by AJ Adams
"Get a real job. You can waitress for Colin."
By the time my green salad arrived, my stomach was churning.
"Persia, are you okay?" Mum's worried tone cut right through Dad's diatribe.
"Yes. Back in a sec." I made it to the loo, thank goodness. But it was a horrible few minutes. Afterwards, looking in the mirror, I winced at the rings under my eyes. I hadn't been able to keep a thing down in days; stress had a nasty habit of going straight to my gut.
My dress, a cheerful egg yolk printed with roses, was meant to give me a glow. In the loo, I looked like a yellow fever victim. It hung a little loose as well. Being with Kowalczyk was the equivalent of a starvation diet.
When I came back out, I heard Dad say, "She's rotten. What's bred in the bone, will come out in the flesh."
Mum and Colin were trying to hush him but I couldn't help overhear. "Mum, I have to go." She tried to keep me from leaving, Colin too, but I'd had enough. "I won't stay where I'm not wanted." Frankly, I bolted.
In the train on my way to the mansion in Chelsea, I knew what was at the bottom of Dad's dislike for me: buyer's remorse. He and Mum adopted me when I was nine, because they couldn't have more kids.
"I won't say if it was me or him," Mum had explained, "but we wanted a sister for Colin. And the second we saw you, we loved you."
It had gone straight to my heart because my earliest memory was of birth mum dumping me at a church and walking away. She was a junkie, poor woman, but I didn't understand she was sick. I just felt the rejection. When you're seven, you don't really understand what's going on.
I was in and out of foster homes for two years. Then, when birth mum overdosed, I was placed for adoption. I was desperate for a real home and family, so being taken in was a dream come true. But it wasn't easy. I'd missed a lot of school and I'd grown up with some rough people. I swore, stole and got into fights where I battled tooth and nail – all attitudes which appalled my rather conservative new family.
For the first couple of years, I was in constant trouble. Even though I did my best, I saw the inside of the police station more often than a classroom. Mum was sweet, she treated me like her own child, and Colin insisted I was his real sister, but Dad saw me as ungrateful. Also, he was old-fashioned, and there were times he took his belt to me. Not maliciously, but in the 'spare the rod' kind of way.
Whether it was Mum's love or Dad's belt I'll never know but eventually I got the hang of being respectable. By the time I moved to secondary school, I was still a disaster, but I went to class and stopped getting into fights.
Then I met Rick Stevens. As I was 13, and he was 16, I was dead proud when he invited me to a barbecue party. He got me drunk and had me. I'm not saying it was rape because I was up for it. But it freaking hurt because he was rough. Then, to make it worse, he passed me around his mates. That was rape, all right.
By the end of the barbecue, I was a mess. I remember being bundled into a car, and then there was a house, and more men. I tried to get away, but they caught me. It ended in a pass-the-parcel gang rape and a punishment beating.
They chained me up in a cellar and sold me to any pervert who came knocking – and there were dozens of them a day. I never speak of it but it comes back to me in dreams.
I might have disappeared forever, but by a lucky chance, there was a police raid. I crawled out of that dark hell and found myself in Edinburgh, 400 miles from home, and by that time, almost six weeks had passed.
The experience changed me forever. I'd been a wild child, mouthy and with lots of attitude but essentially just a kid. I came out of that cellar a million years old and as tough as nails. I couldn't be scared or humiliated; not by beatings, threats or the vilest humiliations. You might say I'm coated in Teflon because no matter what you throw at me, it will just run off.
The police put me in hospital, and thankfully, the doctors were able to fix me up. There are some little scars here and there, from canes and straps that the kinks liked to use, but a little makeup takes care of them.
In the films, they investigate, there's a big showdown and the bad guys are put away forever. In my case, the response was lukewarm. The blokes who'd run the cellar got bail and disappeared while I was still in hospital. I never even knew their names.
The police did talk to me but as I had gone willingly to the barbeque and the sex with Rick had been consensual, they said there was no point in charging him. As for the gangbang, Rick said he'd wandered off after because he was drunk and his mates swore they'd never put a finger on me. They put the boot in by claiming I'd gone off with the bikers of my own free will.
