Chapter 14 The Little Dark-Haired Girl – Briar
THE LITTLE DARK-HAIRED GIRL
brIAR
Now
Nausea hits me, and I groan, debating whether or not to wake up.
What the hell happened last night? I don’t drink anymore, not since Remi. My days of drinking recreationally are far behind me.
I attempt to open my eyes, but they don’t cooperate. I try wiggling my fingers, but I’m not sure I even feel them.
Something isn’t right…
It’s as if I’m trapped within a dense fog; perhaps I’m still half asleep with one foot in reality and one foot still in fucking dreamland.
The fog lifts slightly as I fight for clarity, and I relax a little when feeling returns to my body. My eyelids finally flutter open, but my hair is in my face. I try to brush it out of the way, and I can’t. I’m unable to raise my arm, and panic surges as I realize it’s stuck on something.
The rush of terror burns through the remaining mental fog enough for me to fully open my eyes and realize my hands are zip-tied together.
Thrashing, I fight against the restraint, only succeeding in tightening the plastic ties so tight that now it feels like they’re cutting off my circulation. My chest heaves, my breaths coming hard as I realize two things: the first being I am not in my bed; and two, I am not alone.
I’m in a moving vehicle. It’s dark, but as I look around, I find several pairs of eyes staring back at me. I try to sit up to better gauge my surroundings, which proves difficult as jolts and bumps send deep shockwaves of nausea through me while I’m still fighting the overwhelming urge to sleep.
No, I need to stay awake.
I’ve nearly twisted myself into a sitting position when we hit a bump, throwing me back to the floor, and I hit my head hard.
For a moment, I feel dazed, like I’m going to black out again.
Fuck, that hurt. But as much as it hurt, it seems to sharpen my senses, lifting the drug-induced fog just enough for rational thoughts to take over.
“You’re awake!” The girl closest to me whisper-shouts before leaning closer, “We thought you might be dead.”
With the fog lifting, it’s far easier this time to push myself to sitting and, once upright, I lean my pounding head back against the cool, metal wall of the van I’ve determined we’re in.
“Not yet,” I frown. I’m still wearing the dance clothes I changed into at the club, and I’m relieved to find them all intact.
The van is dark, but I think I count at least twelve of us.
All girls. All girls who look to be around my age or younger.
No one else is unconscious, but all are in various states of disarray.
The girl sitting next to me, the one who spoke, is sporting a nasty-looking bruise around her left eye.
It’s several days old, judging by the yellowing edges of the deep purple bruising.
The girl next to her has her face buried in her knees with her arms wrapped around them as she cries.
I clear my throat, my voice coming out hoarse and scratchy, and I’m near desperate for some water. “Where are they taking us?”
“I don’t know,” the girl next to me answers. “They’ve been picking up girls all night. One here, three there.”
“How long was I out?” The van pitches, and I fight the rising urge to vomit, pressing my lips shut as well as my eyes, waiting for the wretched feeling to pass, as the effects of the drugs cling to me.
“I’m not sure.”
I blink back at her.
“You were unconscious when they tossed you in here,” she explains.
“When was that?”
She shifts nervously. “That was probably a couple of hours ago.”
A couple of hours ago? Fuck. It can’t be any earlier than two or three in the morning.
Remi’s face is at the forefront of my mind, and I push away the dark thought. The one currently telling me I’m never going to see her again.
My fists tighten with grim resolve, and the plastic ties around them cut deeper into my skin.
I take in the van, the distressed and underdressed girls, and what I saw back in the club… Traffickers. These men are traffickers.
I’m hyperventilating, and my heart’s racing, but I force myself to calm down. To survive this.
“Listen.” I do my best to scoot closer to the girl on my right awkwardly. “When they open that door, it might be our only chance. We have to run—fight. There’s probably way more of us than there are of them. Whoever gets free can go get help for the others.”
My words don’t have the effect I was hoping they would. Half the girls are so despondent, I’m not sure if they can even hear me—or maybe they don’t understand me. And the other half, including the girl to my right, are giving me varying looks of horror.
“No,” she says adamantly, shaking her head. “They’ll kill you. I’ve already seen them do it,” she whispers, with a haunted look in her eyes.
But before I can open my mouth to argue, the van slows to a stop. Everyone inside stiffens and shifts at the sound of the two doors up front opening before slamming shut again.
Fear, but also rage, floods through me. I know what this is, what they plan to do to me.
And I’m not going to make it fucking easy for them.
I will not be compliant; I will not yield or cry or beg.
I will fight until my last breath because I have Remi back at home waiting for me. And I will not leave her alone.
The van doors open and armed men appear, roughly hauling out girls. “Let’s go. Everybody out.”
