Chapter 9
Ayla
As much as I’d like to ignore the shadows that periodically pass in front of my door, I’ve been trained to look up, to meet the eyes of whoever it might be.
I’ve learned what’s expected with each one of the men.
I know who to act afraid of, who to look excited for.
I even know when to channel a combination of both when it’s Pirro standing there.
He’s been distracted lately, keeping his playtime in other areas of the house.
As thankful as I am for it, I know what it means for others.
Today, I don’t feel as guilty for the reprieve.
I know that’s a terrible thing, that I’m on some level of okay with someone else getting hurt because it means I’m saved from the pain if only for a little while.
I barely catch the back of the man walking by, too distracted and lost in my own thoughts to react as quickly as I should. Thankfully, the guy doesn’t turn back around in an attempt to remind me exactly who I am and what’s expected of me.
For the millionth time since being brought here, I map the lines on the palm of my hand, thinking of how fucked up it is that I’m bored.
I don’t for a second wish to be entertained or busy because of what that means in a place like this, but it isn’t often that I’m left with time of my own that isn’t spent sleeping.
It’s not that I couldn’t fall asleep right now. I think I could sleep standing up most days, but we aren’t allowed to during what Cortez considers business hours, which are from noon to six in the morning. If we have a client that goes past that time, then we just lose those hours of sleep.
I nod at a man they call Rune as he passes.
The man has never hurt me. He’s never forced me to do anything with him, but I know better than to make the assumption that he isn’t capable of it.
I find it insanely unlikely that someone can work here, witnessing what others do, and not be just as demented.
If they had a problem, they’d speak up or find a different type of job.
I breathe a sigh of relief when he simply nods before moving further down the hallway.
The next shadow takes my breath away. It isn’t often that Raul Cortez makes his way down to this end of the house. I know when the man is present on the property with the way Pirro acts, because he’s insanely more violent and terrorizing when the man is gone.
Without a word, he enters my room, holding out the burner phone to me.
Slowly, I reach for it, knowing he has all the power and can jerk it out of my grasp anytime he’d like.
It’s warm in my hand, making me think someone else was using it but DON’T FORGET is the only contact listed like normal.
I lift the phone, holding it to my ear as I count the rings.
My heart pounds as each ring goes unanswered.
Alani is like any typical youngest child.
She’s the baby, the one that expects to be catered to, and it wouldn’t surprise me after hanging up on me last week, that she’s using this week to punish me.
When the call switches to voicemail, I do my best not to cry but I can feel the tremble in my chin.
“Hey, Alani. It’s me,” I say, avoiding eye contact with Raul. “Just checking in. Guess I’ll try again next week.”
A sinking fear settles inside of me as I end the call and hand the phone over. There was only one other time she didn’t answer my call, and it left me terrified for an entire week that she’d been taken. I can’t even describe the relief I felt when she picked up the following week.
Before Raul takes it, DON’T FORGET pops up on the screen, the thing vibrating in my hand. I know better than to answer it, and Raul simply silences it before putting it back into his pocket.
He’s never been an intentionally cruel man, considering what he does for a living, but it also doesn’t mean the man doesn’t take what he wants.
He’s what I’d consider a vanilla fuck, but he’s too busy really to waste time giving into any sort of fetish or fantasy.
It’s a lot of work, I imagine, counting all the millions I have no doubt he’s making by abducting people and selling them into sexual slavery.
“I wanted to commend you for such a good job yesterday. The customer was incredibly happy.”
Translation—he made a lot of money from the scene I performed with that man.
I want nothing more than to look away from him, but I know better. He’d see it as disrespectful, and although he doesn’t go out of his way to hurt people, he doesn’t avoid reminding us of his expectations.
“I’d say I’m surprised how much people talk about their depraved participation, but he must be chatting to like-minded others. The books are filling up with very similar requests. It’s like a brand-new market for male victims and female assailants.”
His words make my skin crawl. Before being abducted, I always knew there were sickos in the world.
Hell, anyone who has a television can’t escape the horrific stories on the news and the documentaries.
But coming face-to-face with it on a daily basis, really opened my eyes up to just how many people like that exist. Hell, Raul has built his business on perverts.
He seems to be doing extremely well for himself, but that would be expected, considering his limited overhead since we’ve all been fucking abducted.
“I don’t think the demand will ever overtake the need for women to be hurt, but the change of pace is a breath of fresh air.”
His eyes skate over my body, and as much as I want to cover my exposed skin, I fight the urge.
“We have another special order scheduled for later this week.”
I barely stop myself from scrunching my nose in disgust.
“The same customer wants to see the opposite, with you tied to the bed.” He looks down at his fingernails as if he’s bored with revealing that I’ll once again be assaulted, like he’d tell someone he had a package delivered to an alternate address.
“Do you still have any fight left in you?” he asks, his eyes lifting to look directly into mine.
It isn’t a taunt or a tease. The man is well aware of what he’s created.
He knows I’m going to do what’s expected of me, but he also has to consider how it will look for the customer.
