Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
“Do you know who’s in charge?” I ask.
His eyes dart up to mine and they hold for several seconds. “He’s not here. Won’t be for another week, and you should be glad that he isn’t. That motherfucker is the one who did this to me.” Ronaldo’s eyes glisten with pure hatred as he stares at me.
The hatred blinds him, as if the mere thought of the person in charge is enough to kill me over.
I look away. “I’m sorry they did that to you.”
Ronaldo breathes evenly, but he says no more.
I should have listened.
Why in the hell didn’t I listen?!
I squeeze my thighs together and clench my hands into fists, trying desperately hard to focus on something else—anything else but this. It’s utterly useless. The water that is splashing outside isn’t helping. I have no idea which direction it’s coming from, but for the past few hours, I’ve come to know for sure that we are near a beach.
Ronaldo said he saw it one day when they brought him back. He thinks we are in a dungeon that they don’t keep too far from the home of whoever is in charge.
Well, whatever this dungeon is about, I hate that it’s right next to the ocean. I can smell the salty air over the stench of urine.
Someone came to take the cup, just like Ronaldo said. He wasn’t kidding. I’ve noticed they come in here in regular cycles, every two hours to check on their prisoners. It makes me sick to my stomach to think they are okay with actually having us in here and under these circumstances.
“I’m going to call for them. They can’t expect me to just pee on myself. I’m human, for Christ’s sake.”
“And human means what to them?” Ronaldo asks, rolling his eyes. “It means nothing to them. They are sadistic fuckers. You call them in here instead of letting them come themselves and they will first make fun of you, and then make fun with you.” He studies me with hard eyes. “And I don’t think you will like their kind of fun.”
Fear settles in. My heart drops a bit.
“I see how they keep looking at you. They’ll rip your pussy to shreds, little girl. Don’t be stupid.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Do you have to be a jackass about it?”
He shrugs.
I squeeze my thighs again, my foot shaking as if it will help me ignore the urge. I fidget where I sit, staring up at the ceiling. I dig my ragged nails into my palms, hoping it will cause a distraction to my body, but it doesn’t. In fact, I think it enhances the urge.
I can’t do this. I really have to pee.
“I have to go,” I groan. I look at Ronaldo and he points at a corner.
“I’m not peeing in the corner. I can’t even use my hands. I’ll end up peeing all over myself.”
“Then you don’t really have to pee.” His response is smug. I want to smack that smugness right off of him. I’ve known this guy for less than twenty-four hours and he has been nothing but sarcastic to me.
Yes, he has been helpful at times, but he is a complete jackass. It’s no wonder he’s here—or why those men did that to him. He has a smart mouth. I’m sure he doesn’t control anything he says.
I push to a stand, scowling at him. My legs feel weak, and my ankles feel as if they are about to break. My feet move across the rickety, cold wood and when I meet up to the gate, I grab it and look down the hallway.
I peer towards the door they’ve come in and out of. I can hear them laughing. I can smell marijuana and cigar smoke. A TV sounds like it’s on, and the slightest thought of home hits me.
I watched movies with Dad all the time and now look where I am.
Alone. Left for dead.
“Hey!” I shout down the hallway. My scratchy voice echoes off the gray walls. The laughter stops and the volume of the TV lowers.
A chair scrapes the floor and then I hear keys jingling. The door shoots open and I gasp as I step back, listening to one of them come closer and closer.
When he reaches the gates, I nearly have a heart attack. It’s the bald guy who pulled me out of the car—the one with the axe tattoo on his arm. The tattoo is scarred, and I assume that’s courtesy of the stiletto heels of my wedding day shoes.
He sees me and his eyebrows draw together, his jaw locking. “Why the fuck are you standing, bitch?” he asks, his accent strong.
“I have to pee,” I say as confidently as possible.
Axe Man laughs, looking from me to Ronaldo. “Stupid cunt.” He turns away quickly, but I shout after him again.