Selena

by Greg Barth

  I had been faking my helplessness up to this point. The sight of this abattoir caused me to give up my ruse. I stiffened my legs and resisted as much as I physically could to keep them from dragging me into that room.

  “No,” I said. “Please. Don’t take me in there. Please.”

  I vomited hard. There was not much left in my stomach except for a little bit of bile, saliva, and the drink Frankie had given me at the gas station, but my body fought to purge itself. My stomach stayed clenched. I dry heaved, coughing and spitting as I retched.

  They strong-armed me into the chair.

  “Please don’t. I don’t want this. I’ll do anything.”

  My hands were untied from behind my back. The longhaired guy fastened me to the chair with the handcuffs affixed to the chair arms.

  I sat trembling in the chair. I felt like my bowels were about to let loose.

  I realized that I would die inside this room. Soon.

  TWENTY-THREE

  SELENA

  Along one wall of the room, there were three metal folding chairs, all facing me, and a small table. The two men that had dragged me inside took seats. I didn’t know the white-haired, professional-looking man, but I remembered the man who shot me on the mountain road—the man who killed Henry. I took great satisfaction in seeing the gristly scars on the side of his face. I hadn’t killed him, but I had dealt a blow that he’d never be able to forget.

  Frankie White was standing. He was full of energy, pacing back and forth, practically bouncing. The other two men sat in silence.

  I considered my situation. The handcuffs had me immobilized. They weren’t particularly tight around my wrists, but tight enough that I couldn’t slip free.

  I glared at the longhaired man. He met and held my gaze. He looked into my eyes with a piercing stare. It was as if he was trying to look inside of me to see if something was there.

  The door opened and another man stepped inside the room. He was dressed in a black leather jacket, a gray turtleneck, and jeans. He wore heavy engineer boots. In one hand he carried a double barrel shotgun.

  My shotgun.

  He placed the shotgun on the table and turned to face me. He looked down at me like I was a bug.

  He was the most physically intimidating man I had ever seen—thick shouldered, broad chested, and his biceps looked like barrels under his jacket sleeves. He had a large nose, strong, square chin, and dark eyes. His hair was black and slicked back. He was what Rocky Balboa would look like if Rocky stood six-five.

  I was completely naked and strapped to the chair. I felt tiny and vulnerable under his shadow. I clenched my bottom tight to keep from pissing myself.

  He looked down at me for a full, silent minute. He turned to face Frankie. “No fucking way,” he said. His voice was deep. “There’s just no fucking way.”

  Frankie didn’t make eye contact with him. “Swear to god boss,” he said and shrugged.

  The tall man turned to the man I had shot in the face. “Ragus?” he said.

  Ragus. Now I had a name.

  Ragus nodded. “It’s her,” he said. “I don’t know how, but it’s definitely her.”

  The tall man turned back to me. He laughed. “Selena,” he said. “Joe Faranacci. Pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Quiet, huh? Well, that won’t last.”

  Faranacci turned back to the other men.

  Frankie said, “I did good work, huh boss?”

  “You did good,” Faranacci said. “A lot better than these two fuck-ups.” The other men exchanged a glance at each other. “And I’m going to take care of that too. There’s gonna be some punitive measures taken. But that comes later. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to go back over to Mariah’s and finish my dinner. I’m going to have some drinks. Smoke a cigar. Hell, there might even be a blowjob in order. But in the meantime, you guys are going to make this a fun night for our guest here. Soften her up. I don’t want her looking this pretty.” He held up a finger. “But when I come back, she must be alive. And she must be alert. She’s going to know what’s happening to her when it happens. Got it?”

  The men nodded.

  Faranacci turned back to me. He loomed over me. I sat helpless in his shadow. “I’ve got a little surprise for you, honey. Hand me that, Ragus,” he said over his shoulder.

