Escape From Paradise

by Gwendolyn Field

  Conall tried to stand, but the man grasped his forearm. “It’s just a few years. And in the meantime we’re working alongside the SIS to search for your brother. Airports and all avenues of travel are being scouted as we speak. We will find him, and justice will be served for your parents.”

  He felt the weight of it all forcing its way down on him, and for the first time since he was a wee bairn his eyes stung. He couldn’t hold back the sobs as they came, and he didn’t have the strength to push the man away when he took Conall’s neck and pulled it to his shoulder, roughly rubbing his back.

  Every ounce of control he prided himself on slipped away, and he realized it was all a ruse—a childish facade. His family’s wealth had always backed him up, and knowing his parents would always be there for him had given him the safety net to live his life like a selfish prick. Now he had none of that, and it hurt. Who was he, really? He dappled on the dark side, equating those minor dangers with power, but he saw now it’d all been shite. Out there in the world was real danger. Fucked up people with no conscience.

  How badly had the people he loved suffered at the hands of brutal madmen? Could he have fought and saved any of his family if he’d been there? Had his father fought? Somehow Conall couldn’t imagine that, which made him feel a moment of irrational anger toward his father, followed by guilt.

  When Conall pulled himself together he said in a choked voice, “Tell me everything.”

  Their Edinburgh estate had been methodically broken into. The overseer of the lands was taken captive and forced to disarm the alarms before being killed. Conall’s parents were not supposed to be home. They should have left for an event in Dublin; however, technical issues with their private jet caused a delay.

  The thieves were taken off guard to find the owners home. Reports showed that a struggle had taken place. An antique vase in the foyer was broken, and Conall’s mother was found with flesh under her nails. His father had abrasions on his hands. Both his parents and the nanny were murdered, and the perpetrators left with the one thing they’d come for: his brother, Graham.

  The authorities called it a kidnapping-for-ransom gone bad. They’d only expected the nanny and Graham to be home. And all the while Conall had been partying, just like every weekend. He couldn’t have been arsed to check-in with a fucking nanny.

  Conall shook his head back and forth as an angry vengeance and self-loathing soaked into his blood. His future as he’d known it had been seized and choked. He knew he’d never be the same, because all his aspirations changed in that moment. He would never be the respectable business man his father had been. His one and only thought was to get his brother back, and then do whatever he had to do to find the people who’d done this to his family and destroy them.

  “We’ll find these bastards, young McCray,” the officer told him.

  And if you don’t, Conall thought to himself, I will.

  I had a secret fantasy. Something I’d never told anybody because it was too shameful. For years I’d fantasized about being taken against my will—Stockholm Syndrome kind of stuff—rape fantasies. I imagined big, sexy men busting down my door, overcome with the desire to have me. In those visions I somehow knew they meant me no bodily harm. It was lust. They just wanted to momentarily own me. Those imaginings had been so hot. Being overpowered. Being brought reluctantly to orgasm.

  But in real life there was nothing sexy about rape.

  I felt the soft foundation underneath me rocking and heard the faint whir of an engine when I woke. My hands were tied behind my back, and my ankles were bound. A dull, distinct pain was present between my legs. My first instinct was to scream, but I stamped down the urge, forcing myself to sit up and take in my surroundings.

  I was in a small, clean room on a twin bed. Through the rectangular window on the wall I could see the dim morning sky, or at least I assumed it was morning.

  And I saw water. Lots of water.

  My stomach turned and I heaved, leaning my head over the bed. Nothing came out, but my gut continued to convulse.

  When I heard footsteps and murmured voices, I quickly laid down on my side, curling into a ball and letting my hair fall over my face. The door opened, and although I was panicking inside, my body went into some crazy, shocked self-preservation mode of calmness.

  “She’s still passed out,” I heard Fernando say in Spanish. My stomach clenched.

  A string of cuss words came from the mouth of a deeper-voiced man.

  “Idiot! Why would you bring her to my boat?” the man yelled in Spanish.

