Chapter 1
Ayla
Present Day
I stare down at the bruise on my forearm, unable to recollect how it got there. It’s not from clumsiness. It’s not marking my skin because I hit it on something. I can’t recall the exact moment I was hurt because I’m hurt so often, it all starts to meld together.
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.
He rolls his hand in front of him, telling me to hurry up.
“I have to go. There are—”
“Other people waiting to use the phone,” she grumbles. “Talk to you next week.”
The line goes dead, but Pirro checks to make sure when I pass the phone to him, before sliding it back into the front pocket of his jeans.
“It’s time to go to work,” he says, standing at the end of the bed.
There’s no arguing, no telling him I don’t feel well.
It wouldn’t exactly be a lie. I haven’t felt well a single day since I arrived, and that sickness just grew when my expectations were laid out.
I fought against them, uncaring about what happened to me.
There was no way I’d ever do the things they wanted, but then Raul Cortez, the man who owns this place, sat across from me and wordlessly handed me a photo.
I sobbed, running my fingers over Alani’s smiling face. I knew what they wanted, and without him saying a word, I knew what the consequences would be if I didn’t give them what they wanted.
I stand from the bed, waiting for Pirro to get his fill of my naked body, unsure if I’ll be handed a robe today or not. The only consistent thing around here, other than the weekly phone call to Alani, is the inconsistency.
“This morning is easy,” Pirro says as he follows closely behind me as I walk into the hallway.
I step aside as one of the other guys struggles with a woman fighting against him, as he all but drags her down the hallway.
I remember being her. I remember spitting in their faces and telling them I’d slit their throats given a half-second chance to do so.
It’s very possible she has no one to threaten, no one that losing would make her wish she was dead.
Some days I wish that were the case for me, but they’ve effectively used Alani to keep me in line.
I know I have a breaking point, that one day they’ll ask too much of me, but they haven’t found it yet.
I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my sister, to keep her in the dark about where I’ve been the last four months.
She thinks I took a job with a humanitarian organization that offers medical care.
She thinks I’m in Peru, in a small town on the western coast of South America, where I have to travel over an hour to a small village to use a pay phone to speak with her.
It keeps her from calling the number back that shows up on her cell phone.
There will come a time when she either gives up on me altogether or she asks too many questions. I know Raul and Pirro will eventually stop the calls, but right now, they’re a very effective threat, a reminder of what I’m trading my compliance for.
I swallow down the threat of bile in my throat as I open the door.
The man on the bed is smiling, his hand already working up and down his erection.
“Don’t shower when you’re done,” Pirro says. “The next one wants it sloppy.”
I give the best fake smile I can manage as I walk into the room and close the door behind me, when all I want to do is take the lamp from the bedside table and smash it into his head.