have done to me if they’d found me in bed.

  So I spent the next two days bumming around Gainesville, trying to think of what I could do. I had two hundred dollars to my name and the clothes on my back. Grandma had been the only family I had, and even the friends I’d in high school were the fair-weather type who’d dropped out of contact as soon as they went away to college. I was all alone.

  And there I was then, sitting at that booth in that shitty little diner, keeping that coffee topped up for as long as possible, knowing that if my little dine-and-dash plan didn’t pan out I just might go from sleeping in my bed to sleeping in a jail cell over the course of a couple of days.

  Okay, I thought. Just gotta go to the bathroom, then go out the door right nearby. Easy peasy.

  But thinking it was easy didn’t convince my nerves it was so. I figured that it was only going to get more nerve-racking the more coffee I drank, so I told myself it was now or never and got myself ready to get up. But right as I raised myself up, a commotion in the corner of the diner grabbed my attention. It was the bikers. Someone had just walked into the diner and approached them, and as he got closer the bikers all broke out into rowdy noises, the yells so loud that they managed to drown out the din of the rest of the diner.

  And when my eyes locked onto the man who was now the center of attention, my heart skipped a beat.

  This guy, whoever he was, was tall—very tall. Tall and built as all hell. His head was dyed peroxide blond and shaved down to the scalp, a long cutting scar visible across the side of his head through his hair. His face was jaw-droppingly gorgeous, with blue eyes that were as bright and clear as ice catching the glint of sun. His face looked like it was cut out of granite, all angles and hardness. A light dusting of stubble coated the lower half of his face, his sensual lips visible through it. He was wearing a white T-shirt that clung to his body, his ropy, tattoo-covered arms and thick biceps looking like they might burst through the fabric. Over his shirt was a leather vest covered in patches, and his jeans were tight on his burly legs. A pair of coal-black combat boots completed the look.

  And as he walked in, his eyes turned to me. He stared at me hard with those almost supernaturally blue eyes. My mouth opened slightly as he looked at me, his gaze like a force of nature. I was frozen in place; there was nothing I could do.

  “What’s up, motherfuckers!” he shouted, giving his friends half hugs and back slaps, his bawdy language attracting fearful attention from the rest of the diner.

  “Excuse me,” said one of the waitresses, bumping past me, her arms loaded down with plates of pancakes, eggs, and other breakfast meals.

  I snapped back to reality, realizing that I’d been staring so hard at this guy that I’d forgotten where I was.

  The truckers nearby, however, weren’t amused one bit by these bikers. They talked among themselves, shooting side-glances at the bikers as they did. The bikers didn’t pay them one bit of notice, and I bet even if they had, they wouldn’t have given a good goddamn. I felt a situation brewing and wanted to get out of here before it exploded.

  Welling up my courage, I dashed to the bathroom. Thankfully, it was empty. I stepped in front of the mirror, ran some cool water, and splashed it over my face. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I wondered just what the hell I was gonna do next.

  My grandma had always said I had a face pretty enough for the movies, and I’m not sure if I believed her. Sure, I had nice, almond-shaped green eyes and clear skin as white as porcelain, but I always felt like my lips were too big and my hips too wide. A friend of mine had told me once that she’d kill for my hour-glass figure, but I always found myself wishing that I had the skinny sort of frame that I always seemed to see on magazine covers. Either way, I sure looked the part of a homeless girl who’d been wearing the same clothes for the last two days. I tucked a strand of my blonde hair behind my ear and steeled myself for the task ahead.

  Leaving the bathroom, I got ready to open the door and run out.

  Now or never, I thought. I placed my hands on the cool steel of the door handle and gave it a push.

  It didn’t budge.

  I realized in horror that it must’ve been a service exit that only opened with a key. I turned my attention to the front entrance, and I knew that there was no way I could get past the pair of hostesses who appeared to me at that moment like two tiny, cute-faced little guards.

  I was screwed.

  But before I could burst out in a full-on panic, a yell sounded out from across the restaurant.

  “Don’t you fuckin’ touch me!” called out a voice.

  I ran out from the small hallway leading to the bathroom just in time to see the man with shaved blond hair’s fist connect with one of the trucker’s jaws.