  “It wasn’t my plan. I was going to fuck her and dump her somewhere before we left this morning, but she said her parents were lawyers!”

  “This is why you do not drug Americans! This is why I have told you time and time again, foolish asshole, not to fuck American girls!”

  “I know! I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  The man sounded irate. “You were thinking with your cock! When will you learn self-control?”

  The sound of rapid blows and Fernando hollering in pain made me ball up tighter. I hated Fernando, but the sounds of violence, even against him, made me ill.

  “How many people saw you with her, son, eh?” he yelled.

  “Only the people at your club, Papa!”

  “She was alone?”

  “She had…friends with her. But they were drunk!”

  Another bestial sound of anger came from the man, presumably Fernando’s father.

  “Did they see you leave with her?”

  “No. They were in the pool room. No one was paying attention.”

  “The girls have probably gone to the authorities by now. Their parents will be on the next plane to Mexico, and reporters will be crawling all over my club! People saw you together! This is the last straw, Fernando. When we stop to refuel in Cuba I’m sending you away. I am done with you.”

  “Sending me where?” Fernando sounded like a pathetic little kid next to his father’s angry voice.

  “I don’t know yet. Asia, maybe.”

  “Asia! I don’t want to go to Asia!”

  “And I don’t want this girl! Nor do I want a fucking police investigation. What I want is to have you out of my sight where you can’t cause me anymore trouble.”

  Fernando didn’t argue. A beat of silence passed before the man spoke again, sounding closer, as if he were standing over me.

  “What am I to do with her, Fernando? American captives do not make good slaves. They are too hard to break—too willful and entitled.”

  “Men will pay good money to have her fight against them.”

  “Stupid boy.” His father’s tone was scary calm. “Most men do not share your particular tastes. My patrons seek submissive women who enjoy sex, not women who scream and cry in terror when they’re fucked!”

  Slaves? His patrons? Oh, my God. These guys were into sketchier shit than I first feared.

  “I said I’m sorry!” Fernando sounded out of patience. “I’ll kill her and throw her overboard if you want.”

  I whimpered involuntarily, and then held my breath.

  “Does she know Spanish?” his father asked in a whisper.

  “No.”

  I realized this was in my favor. They had no idea I could understand every word of their conversation. I jolted when I felt a warm hand move the hair from my face.

  “Are you awake?” the man whispered in English.

  I thought he probably knew I was, so I slowly blinked my eyes open to see the man crouched next to me. He was an older, more distinguished version of Fernando, but he had a black mustache. He smiled at me.

  “Tu sabes Español, nina linda?” Do you know Spanish, pretty girl?

  I didn’t respond, only stared up at him with big, frightened eyes.

  “It’s okay,” he said in accented English. “I will speak your language. Tell me, pretty girl. What is your name?”

  I tried to talk, but my throat was so dry nothing came out but a rasp. The man turne
d his head to Fernando and barked, “Agua!” Fernando left, returning a minute later with a bottle of water. I couldn’t look at Fernando. Just thinking about him made me want to dry heave again.

  The man held the bottle to my lips and I drank three gulps to satisfy him. When he pulled the bottle away I whispered, “Angela.”

  Something about his self-controlled kindness terrified me. Maybe the fact that he was not the kind of man you could try to bargain with or trick. He seemed too smart and cunning for that.

  “Ah.” He smiled. “The angel. My name is Marco. I am sorry for what Fernando has done to you.”

  He seemed so sincere that I couldn’t hold back a whimpered plea, and then I began to babble in desperation. “Please…please let me go. I swear I won’t tell anyone. I swear. I’ll say I wandered off and passed out or something. I just want to go home.”

  He sighed. “I am afraid that is not possible, Angel. Are you hungry?”

  I was, but I didn’t think I could actually eat, so I shook my head as tears began to fall and panic set in. “Please, let me go home. Please.”