I don’t move, sitting with my back up against the wall of the van until I’m the only one left inside.
There’s one man left at the door, and he narrows his eyes at me. “C’mon, girl. I don’t got all day.” His accent is foreign… Eastern European, maybe?
I don’t move.
My defiance finally garners his full attention, and he gives me a quick once-over that leaves me feeling gross. “Get your ass out of the van or you’re gonna regret it.” He smiles cruelly at me, tightening his grip on the rifle he’s got strapped to his body.
I stay put. If they want me, they’re going to have to come in here and get me.
Realizing I’m not, in fact, going to come out willingly, he does just that.
Cursing under his breath, he ducks his head to climb inside, mumbling something in another language as he does.
I bide my time until he’s close enough and then I twist, kicking up at him with full force.
He doesn’t expect it, so the heel of my bare foot catches him square in the nose.
I can’t help but grin to myself when his hands fly to his face.
He falls to his knees and howls in a fit of pain and rage.
“What’s the matter, Mateusz? Can’t handle one little girl?” I stiffen at the sight of a second man by the van door, coming back to see what’s taking his friend so long. This one’s Italian accent is very clear.
Mateusz glares at his friend as he moves his bloody hands away from his nose. “Help me get her out of this fucking van.”
Grumbling something about incompetence, the new guy crawls into the van as well. He’s quicker than his friend, grabbing hold of my feet before I have a chance to kick him too. I don’t make it easy, but let’s be honest; between the two of them, I don’t stand a chance.
They drag me out into the night, kicking and thrashing like a wild animal.
Cursing, they shove me away from them as quickly as they can, toward the rest of the girls who are standing together outside a dark warehouse.
Thankfully, a few of them are able to catch me, preventing me from face-planting onto the asphalt.
The smell of low tide is heavy in the air. We’re near the docks.
I take in my surroundings, planning out my next move, but there are more men here than I’d counted on.
At least seven or eight men surround us; it’s hard to tell in the darkness.
Each one of them brandishes some type of firearm, though they look bored, standing together in groups and talking rather than patrolling the area properly.
One by one, the men at the front shove girls through the warehouse door. My eyes dart around, looking for a way out—but there’s just too many of them.
Lorenzo appears, cigarette in his mouth, striding up the line of girls—inspecting them. I catch his eye, and he catches my darkest glare.
He moves fast. Faster than I would’ve thought possible for a man of his size, ripping me out of the group by my arm. I’m surprised, but still I resist. Digging in my heels, I fight against his grip.
Frustrated, he throws me against the van with a force hard enough to knock the wind out of me. My head is still questionable from the lingering effects of whatever it was they drugged me with, and my vision tunnels. My knees give out, and I feel myself sliding to the ground, but he catches me.
Fear yet again slices through the heavy fog when Lorenzo pins me up against the vehicle.
I go rigid as he brings his hand up to my face.
“So pretty,” he murmurs, almost reverently, before he hits me—hard.
The force of it whips my head to the side, and darkness once again clouds my vision.
It’s a fight just to stay conscious. “And so fucking stupid,” he mutters, his grip on me the only reason I’m still on my feet.
I struggle, but it’s pointless. My head is pounding, and nausea rolls through me.
His sweaty, stinking body is pinning mine in place, and there’s nowhere to go.
He takes a long drag of his cigarette, a sadistic smile on his lips as he watches my pathetic struggle.
“Don’t worry, you’ll learn, Bella. I’ll take great delight in helping you.
” He takes the cigarette from his mouth, holding it in his hand for a moment before wrenching my head to the side and pressing the burning end to the soft, exposed skin of my neck.
My body jolts instinctively, frantically trying to escape the white-hot searing pain that tunnels deeper as he presses it even harder. I thrash and scream, but he covers my mouth, silencing me while laughing at the tears streaming down my face.
He finally pulls the cigarette away with a smug smile on his face. It’s rage, not fear, that he’s summoned with his actions, and I spit at him, hitting him in the eye.
The few remaining girls outside let out a collective gasp, and the men all go quiet.
Lorenzo looks from me to them, his face boiling with fury. A second later he lashes out, striking me so hard I hit the ground.
I spit again, this time blood—my own, onto the cold asphalt.
Fight. Keep fighting.
I’m not an idiot. I know how this ends. I know what fate awaits me on the other side of that warehouse door, and I won’t accept it. I won’t.
I push myself up onto shaky arms, trying to crawl away as best I can with my hands bound in front of me. I have no chance, and I know it, but I have to keep trying.
Lorenzo looks down at me like I’m a cockroach he wishes he could smash with his boot. A snap of his fingers brings about two of his guys, who haul me back up to my feet and inside the warehouse.