Chapter 41
Hannah
You’ll tell him I didn’t touch you.
“Boo—”
A soft palm clamps over my mouth. I suppose bar tending isn’t exactly the kind of manual labor that would result in rough hands.
“Shhh. Do not say another fucking word,” he whispers. The smell of stale beer is gone; instead, it’s replaced with a mild cologne. “There’s a guard right outside this door, and that hallway is silent aside from the sounds that leak from these rooms.”
Tears prick the corner of my eyes. I can hardly believe it. I finally get to leave this place. “Did Sarge send you?”
He looks different when he’s outside of the bar scene.
Or when he’s not three sheets to the wind, tripping over his own feet.
His eyes are wide and currently darting to the wall as if avoiding mine.
He doesn’t answer. His hands run down his face, a strained movement that says he’s fighting a war with himself.
“Listen, I need you to play along,” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear.
Then, his voice drops into a cold, harsh snarl that fills the room.
“Get on the bed, bitch. I don’t have all fucking day to play your bullshit games.
” He jerks his chin toward the mattress, his eyes hard and empty. It isn’t a suggestion.
This version of Booker is vastly different from the one I met at the bar. There’s no joking, no flirting; the playfulness in his eyes is gone. There’s just... coldness.
My brows pull together tight in confusion, but I do as I’m told.
My mind is racing, trying to connect anything that makes sense.
Gavin knows Booker. I watched as he slogged him out of the bar—observed as he looked after the man like a brother.
I imagine they go way back, but I can’t wrap my head around why he’s standing here in this house and ordering me around.
“Is Sarge here, too?” I whisper, my voice shaky but hopeful. “Is he waiting outside? How did you get in?”
I want to know so much. I want to hear the words we’re getting you out of here.
“That’s right,” he says in a clear, booming voice, loud enough to carry. “Lay back on the bed and open those pretty lips so I can ruin them.”
What the fuck is going on? Is this some kind of show so the guards think it’s business as usual? Maybe the whole club is here, and Booker is buying them time. Any second, Gavin is going to come through that door and level this place.
Booker slinks over to the bed, crouching down so his head is level with mine.
“Ahhh,” He moans out, his voice loud and theatrical. “You take it so well. You were made for this, you fucking whore.”
He leans in closer, his voice a coarse whisper. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Me? What the fuck is he doing here?
“Oh, you know, on holiday, as they say. Really great scenery this time of year,” I rasp back.
Fully aware this isn’t the time for jokes, but I can’t help myself.
The humor is the only thing keeping me from screaming.
This entire interaction is bizarre—some twisted stage play in the middle of a nightmare.
“What about you? Looking for the mini-bar?”
His eyes lock on mine, and there isn’t a trace of humor in them. Not even a smirk.
“You aren’t supposed to be here,” he says, the whisper barely a ghost of a sound.
“Yeah, well, the lock on the door says I don’t have much choice, now do I?”
He doesn’t blink. “Scream.”
“What?”
“Do it. Now.”
Without a second thought, I let out a short, shrill scream that bounces off the tiled bathroom walls and echoes into the bedroom.
“I’m not gonna ask you twice!” he bellows, his voice cracking with a manufactured rage that makes my skin crawl. He stands up, looming over me to complete the image for anyone spying. Bringing his hands together hard, a slap carries throughout the room. Like he’s hit me.
Just the sound is enough to bring me back to being hit only hours ago.
“Spread those legs and ride my cock!”
He climbs onto the bed where I’m still right where he left me—flat on my back, frozen in a state of pure, paralyzed shock. I can’t tell if he’s crazy or a genius.
I do as I’m told, waiting for the cavalry to arrive. I imagine them right outside the gates. Waiting for the right moment to storm the place.
He doesn’t touch me; he just settles on his knees, his weight shifting the mattress. He begins to rock the bed back and forth with a violent, steady force, making the headboard hit the wall in a rhythmic pattern.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
To anyone in that silent hallway, this would sound like a struggle ending in submission.
“Ahh,” He groans out in mock pleasure as he loudly slaps his hand hard on his thigh this time.
This is really quite the show, and I’ve got front-row seating to the most perplexing performance of my life.
If I weren’t so terrified of the guards on the other side of the door, I might actually be impressed by the choreography.