As they were from good homes and I was on first-name terms with every copper in the district, the prosecution decided not to pursue the case. I never pushed it because it saved me from being mauled in court. All I wanted to do was go home.
I did go home, but it wasn't happily forever after. Mum nursed me until I healed and never said a word but Dad just couldn't look at me. As there was no prosecution, he believed I'd gone off with Rick and his mates knowing it would be a gangbang. And with his old-fashioned attitude, he put down everything that followed as my asking for it.
Dad's rejection crushed me. I'd survived that cellar but knowing he and everyone else took me for a slut almost killed me.
I might have committed suicide, but pride kept me from topping myself. I worked on getting healthy and kept my nose in my schoolbooks – not that I was any good at it. But at least my failing grades were achieved with effort and dedication.
I was on course for a minimum wage career but thankfully I was talent-spotted by Paula, my agent. Modelling gave me a new direction. I worked hard, determined to make money and be independent. I did what it took and when that included doing scumbag photographers who demanded sex, I discovered being trafficked had taught me to switch off. Talk about a silver lining, right?
I scored my first Elle cover shoot when I was eighteen. The day it came out, I learned that Rick had taken a video. He put it on Twitter, tagging me by name. It was just a few seconds long but because it showed me on the ground and a bunch of blokes, the takeaway was that Persia did bikers; by the dozen. After that went viral, the entire world called me a whore.
I was too ashamed to share the truth but telling the press to go fuck themselves earned me a rep – and saved my career. As I refused to say anything, and they seal juvenile records, my secret stayed buried.
Even happier, the notoriety helped secure some juicy contracts that had me wearing leather and lace as the iconic bad girl. The boost meant I didn't have to put out for contracts anymore, which was another plus. Finally, as photographers can be knicker dropping handsome, I began picking my partners and learned to enjoy myself in bed. Pretty good, huh?
Making out like a bandit was great but lingerie modelling is a time-limited career. When I put away enough cash to study, I signed up for a designer course. It was heaven, and I was enjoying my life, until Colin being duped into taking a loan from Kowalczyk brought it crashing down. In one fell swoop I went from being on top to fucked.
So there I was, pissed off with myself, my brother, and my family, while knowing I was in for more nastiness. The bus was full and as hashing over the past was depressing, I got out my phone. It didn't take me long to find Kowalczyk had been busy.
"Bugger, bugger, bugger." There were more Tweets, all wittering on about 'my darling Jacek' and how clever, rich and successful he was. To my horror, there was also a whole raft of posts slagging the Zeta. Starting off with describing him as, 'that dickless wonder, Jorge Santos' impersonator me had gone on to make last men on earth jokes, complete with memes.
Thanks to my iconic bad girl status, the online mob had justifiably pounced. Calling me out as a hypocrite, they had a glorious time muckraking. They listed stories of me getting drunk, of spats with the media, and that time I'd tried coke. And, no surprise, they'd dragged up a copy of Rick's sex tape too.
I tried to delete it all and found Kowalczyk had changed m
y password. "Hell!"
"That's definitely her. Gangbang Persia." A bloke sitting opposite was muttering into his phone. "She doesn't look half as good as in her photos."
Great. I absolutely didn't need to hear how ugly I was. Kowalczyk did enough of that. Thankfully, my stop came up. I got off, prepared to march the last mile back to the mansion, but as I walked, my feet began to drag. Part of it was exhaustion but mostly it was because I didn't want to face Kowalczyk again.
On cue, my phone rang. I'd answered before realising it was the dirty pig himself. "Where the fuck are you?"
"I went to see my mum."
"Get your arse back here – NOW!"
I was fed up. "Oh, go suck your Russian boyfriend's cock!"
Cutting off his hiss of outrage, I stood on the corner, taking in the mansion's gilded gates and wishing I could vanish. The bugger would make me pay for my defiance, there was no doubt about it. My heart sank and I felt sick again. But the knowledge it would destroy my family meant I couldn't walk.
"Fuck it. He won't kill me." I stuck out my chin, pushed back my shoulders, and started down the street.