  Ragus picked up the shotgun and brought it over to him. Faranacci broke open the breech and removed the two empty shells that I had last fired on the mountain road. He tossed them on the floor. He closed the breech. “You recognize this?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “What’s going to happen is my man Ragus here is going to shove this shotgun down your throat. You understand what I’m saying to you? Just like you did to my man Kurt. Only he ain’t going to be pulling the triggers. He’s going to stand over you while you sit in this chair. He’s going to bust your teeth out with a hammer, and he’s going to shove both barrels of this big shotgun down your throat. It goes down. It goes all the way down.”

  I glared up at him. I tried to stop it, but I couldn’t. A tear broke free and slipped down my cheek. I closed my eyes tight. My mouth opened. My body jerked and convulsed. It took all my might, but I didn’t sob.

  I would not beg him. I would not.

  He put his thumb on my cheek and wiped the tear.

  “Oh yeah. You warm up those tear ducts, little girl. They’ve got some work to do real soon.”

  He turned away and handed the shotgun back to Ragus.

  Ragus placed the gun on the table; the breech was still open, the gun unloaded.

  Faranacci left the room. He closed the door behind him.

  I looked at the two men seated. Frankie was still standing.

  “I get the first go at her boys,” Frankie said. His mustache stretched long as he grinned.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  SELENA

  Frankie leaned over me. He had his hands on top of mine, pressing them against the chair arms. His face was inches from mine, vodka still on his breath. He smiled. He was much better at eye contact when I was helpless.

  Such a small, fearful man.

  “I know how she likes it, boys. I’ve already had a go at this one. Let me show you.”

  He raised his hand and slapped me hard across the face. My ear rang and tears welled up in my eyes.

  “She likes it rough,” Frankie said.

  He leaned in and kissed me on my stinging cheek. His mustache scratched at my face.

  “And she likes it sweet.”

  He licked my cheek with his tongue. He licked down my face and across my lips. His mustache tickled my nose. He flicked his tongue back and forth over my lips. His cheap cologne was pungent.

  He took his hands and put them on my chest. He pressed his thumbs hard against my bullet scars.

  I cried out with pain.

  He chuckled.

  His hands slipped lower and found my nipples. He pinched them hard, wrenching them with his fingertips.

  I cried out again and squirmed in the chair. The wood seat was hard beneath my bare ass.

  He licked down my face to my neck. He sucked on my skin. He licked at the base of my throat then moved lower.

  He pulled my breasts hard by the nipples, stretching them out long. He leaned down to bite one of them. His throat was right in my face.

  He had been cautious of my bites earlier in the cabin when he wanted to put parts of himself in my mouth. Now he seemed oblivious to them.

  I waited until he was in the right position.

  He moved his mouth down to my breasts.

  I lunged forward. My teeth caught him on the neck just under his jaw and forward of his ear. I bit down hard. Many of my back teeth are missing from the beating I had taken from Kurt Dello, but my front teeth are all there. I sank them into the skin of Frankie’s neck with all my might. I could smell his sweat. I could feel the razor stubble under my lips. I tasted the saltiness of his neck
.

  Frankie screamed.

  I bit down harder, pulsing my jaws, ratcheting up the force of my bite. I could feel my teeth sinking deeper.

  He tried to pull away, but I had him good. He pushed against my chest, trying to break himself free of my bite.

  He writhed his head, wriggled to pull himself free, jerking his head violently away from me.

  Felt as though my teeth were being pulled loose at the roots, but I held firm. My jaws burned from the exertion. I bit harder.

  “Help me,” Frankie said. “Ragus. Malucci. This bitch is biting me. Biting my goddamn neck. Help.”

  My mouth filled with Frankie’s blood. It dripped down my chin onto my chest. I growled deep down inside and shook my head savagely. My teeth sank deeper.

  Frankie screamed loud. He punched at my head with his fist. As his blows rained down on me, I felt his skin tearing under my teeth. I bit harder. My teeth sank deeper.

  He would have to kill me to get free.