He keeps the rhythm going. The thud of the headboard, the sting of the slaps, the heavy breathing. All while his eyes remain locked on the bed, wide and too awake. Through his performance, he refuses to look at me.
He leans down, his face inches from mine, the mask of the aggressor still fixed in his eyes even as he whispers, “I need you to listen. I don’t have much time before they expect me to be done.”
Expect him to be... done? The words echo in my head, cruel and empty. The implication of what “done” looks like in a room like this makes my stomach turn.
“I need you to tell me how you got here,” he whispers, his voice low and dangerous.
My eyes go wide, and I sit up, scooting back until my spine hits the headboard. I adjust myself so I’m facing him, the rhythmic thud of the bed finally ceasing right as he lets out another groan.
“Clock’s ticking.” He whispers as he climbs off the bed.
I stare at him, my pulse thrumming in my throat. I am not sure under what circumstances anyone would be here in my situation—locked in a room with dark bruises blooming on my face, a busted lip, and tears between my thighs. He can’t seriously think this is willing. Can he?
“Is this a joke?” I hiss back, my voice trembling with a mix of fury and disbelief. “I was taken, Booker. Dragged out of my life and thrown into this hellhole. What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?”
“Taken, how?”
“I was at work, in the parking lot. They grabbed and brought me here in the middle of the night.” I try to whisper, but the desperation is cracking through.
He is the only familiar face I’ve seen in this nightmare—my only tether to a world where I’m not a prisoner.
“Now, what are you doing here? Where is Sarge!?”
Booker doesn’t answer. Instead, he tilts his head, studying me like a puzzle he can’t yet solve. “Does he know you’re here?”
The air in the room thins, and my head spins. The hope that had been fueling me begins to flicker.
“I... Is he not with you?”
“No, fuck. No... It’s just me.” He paces a few steps, muttering under his breath before letting out a final harsh whispered “fuck”.
“Alright, listen,” he starts, “Nothing happened, okay? You know nothing happened, right? You’ll tell him I didn’t touch you. I came in here and... just tell him the truth. That I never touched you. Got it?”
My eyes narrow at him as I try to figure out what he’s rambling about. Maybe he’s just as much of a mess sober as he is drunk.
A knock at the door makes us both jump. “Times up.” Someone on the other side says.
I feel sick to my stomach at the realization. He’s a customer, and I’m the merchandise. He came here to do the same as the men before him did.
He’s not here to help me.
He’s here to buy me.
He had to decide between getting what he paid for and the consequences of that choice.
He begins backing away from me, his hands held up as if I’m the dangerous one.
“Nothing happened. You know that,” he whispers, his voice quivering with a pathetic, selfish fear. “You’ll tell him nothing happened.”
He reaches the door and knocks twice—the familiar signal of a completed transaction.
I wish he would have fucked me, that would hurt less than this. Leaving me here, alone in this cage of a room. The fleeting feeling of hope was ripped right out from under me.
My mind is trying to make sense of the last... What was it? Ten, fifteen minutes? It all felt so fast and in slow motion at once. The hope and relief as I saw a face I recognized. Waiting to hear gunshots, thuds, yells, anything as Gavin and the club stormed in to get me the hell out of here.
It’s not that I expect him to come after me; I’m very realistic about the fact that he might not. But I still have hope that he will. Originally, I wanted to be the one to save myself, but I think at this point, saving myself looks a lot like surviving.
Both mentally and physically.
I hear the key slide into the door’s lock again, and like an idiot, I hope for it to be Gavin on the other side. But, it isn’t.
Of course it isn’t.
A cart with a tray of food is pushed inside, and then the door is quickly shut and locked. Closing my eyes, I take in a steadying breath. Survive.
Survival means eating and drinking and staying strong.
Moving over to the tray, my eyes take in the contents. It reminds me of the food I’ve seen in hospitals. Simple, unimpressive, but edible. On today’s menu, we have Salisbury steak with gravy, a gelatinous glob of mashed potatoes, green beans, and a slice of bread.
Starving, I dig in, not worrying about silverware or even washing my hands first. I need this like I need air. The last time I ate was last night, judging by the lack of light through the window, was about 24 hours ago.
Without knowing whether I eat every 24 hours or only once I’ve pleased a “customer,” I take this opportunity to eat everything on my plate because there’s no guarantee I’ll get this chance again.