  A fight was on.

  Soon, a full-on melee erupted, the truckers and bikers swinging wildly at one another. Waitresses screamed out, and the families nearby hurried out of the place in tight little flocks. I realized that this was my chance. I attached myself to a family that was headed towards the entrance, hoping that to any observer I would just look like I was one of them. More commotion broke out, and the sound of plates smashing against the floor cut through the air.

  Soon, however, I was in the parking lot of the diner, surrounded by other patrons fleeing from the place. I turned around, half expecting a waitress to be running after me, as though someone might give a damn about a twenty-dollar check as a brawl raged.

  I started off at a run, making my way towards the road, cutting through the cars in the parking lot. A large black van was ahead, an
d I made my way towards it, knowing that once I was behind the thing no one from inside would be able to see me. I’d be free and clear. But as I moved closer to the van, it pulled out of its spot with an abrupt lurch. The engine roaring, it backed up towards me, coming to a screeching halt when it was right at my side. The panel door of the van opened with a rusty squeak, exposing the black of the interior.

  “That her?” shouted out a voice from within.

  “If it ain’t, it’s her goddamn twin.”

  Then, before I could react, two pairs of hands shot out from the interior, grabbing me hard and pulling me into the darkness.

  Chapter Two

  Star

  The van rumbled along, and I couldn’t see a damn thing. My eyes were covered in a blindfold as soon as I was pulled into the van, and my ankles and wrists were bound together soon after. Then I was restrained against the inside wall. I couldn’t move an inch.

  Minutes passed, and for that first little bit of time in the van, I was certain that I was imagining things, that I hadn’t really been pulled off the street and tossed into the back of the exact sort of ominous black van that you’d see in those Lifetime movies about kidnapped kids. I was so shocked at first that I wasn’t even scared.

  Finally, after a time, I spoke.

  “Is this about me running out on the check?” I asked, realizing how pathetic and small my voice sounded even then. “I don’t have any money! I mean, I have a couple of dollars—you can have it! And I’ll wash dishes or clean up or do anything. Just don’t send me to jail, please!”

  Silence fell over the van as soon as I was done speaking, the growling of the engine and the rumbling of the tires on the road the only sound. Then, after a couple of seconds that seemed like an eternity, the small space filled with uproarious laughter. The laughing went on for a good minute, and I was perplexed by what was happening.

  Finally, it stopped.

  “You hear that, Mikey?” someone spoke, a man with a gruff voice. “She thinks we nabbed her off the fuckin’ street because of some eggs-over-easy!”

  A slap rang out—the sound of a palm on skin.

  “Hey!” said the same voice. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “Don’t call me by my fuckin’ name in front of the merchandise!” said a second voice, this one higher and thinner.

  “What motherfucking difference does it make? Not like they’re ever gonna see your face.”

  My heart felt like it stopped beating. Merchandise?

  “Where am I?” I asked. “What are you doing with me?”

  More laughter.

  “Is this the part where they start asking questions?” asked the gruff-voiced man.

  “Sounds like question time to me,” said the second.

  “Listen,” said the thin-voiced man. “All you need to know is that you’re in the back of a van and that your life’s gonna change forever. Other than that, keep your mouth shut.”

  “Yeah,” said the gruff-voiced man. “Someone liked your, ah, ‘look,’ and figured no one would miss you.”

  “If you say his goddamn name, I swear I’ll drop you,” said the thin-voiced man.

  Say his name? I wondered.

  I sniffed the air, picking up the scent of whiskey, cigarettes, and motor oil. It was a scent that I associated with bikers.

  “Dakin?” I asked, the word slipping out.

  “How the fuck did she know?” asked the gruff-voiced man.

  “You dumb motherfucker! Well, if she didn’t know before, she sure as fuck knows now.”

  “Please tell me what the hell is going on,” I said, tears streaming down my eyes down to my jaw.

  What the hell did Dakin have to do with what was happening to me? Was he bringing me back to the house to do God-knows-what with me? Fear had fully settled over me, and I felt more scared and helpless than I’d ever felt in my life.