  “I know this is difficult, but it does not have to be bad. You must come to terms, pretty girl, with the knowledge that your life will never be the same. You will never return home. You belong to me now, and I will treat you well. But if I cannot trust you, I will have to dispose of you. Do you understand?”

  Oh, God. I felt edgy, panicky, because I understood perfectly. He’d kill me in a heartbeat. Why was this happening? How could this be my life?

  The tears continued to stream. “Please don’t kill me. I’ll be good. I promise.”

  I made the mistake of looking over at Fernando then. From the bulge in his pants I could see he was enjoying my crying, begging, tied-up scenario. Marco noticed, too.

  “Fuera de aqui!” Marco shouted.

  Fernando scowled at me and stomped out, slamming the door.

  Marco shook his head and began untying my arms. Hope sprouted in my chest, until he pulled out a pair of handcuffs and handcuffed one of my wrists to the headboard.

  “Please.” It came out as a sob, desperation flooding me. “I’ll do anything. Please let me go.”

  He grasped my chin, making me to look into his dark, hard eyes. He spoke more forcefully than he had before. “I told you. That is not an option. You would do well to make the best of this situation.”

  “What do you want me to do?” I couldn’t keep from whining.

  “I want you to relax, and learn to trust me. And stop crying.” He reached down and wiped both my cheeks dry. “I will require your complete obedience at all times, or you will be punished. You will refer to me as Sir, and when the time is right you will refer to me as Master. Do you understand?”

  Master? Appalled, I nodded.

  “Answer me with words.”

  “I understand…Sir,” I rasped.

  “Good girl. I have things to take care of. Try to rest. I will have Perla bring you food soon.”

  He left and I heard the door click when it locked from the outside.

  I scrambled up to my knees, as high as I could to see out the window, but I couldn’t reach it.

  Water. We were definitely out at sea. Fuck! Where were we going? Cuba? I started breathing hard. Okay. Time for a plan. When we stopped, I would cause a scene and get rescued. It could be my only chance. Who knew where we’d end up next?

  The headboard was sturdy, but I gave it a hard yank and shake anyway. I pulled, grunting as I tried to squeeze my hand through the cuff. My wrists were thin, so he’d closed it as tight as it would go. My fingers started turning purple from the effort and I pushed my hand back down, panting and crying with frustration.

  I was dealing with rich, foreign, hardened criminals here. Powerful people. I didn’t think Marco wanted to hurt me, but his earlier talk about slaves, fucking, and patrons made it all too clear. I’d seen a special on television about sex slavery. I’d felt sad and horrified for those victims, but also distanced from them. Those girls and boys had mostly been from Europe, Asia, or South America—people who were sold or stolen out of already rough life scenarios that I couldn’t fully relate to except in compassion. It was terrible and wrong, but so far from my life.

  This was not happening to me.

  I couldn’t understand. I was a good girl. Mostly. Not perfect, but I worked hard at everything I did, and I looked forward to my future. We weren’t filthy rich by our nation’s standards, but my family did well. This was not how my life was going to end up. There was just no way. My parents would find me. They were probably on their way to Mexico right now, ready to raise hell, just like Marco said. They knew people in high places. They were resourceful. This boat could be tracked and they’d meet us in Cuba and save me!

  My parents. My stomach clenched and I trembled. They would find out I’d lied. Oh, no. I was so sorry. So ashamed. They didn’t deserved to be lied to, and then to have their worst fears come true—the very reason they’d refused to let me go to Cancun in the first place. Why hadn’t I listened? Why did I give in to my friends, and why had I been willing to sneak off with a guy I didn’t know?

  People were right about Karma—she was a bitch, because only a bitch would be this cruel. My punishment far outweighed my crime. So much so, that I could barely wrap my mind around it. This couldn’t be my reality. I was meant to be on a plane flying home right now!

  Sobbing cries racked my body at the thought of the pain and disappointment and terror my mom and dad were probably feeling. And what about my friends? Were they feeling guilty, like it was their fault for leaving me with Fernando? Had they panicked and searched for me? I didn’t want them to feel bad. I wanted to tell them it wasn’t their fault. We’d all been fooled.