The Lexus came from nowhere. It missed me by an inch, the shining metal so close, that I could smell the polish. I stood there, gasping with fright, when the door opened. "What the hell?" A hand reached out and grabbed my wrist. "Hey!" A tug had me tumbling into the car and as I drew breath, a red-hot stabbing pain in my neck turned my scream into a gasp of pain.
"Cállate!"
I slid over rock hard thighs and across the rich leather of the passenger seat before tumbling down under the dashboard. "Hell!" I put my hands down, thinking to scramble back up, but darkness welled. "What the -"
I passed out.
When I came to, everything hurt. Opening my eyes, the room swam and swirled. Had I been drunk? If so, I didn't feel sick, just weird and shaky.
I was flat on my back in bed. The blur cleared, revealing a wood trim ceiling.
I was not at home. Not Kowalczyk's, either.
A bedside cabinet, piled with books. Strategies of War. Hearts and Minds; Guide To Winning Tactics. The Battlefield of Business. No, definitely not Kowalczyk's. His idea of reading was browsing press photos of himself with the rich and famous.
Trying to release my hands, I found I was stuck. A metallic rattle gave the game away: handcuffs. Fancy leather ones with a foot-long chain. Moving my feet produced another rattle: more cuffs securing my ankles to a footboard. Shades of that dark cellar came pounding back from the past. Heart thumping, breath trapped tight in my chest, I lifted my head.
I was not alone. Jorge Santos, leader of the Zetas, sat in a chair by the bed. He was working on a gun, turning it carefully in his hands as he sandpapered the grip.
I swallowed and shut my eyes, hoping devoutly this was a bad dream. It wasn't.
"I wondered when you'd come to," he said. "Or if."
He was calm, just like he'd been at the mansion, but the violence in his eyes was palpable. And it was blasting right in my direction. Oh, fuck, no.
This couldn't be real. People didn't get kidnapped in broad daylight in London. Except, I had been. I tugged at the cuffs again. The hard metal bit into my wrists and ankles.
"You can scream if you like." Jorge Santos looked so normal. He was wearing another exquisitely cut suit, steel grey this time, paired with a pale pink couture shirt. On another man it might look girly, but with his dark good looks, it was devastating. "My apartment's soundproof."
Gorgeous but serial killer crazy. I tugged at the bonds again. It was no good; I was pinned down. The room swam. "Look, you made a mistake."
He didn't even bother to answer.
"Jorge, that's your name, right? I get you're pissed off with Kowalczyk but it's nothing to do with me. Let me go, and we'll forget about it."
I might as well have talked to the wall.
He put down the sandpaper, pulled on leather gloves and gave the gun a polish with his handkerchief. Then he opened a box of bullets and, after polishing each one, loaded it. "We can make fingerprint files disappear," he informed me casually, "but I prefer prevention to cure."
I stared at the barrel, my eyes widening. Was he going to shoot me?
"When we met," he said softly, "you let me know you were too good for me."
No-no-no. I wanted to speak, but a sudden upsurge of fear silenced me.
"Since then, you've been mouthing off." His eyes were black with hate. "I saw your tweets."
"That wasn't me! Kowalczyk posted those."
"Right," he replied sarcastically.
"It's true!"
"Eeeeew, no thanks," he mimicked. "Was that Kowalczyk too?"
The Zeta sighted down the barrel. The evil darkness of it mesmerised me. Would I see the bullet that killed me?
"You look like an angel and you act like a little fresa, too good for the likes of me, but it's a show, isn't it?" He looked me over, contempt in every inch of him. "Tell me, does Kowalczyk pay you by the hour?"
Hot shame flooded through me. "Fuck you!"
"Funny you should say that." That soft voice, laced with menace, was a punch in the gut. "I saw the video."
My past, coming back to haunt me again. This would get really ugly.
"When we met, I swore to teach you a lesson." He stood up and put the gun on a bedside cabinet. The suit jacket came off and was hung carefully on the back of the chair. Why had I thought of him as perfectly normal? Even under the pink cotton, it was easy to see the man had the muscles of an Olympic athlete. "A long, very painful lesson."