  “Aw, she’s crying,” said the gruff-voiced man. “Always tugs at my little heartstrings when they do that.”

  I heard a sigh.

  “OK, listen, girlie,” said the high-voiced man. “You’re not gonna die, and you’re not gonna get raped. So just chill the fuck out.”

  “Let me go!” I shouted, struggling against my restraints, but accomplishing nothing.

  “Last chance to shut the fuck up,” said the high-voiced man. “If you don’t calm the fuck down, we’ll put another restraint on that fuckin’ mouth of yours.”

  “I’ve got a few better ideas with that mouth,” said the gruff-voiced man.

  “Keep it in your goddamn pants,” said the high-voiced man. “You know what happens to anyone who fucks with the merchandise.”

  “I know, I know,” said the first man. “Still, no crime against looking.”

  The van rumbled on, and not wanting to have a dirty restraint shoved into my mouth, I kept quiet.

  “Hey, how much longer till we’re there?” shouted the high-voiced man.

  “Ten minutes!” came the reply from the front seat.

  I wanted to scream, and the panic gripping me felt like cold hands on my lungs. But all I could do was keep quiet and not let these assholes see me cry.

  After around ten minutes, the van pulled a long, slow turn, coming to a stop. The driver killed the engine, and the two men heaved to their feet.

  “Here we go, toots,” said the gruff-voiced man, grabbing me by my upper arms.

  “Yo, you sure you we’re can’t just take her down into the woods for a quick, ah, ‘quality control’ session?” he asked. “She’s fuckin’ cute.”

  “No shit,” said the high-voiced man. “But you know the rules. I mean, if you want to risk getting’ your boys snipped, then be my guest. Just don’t get me involved.”

  “Ah, fuck it,” said the gruff-voiced man. “No piece of pussy’s worth that.”

  “Then get her the fuck outta the van! We got more pickups to make, and the auction’s at midnight.”

  Auction? I thought. Just where the hell am I?

  But before I could consider things for too long, the other man grabbed me by my legs and the two of them together carried me out of the van. In addition to being terrified, I felt ridiculous; I was being carried like a rolled-up carpet.

  Soon, a door opened and we were indoors. The men carried me down a long hall and eventually opened another door. Once we entered, I heard muffled crying and sobbing, and I could sense the presence of other people.

  “Let me go!” I shouted. “Now!”

  But instead, the men sat me down on a hard metal chair, pulling my arms over the back of the seat.

  “We done?” asked the gruff-voiced man.

  “We’re done,” said the other.

  “Good; let’s go get the next one then, I guess.”

  This exchange was followed by the two men leaving the room and shutting the door behind them. Then, it was just me sitting there, still bound, still blindfolded. But now I was in a room with God knew how many other people. And I had no idea what the hell was going to happen to me.

  But before I could spend too much time freaking out, a door on the far end of the room, the room opposite the one I’d come in from, opened. More footsteps sounded, two sets, these landing lighter than the others. Were they women? Soon they came to a stop only a few feet in front of me.

  “Take the blindfold off,” said one.

  Sure enough, it was a woman.

  I felt a presence move close to me, then cool fingers slipping under my blindfold. The fabric then was lifted off of my face, and I gasped when the room was revealed to me.

  It was a large space, windowless with brick walls, lit with soft white light, almost like what you’d imagine in a museum. The floor was bare, and to my left was a long wall lined with makeup vanities. What was on the right side of the room—or should I say, who—was the real horror: all along the right side of the room were metal-barred cages, each with a young woman around my age trapped within. There had to be about ten girls in that room, and the cages closest to
me were empty.

  I guessed that one of them was for me.

  “What’s going on?” I demanded, struggling against the chair.

  “You want a mouth gag, little missy?” asked the woman standing in front of me, a heavily-made-up, slender middle-aged woman dressed in a halter top that showed off a gym-toned stomach and a pair of jeans so tight it looked like she’d been poured into them. At her sides were two girls, both young and pretty, both with vacant looks in their eyes. Her voice was that hillbillyish accent that I recognized right away as from the rural middle of Florida.

  “Just tell me what’s going on,” I said, my words now coming out in a pathetic plea.