  The door opened, and I screamed. The young, Latina woman standing in the doorway with a tray jumped slightly, and her dark brown eyes widened. She came in and set the tray on the nightstand next to me. She wore spike heels and a minuscule strapless black dress with her black hair down around her. And a small black, leather collar.

  “I am Perla. You are Angel?” she asked. She said it like Marco did: Ahn-hel. It was pretty, but it wasn’t my name.

  “Angela.”

  “Ah…” She seemed to be searching for the words in English. “Forgive me. If Master say you Angel, I call you Angel. Sí?”

  Master. She really called him that.

  “Are you, like, an employee of his?” I asked.

  She seemed to toy with the word “employee” in her mind before answering, “No. I am his slave. Same as you. But he treat you well, y you be polite, y you work hard.”

  My heart rate tripled when she called me a slave. I needed her to confirm or deny my worst suspicions, even though the thought of her answer terrified me to the core.

  “What do you have to do as his slave? Just…clean and cook and stuff?”

  She seemed too calm and wise as she regarded me.

  “I do whatever he say.”

  “Like what, though?” I pushed. I needed to hear it.

  “I pleasing to him. I pleasing to his patrons. I sometimes help to clean, but no much.”

  My heart had not slowed. “How do you please him? And his patrons?”

  “In many way. Men have many need. You will learn.” She smiled, as if to encourage me.

  No. Please, no. I stared at her, appalled. Her calm expression melted into one of pity.

  “I feed you now.” She lifted the silver lid off the plate, revealing eggs and chorizo sausage with bread. It looked good, and I cursed my stomach for wanting to be fed at a time like this.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You need food.” She took a forkful and raised it toward me, but I slunk back on the bed and shook my head.

  I couldn’t imagine being fed like this. Like a baby or an invalid. “Please. Can’t you unlock these so I can just feed myself? It’s not like I can go anywhere.”

  “No, Angel. Only I feed you.”

  I wasn’t allowed to
hold a fork? I shook my head again and whispered, “I don’t want any.”

  She gave me the sad expression again.

  Perla took a piece of bread and placed it in my free hand. I took it, because she was offering me the civility of feeding my own self. Then she left me, locking the door again.

  I couldn’t look at the bread in my hand. All I could do was cry big, ugly, wailing tears as my life capsized, forcing me into unknown waters where sharks and other nefarious creatures were surely waiting to eat me alive.

  Colin Douglas was no longer recognizable as the rich youth he’d once been. Gone were his posh wardrobe and stylish hair. He kept his head shaved and a touch of scruff on his face. His clothing was dark and durable, and underneath them were scars from fights and tattoos. Colin’s Scottish accent had been tamped down by time spent traveling other parts of the UK, primarily London. His steely gray-blue eyes gave away nothing about his past.

  As soon as he’d been brought to live with foster parents in the city of Glasgow, he’d begun the double life once again. He eventually became a university student, studying art, while in his free time he made his company with the less savory undercurrent of the city.

  He’d long since lost hope that authorities would find Graham. He knew the task would fall on his own shoulders, and he took up the responsibility with quiet zeal. In his years without money he’d earned respect the old way—inciting fear. In order to infiltrate the crime world, he’d had to become a criminal.

  Colin’s paintings began to garner attention with their passion and edge. As he sold them in his early twenties, making a name for himself among elite artistic circles, he used the funds to quell his taste for high-end drugs. Women of all classes flocked to him, sensing the dangerous undertones in his unsmiling eyes—the man whose hands could bring a canvas to life, taking one’s breath away with a perfectly placed streak of color. And he was happy to show them what else his hands could do.

  Colin worked out his extra aggression in the weight room. His physique was lean, not allowing him to put on massive amounts of muscle; however, the muscle he did have was well-defined and allowed him to move quickly in a fight.