  He pulled at my hair. “Fucking bitch,” he said. “Help me. Help me.”

  He grabbed my head with both hands and tried pushing me away. His flesh ripped more under my teeth. I bit down, redoubling my efforts, my teeth sinking deeper. He tried standing up, but I had the better leverage.

  He raised a hand and tried to gouge my eye with his thumb. I pressed both eyes closed tight.

  I could only hang on for so long. With one last burst of adrenaline, I bit harder. I felt something like a tough piece of leather cable under my teeth. I bit into it, grinding my teeth into it. I became aware of a harsh, metallic taste on my tongue. There was a sudden gush of blood. It was a hard spurt that completely filled my mouth. The force of it was as if I was sucking on a running water hose. I’ve had men’s body fluid in my mouth before, so the 98.6-degree heat of it didn’t shock me. What was surprising was the quantity and force of the burst. Blood went into my throat. I swallowed a large amount of it. I choked on the rest, coughing it up, but I held onto his pulsing neck with my teeth. Then there was another gush of blood. My mouth was filled again. His blood shot up into my sinuses and ran out of my nostrils. It ran out of my full mouth and down my chin, soaking my chest. I swallowed more of it as fast as I could, but I couldn’t keep up with the force and quantity of it. I expelled air through my nose to clear it, but there was just too much blood. A third burst filled my mouth. I would have to release him or I would drown on his blood. I bit down once more for good measure.

  I let Frankie go. He collapsed to the floor. He held his hand over his bleeding neck. Blood pulsed out of the bite wound, spraying out between his fingers, a fresh burst with each heartbeat. The flow weakened, his eyes lost focus, and he collapsed in a limp heap on the floor.

  Frankie was dead.

  I coughed and sputtered. I spit the blood from my mouth. Much of the blood landed on my right wrist where the handcuff had me clamped to the chair.

  I swallowed a few times to clear my throat. I blew air through my nose to clear it.

  Ragus and Malucci were still sitting in their chairs as they had been the entire time. They made no move to help their colleague.

  They studied me like I was some kind of animal.

  Through a throat choked with blood I managed to say, “He told me to bite him earlier.” Some strange part of me felt the need to explain to these men the crude act I had just committed.

  My wrist was slippery from Frankie’s blood. I pulled at the handcuff. The blood lubricated my skin against the metal. I pulled hard. I have small hands and the cuff was loose. I worked at it, pulling harder and harder. The men simply watched me.

  Malucci turned to Ragus. “Well. What do you think?”

  Ragus nodded.

  My hand popped free of the handcuff.

  Malucci stood. He walked over to the door, opened it, and stepped out of the room. He closed the door behind him.

  I kept my eyes on Ragus. He stared deep into my eyes. I returned his stare with an intense glare of my own

  I pushed my forefinger deep down my throat until I gagged. I leaned forward and vomited Frankie’s blood down onto the floor between my feet.

  I looked back up at Ragus and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. It came away crimson with blood.

  I took my right hand and wiped up the blood on my chest and stomach. I rubbed the blood onto my left wrist. This cuff seemed tighter; it would take more effort to free myself. But with my right hand free, I had access to more blood. The stuff covered me. Once my wrist was good and soaked, I pulled. The metal bit deep into my skin. I scrunched my fingers together in an effort to reshape my hand. The heel of my hand behind the thumb took the worst of it.

  The metal began to slip. I leaned close and spit on my wrist over and over.

  The door opened and Malucci stepped back into the room. He was carrying a pair of thigh-high, shiny black boots. He also had a long coat.

  “Don’t know what size you are, doll. And I gotta apologize for the footwear here. Most of the stuff they sell here is of a...certain style. This coat, well, I lifted it out of one of the dancer’s lockers. She’s a pretty thing in it, so I think you’ll look alright. These shorts, I don’t know.” He held up a pair of skimpy denim ass-hanger shorts and frowned at them. They were cut so short the front pockets hung down lower than the frayed denim. There were large holes in the ass of them. “You don’t have no weight on you. Better than nothing, I guess,” he said.

