Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
I lift my eyes, wondering what made the noise that drew me out of my head, but no one passes in front of the doorway to my room. I’ve never seen a door hung on the hinges that remain.
Most would think that leaving would be easy, that attempting an escape would be too hard to resist with not being trapped inside, but my shackles don’t come in the form of iron around my wrists. They have something much stronger that keeps me here, that keeps me compliant, that makes me do the things they demand of me without argument.
I fought them at first, of course I did, but these men don’t deal with threats of death, at least not threats to me.
My face is emotionless as a shadow darkens the door. I learned that showing fear is exactly what most of the men here want. They like us scared. They want us to beg them for our freedom. Not giving them exactly what they want the second they arrive is the only way I fight them now, unless fighting them is what they demand, when really they want compliance. It took me a long time to figure it out, but once I did, the bruises, like the one on my forearm, were less frequent.
“There’s my pretty blue-eyed girl,” Pirro says as he enters, his accent thick with his Hispanic heritage.
I hate the sight of him, but I love these days. I’m damn near salivating at the bulge in his jeans. I know what it means, but there’s always the off chance that he’ll refuse me, that he’ll make me beg, make me feel absolutely worthless before giving me what I want.
“Good morning,” I tell him, unsure of which man I’m going to get today.
I’m a nurse, so I deal in treatment, not diagnosis, but I’d put money on the fact that Pirro is a true psychopath. His moods change more than any person I’ve ever met before.
There’s a tremble in my hands that I bury in the sheet around my waist as he strokes over the bulge in his jeans, his chuckle telling me that even after four months, I’m no more capable of hiding my excitement than I was the first time he walked in here and explained what he had for me.
Someone screams down the hall, and his grin falters, replaced with frustration. It tells me that he’s not very happy with whatever he’ll have to deal with, but I can only hope he gives me what I want before transitioning his focus to other matters.
Another scream, one that’s cutoff in a way that makes me want to cry, echoes into the room.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, reaching into his pocket. He tosses my weekly desire on the bed in front of me, but I learned my lesson about reaching for it.
Nothing happens around here until permission is given. I lost my privilege the first time because I was too eager.
“Go ahead, you stupid bitch. I don’t have all fucking day.”
“Thank you,” I tell him as I reach for the prepaid phone.
There’s only one number on this phone, and it’s labeled DON’T FORGET. It brought tears to my eyes the first time I selected it. It was the final reminder to play my part and keep my mouth closed. It’s as effective as it would be if it was named correctly.
“You would not believe who I saw in town yesterday,” Alani says, her voice jovial and full of excitement.
“Who?” I ask, my voice now calm and collected. It’s what’s required if I want to keep the privilege of speaking with her once a week.
“Derek Kaye, the bass guitarist from Beyond the Lies.”
“He’s a little far from California, isn’t he?”
I look up, locking eyes with Pirro as I speak with Alani. He listens to every second of my calls, waiting for me to attempt to alert her to my whereabouts as if I have any clue other than somewhere in Mexico.
“They played at a venue in Austin this weekend.”
“Did you get to see them?”
“I had to work.”
“I told you about—”
“I know,” she says, her mood shifting a little. “I don’t have to work, but then again, I really do, don’t I? I’m bored here, and with you away, I need something to do with my time.”
I frown, wishing I was there, wishing she were safe.
“I needed this for myself,” I lie.
“And Christmas?”
Silence fills the line.
“I figured it was going to be just like Thanksgiving. I’ve already asked Blakely if I can go to her house.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, clearing my throat because crying will make this call end faster.
“It’s fine,” she mutters, but I know it’s not.
She’s feeling discarded, but it’s better than the alternative.
“What am I supposed to do for summer break?”
“I’m working on it,” I tell her, my eyes once again looking up at Pirro.