"No, wait!"
He rummaged in a drawer. "But first, let me help you undress." As he straightened, the light bounced off six inches of steel.
The blade had me babbling in complete panic. "No! Don't! You don't understand!"
"Oh, I think I do."
The cold slick metal slid between my knees and under the hem of my happy yellow dress. I sucked in a breath, trying to sink through the mattress beneath me. I was too scared to cry. As if in a horror film, the knife travelled up. A light ripping as the tip of steel tore through the cotton as easily as a shark through water.
"How dull." He was taking in my undies: plain white cotton. "I was hoping for some exciting lace."
"Stop! Please!"
The evil satisfaction flowed darkly. "Stop? But I'm enjoying myself!" The knife moved between my breasts and under the strap of my bra. At my gasp, he chuckled. The lightest touch of the blade and the material fell aside.
He'd unwrapped me as easily as if I were a parcel. But if humiliation was his game, I would disappoint him.
Those days in the cellar were long gone but Kowalczyk had tortured me daily, treating me like a whore, hurting me, using me, and laughing while he did it. The Teflon was thick and working its protective magic. If this goddamn Mexican arsehole thought he'd get to me, he had another thing coming. I wasn't taking it anymore.
Anger was flooding out the fear. Taking a deep breath and willing my heart to stop trying to beat its way through my ribs, I posed as if on a catwalk and gave him my best sneer. "Like what you see?"
"Absolutely." His hand, warm and with roughened fingers, ran over my skin. I couldn't stop the tide of goose bumps. He tweaked my nipples playfully. "It's just what I love."
"I'm pretty." Full sarcastic bitch-mode was giving me courage. "Can't say the same for you."
"You've told me that before, remember?" He stood up and unfastened his belt. "I saw those last man on earth memes."
Shit. I was really in trouble. This was going to be nasty. My bravery was on its way out again.
He was smiling as he tugged the thick black leather free from the loops. "Payback time."
I knew what was coming. "Don't you fucking dare!"
A hand underneath my shoulders flipped me onto my side. Another powerful push and I was face down. The twisted cuff chains at wrist and ankle stretched me out. A pillow shoved under my hips pushed my arse up. "I like a nice target."
; "You bastard! Let me go!"
He stepped back, black glittering eyes measuring the distance as he raised the belt. "I don't think so."
The leather whistled through the air, landing dead centre. For a split second, I didn't feel a thing. Then, searing pain. Too much of it to handle. I dropped my face into the mattress and bit the sheet, determined not to scream.
"Hmm. Not bad." He sounded cheerful. "Let's try that again."
Another whoosh and more fire.
"This is fun."
It wasn't for me. "I'll kill you!"
A third whack, harder than the others, the impact travelling through my body until it rattled the cuffs at both ends. "Yes, I think I've got it now."
"I swear, I will cut off your cock and feed it to you!"
"We'll start with two dozen. One for every tweet." A short, evil pause. "And we'll take it from the top."
Another whoosh.
"One."
A long pause to give me false hope he'd stop.
"Two."
The belt rose and fell, landing smack on target every time. The fire spread from my arse, setting my body aflame.
By the fifth, I lost my breath and could only keep silent. By the eighth, I had bitten through the bedsheet. By the tenth, a moan ripped from me.
"Did you say something, fresa?" A hand in my hair, pulling up my head. I couldn't see him through the blur of tears. "No? Then we'll continue."
Another whoosh. "Oh-God."
"Yes, that sounds better. And we're not even halfway through!"
"Screw you!"
"Here comes another."
I'd like to tell you I didn't cry but I'd be lying. In between the gasping and cursing, I shrieked and wailed. It didn't help me. I lost track around the fourteenth stroke, I think. And when he was finally done, I was only half aware of being turned onto my back again.
"Did I mention, long, painful and personal?" The rage was still there, blasting through my tears.
Pride got my tongue back. "Screw you, arsehole!" Breaking through the bonds wasn't possible, but I had a go. I let him have it, too. "You're a cowardly, minging fuck!"
"And you had better watch your filthy mouth!"