  He set them down on the table by the shotgun.

  I kept pulling at the handcuff. The metal slipped a bit more.

  Ragus stood. He put a hand into his jacket pocket and fished out a handful of shotgun shells. He placed them on the table near the shotgun.

  “He takes his dinner at Mariah’s across the street. In the back room,” Ragus said.

  “They enter through the back,” Malucci said. “He’ll have a couple of goons out back by the door. You’ll know them when you see them.”

  “Good luck, hon. See you on the evening news,” Ragus said.

  They both walked out of the room.

  I pulled hard at the handcuff. I leaned over and spit on my skin again at the point of most resistance. I tugged with all my might. It hurt like hell. I held my breath and kept pulling.

  A sharp pain in my lower thumb knuckle, and my hand popped free.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  SELEN A

  I stepped over Frankie’s body with care. I was already soaked in his blood, but that didn’t mean that I wanted to step in any.

  The shorts were loose, but they would work. The boots were ridiculous. I hoped they would at least keep my feet and legs warm. I wished that Malucci guy had brought me a shirt too, but I was content with getting out of that chair alive. The parka was black and long, smelled of cheap perfume. I put it on and zipped it up. I liked it. I fished through the pockets. No cigarettes. I loaded the shotgun, closed the breech, and stuffed the rest of the shells in the coat pockets.

  I got the hell out of that room.

  I went through the dim warehouse and out the loading dock door. The night air was cold. I pulled the collar of the coat up as far as I could. Frankie’s truck was still parked by the dock. I went down the steps and got in the cab. The keys were in the ignition. I started the engine and turned up the heat. The activity around the semi-trucks in the back had settled down. I pulled out of the back of the building and drove around the front.

  There were cars parked in the front. The adult bookstore business was in full swing that night. If I listened hard enough, I could probably hear the blowjobs. I took in my surroundings. I saw a building on the other side of the street. There was a long green awning in the front. A fancy sign said Mariah’s Italian Cuisine. I drove across the street to the parking lot entrance. I parked in front with the nose of the truck pointed toward the street. I wanted to be ready to make a fast getaway.

  I grabbed my bow from the floorboards. I got out of the truck and walked in the shadows along the edge of the lot, my bow in one hand and the
shotgun in the other. The heels of the ridiculous boots clicked on the pavement. I wanted a Winston.

  When I got to the back corner of the building, I paused. I placed the shotgun on the ground and readied an arrow. I walked further until I could make out the two guards at the back door. They didn’t look like cooks or restaurant employees. They were thugs—large men with dumb looks on their faces. They were smoking and talking.

  I raised my bow and took aim at the first one. I loosed my arrow and immediately readied the next. The first goon went down to his knees, his hands raised and clutching at the arrow embedded in his throat.

  “Shit,” the second goon said a split second before my second arrow caught him in the chest. He went down and fell against his friend.

  I put the bow down and picked up my shotgun. I walked over to the back door. No windows in the back. I could only assume that this back door led to the room that Faranacci would be dining in.

  I walked carefully around the two dying men on the ground. I checked the back door—unlocked. I opened it a crack and peered inside. The door accessed a hallway with other doors opening off to either side. The long hallway appeared to terminate at a back corner of the main dining room. The dim lighting inside revealed few details. A Tuscano countryside with vineyards, hills, and villas painted on the walls of the hallway.

  I stepped through the door, my shotgun at the ready. I crept down the hall to the first door that opened to the right. I heard voices inside, looked around the edge of the door. A couple of men inside washing dishes. I moved past the doorway without them seeing me.

  The next door opened to a private dining room. The clinks and scrapes of silverware on china came from the room and the sound of dinner conversation in low voices and soft laughter.

  This was it.

  I took a deep breath and gripped the shotgun tight in my hands.