Pretending to fight and really fighting are two very different things, and there aren’t many people who like playing with a broken toy.
“This client is very prestigious in certain circles,” he continues before I can answer. “If the performance is just right, then it’s very good news for me.”
He didn’t have to make the threat of the opposite if it isn’t up to expectations.
I already know how bad he can make my life, and I feel queasy, knowing that as bad as things are for me, there are people here who have it much worse.
I hate being grateful for what little crumbs of civility they offer me, and more so, I hate the way I fucking eat them up, ready to ask for more if that’s what they want of me.
Good news for him means more money, more clients, more people whispering about how incredible he is. I swear the man would suck his own dick as a reward if he was capable.
Having a good performance, and getting more clients, also means more men and women will be hurt. They’ll need to increase production, and none of it will be done with consent.
I want to ask which of his men will play the male role, but I know better.
I wish I could request anyone but Pirro because he’s the most volatile.
He’s the one most likely to leave the worst injuries behind when he’s done.
Raul would see it as questioning his authority, something he never hesitates to affirm.
“I’ll fight,” I assure him, giving him a weak smile if anything to keep from crying.
Refusing, or telling him I don’t have the energy any longer to give him what he wants, isn’t an option, and I don’t do it to save someone else the pain. I can only look out for myself, and hope my efforts protect Alani.
I can only hope the guy who is cast as my attacker will simply fuck me, maybe slap me in the face a time or two, rather than cutting me or biting away pieces of my flesh. The long-healed wound on my shoulder itches with the thought.
“I knew you still had it in you,” he says, in a way that would be almost fatherly if it weren’t for the context of our conversation.
Before he can walk away, the phone in his pocket begins to vibrate. My heart rate doubles because I know it has to be Alani calling back, again. I plead with the man, hoping the look in my eyes is enough to give me what I want.
He lifts his head only an inch, but I fully understand what he’s trying to convey. He holds every ounce of power. This entire organization is his to command, and that includes me.
He pulls the phone from his pocket, showing me that DON’T FORGET is lighting up the screen. For a split second, I consider how cruel the man could be, but instead of silencing it and shoving it back into his pocket, he hands it over.
I reach for it, my heart breaking when he connects the call and places it to his ear, issuing a greeting in Spanish as he answers it.
Knowing my sister hears his voice makes my skin crawl. It feels like a violation, despite the hundreds of miles that separate the two of them.
He nods as he listens to her, a smile I want to scratch from his face pulling up the corners of his mouth as he speaks in broken English, as if the man isn’t as fluent in the language as I am.
There’s a glimmer of pride in his voice when he pulls the phone from his face and hands it back in my direction. He can see the fear in my eyes, and I know instantly it’s what he was searching for.
I don’t even have to pretend I’m breathless when I press the phone to my ear.
“Alani?”
“Is that man your boyfriend? Is he what’s keeping you away for so long?”
I want to break down and cry, wondering how many confessions I could get out before he rips the phone from my hand.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“So you just happen to be standing right beside him when he answers the pay phone?”
She hasn’t questioned me much over the last couple of months.
I owe that to always having been honest with her before my abduction, even when it meant hurting her feelings or telling her something she would never want to hear.
Like the night our parents died, and I had to pick her up from a friend’s house with the bad news that our lives were changed forever.
“I was waiting in line. Figured I’d try one more time before going back to camp.”
She makes a sound that says she understands and that she thinks I’m full of shit.
I pray she settles on believing the lie. The last thing I need her doing is asking questions I can’t answer or, worse yet, trying to figure out exactly where I am.
“I’m still mad at you,” she says. “I only called back because I need to know about Christmas.”
My throat clogs, something that I’ve done pretty good at controlling on each of our calls. But knowing I’m going to miss seeing her for the holiday hits me differently than all the other things I’ve missed since I’ve been here. Inside, I swim with guilt as if this is something I can control.
“I’m not going to make it,” I whisper, hating that Raul is standing so close and witnessing my pain. It makes it harder to hide.
I clear my throat even as she sniffles.
“I knew going to college would be hard, but I always figured I had a home to go back to.”
I want to remind her that we had to sell our childhood home so I could afford to send her to college.
The one-bedroom apartment in Plano wasn’t home, despite my efforts to make it as warm and welcoming as possible.
It still left me sleeping on the couch, because as a teen girl, she needed more privacy than I did as a nurse with wild and crazy hours.
I never even got the chance to sleep in the bedroom rather than on the couch because I was taken from her college dorm parking lot.
I meet Raul’s eyes, wishing things were different, but I know he just wouldn’t release me if he could hear the pain in my sister’s voice. The suffering of others doesn’t register to this man. If they did, he wouldn’t be as rich and as successful as he is.
“How was your English test?” I ask, changing the subject.
I’ve lied to her so much that I’m not going to keep doing it when I can help it. I can’t promise her that she’ll have a home to come to when summer arrives. The only way I’ll ever see my sister again is if Raul or one of his lackeys grabs her from campus and brings her here.
And knowing that, it’s easy for me to wish I never see her again, for both our sakes.