3. Tarzana Hills
TARZANA HILLS
Jordyn
Aleksandr had hurt me. No doubt about that. He hadn’t broken my ribs, as I suspected. He’d just bruised them as well as the rest of my body.
After a few days in the shed, Aleksandr had taken immense pleasure in punishing a part of my body that most men didn’t care for.
Minor injuries to the foot—scrapes, superficial cuts—took one to two weeks to heal.
He took care in cutting the soles of my feet as he taunted me with a single name.
Days later, the tiny nicks and cuts were no longer bloody.
Six days . I thought I’d been in the shed six days based on trying to keep a count. Ironically, the day after my escape attempt was Independence Day. Fireworks erupted all night as I sobbed until my eyes swelled shut.
As my stomach pressed against my spine from the small ration of food—an apple and daily bottle of water—I crawled on the ground in the shed.
Crawled toward the dim light of day from the tiny windows, high on the wall.
By noon, I would crawl back over toward the darkness, away from the scorching July sun.
I crawled, allowing the stale air to heal my wounds.
The area was relatively free of debris, but the wound scrawled along my heart festered.
Though I’d already read the name Aleksandr branded into my skin with a Damascus folding knife, I glared at it again. Hot, angry tears blurred my vision.
I read my first sole: ROC.
My shoulders darn near slammed against my ears.
Barking . The four West Siberian Laikas had access to the entire compound.
Those evil dogs dominated everywhere. The area between the main house, a pool house Aleksandr’s son kept for himself, and the shed where I sat trembling like a frightened child in a hurricane. Why were they barking?
Food—steak or otherwise? As long as I’m not on the menu, I’m fine.
To take my mind off them, I glanced at the raised flesh beneath my other foot. Three more letters completed the name of the man I hoped I’d never hear again.
Rocket .
Aleksandr couldn’t have sold me back to Rocket?
I ran my thumb over the lumpy flesh of my otherwise soft feet and screamed until my throat clawed for more water than what I’d rationed out.
If he’d give me at least two water bottles a day, maybe more food, I could survive.
At this rate, with sweat pouring from me …
I wouldn’t make it. And with the name scarred on my feet, I didn’t care to, anyway.
Light reached me again from the high-up window.
Another night checked off. Seven days? I thought so.
Then, I heard what pulled me out of a dreamless sleep.
Footsteps. I sat with my legs together, tucked to one side to cover a secret treasure nobody had no business seeing, feet tucked near my rear.
I embraced myself, my arms a guard for my heart and chest.
The shed opened, and my hands flew to my eyes. Despite the scarce daylight filtering in daily, my pupils screamed.
“You happy to see me?” The leader of Aleksandr’s guard leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. Oh, so relaxed. Denis held up a bottle of water like he’d encapsulated the fountain of youth.
“Denis, hey,” I croaked. “Is Aleksandr still angry with me?” Talk . Tell me something . And where was the apple?
Offering a wolfish grin, he said, “Nope. He sold you for 2.7 million.”
Sounded good to me. Regardless of how many people he wronged, Rocket lacked that level of wealth. The second they tried to swap me, I’d succeed at what I hadn’t the first eight times. Nine times a charm, right? Unless that small-time hustler had upped his money game.
If Rocket had worked his way up the ranks, then I was deader than dead.
“Can I have the water?” Dang . I should’ve asked another question.
The little tit-for-tat freak standing in front of me skirted around everything, and the look in his eyes told me he knew the buyer.
Also, I didn’t have zilch to offer but my body.
While Denis always understood that was off limits because of Aleksandr, it didn’t stop his searing gaze.
And boy, was he looking. My throat clamped while my mind tried to rationalize the price. Should’ve gone down in value. No . No . No . I can’t see Rocket again. “Th-the water, please. Denis, it gets so hot in here during the day.”
“Fetch.” He tossed the bottle.
Mouth pinched into a smile instead of the I’m-not-a-dog sneer I wanted to offer, my weak arms lifted to reach it.
Too late. The bottle slapped my shoulder and rolled away.
Really ? I scampered toward it and turned to the side so that I didn’t humiliate myself anymore by giving him a full view of my body.
Winced. My feet . And now I had dirt on my wounds.
But my throat screamed that a foot infection could wait.
Or kill me, which didn’t sound half bad.
I opened the bottle. Like I was in a desert storm, precious water rushed down my dry throat and filled my belly.
As I drank the water down to the last drop, alarm bells went off in my mind.
The water tasted medicinal. Something was off about it.
Mmmm … no, not off. It was satisfying and sweet and good.
Finished, I rubbed the back of my hand over my mouth.
“Do I be-belong to Rocket again? Roc … What di-did you… you give? You gave? You drugged … me?” That small seed of modesty I clung to faded as my arms went limp.
The world spun around me with Denis’s approach.
“ Dah , Jordyn. You belong to Rocket, which means you no longer belong to Aleksandr. You’ll greet Rocket in, I’d say another”—through my faded vision, the skinny Russian checked his watch—“five hours or so. However, before I return you to the house to shower and wear Rocket’s favorite color, you are mine . ”
Water sucked down into my lungs, and I slammed a foot against the cool porcelain, trying like hell to get up.
I came back to reality, arms wrapping around me.
As I choked on suds, Monique tugged me up into a seated position in the water.
Aleksandr’s favorite outfit clung to her skin from getting wet.
She sat back on her haunches on the opposite side of this blasted clawfoot tub.
Aleksandr explained it came from the last Tsar to rule Russia.
Who knows if he’d lied about that or the Rothschild Fabergé Egg at that home he took me to during our first summer together?
He’d started off nicer than most. So, why did you ruin a good thing with your mouth, Jordy ?
The short answer? They’d passed me around long enough. And enough . Was . Enough .
“Girl, your middle name must be trouble.” Monique’s baby doll face set into a smirk. “I don’t know how you handled living like a hobo out in the heat in the middle of summer. You put up a fight with Denis when he went to get you.”
I’d put up a what ?
Head tilted, I glared at her. How could she be so stupid?
“We always liked you, Jordyn.”
“Child, please? We ? I’ve been here since you were still sucking your thumb.” Okay, she wasn’t that young. But still.
Monique poured half the bottle of a luscious liquid soap onto a sponge. “Don’t call me child, old woman.”
“What are you, eighteen, twenty? Aleksandr is sixty-eight.”
“Nineteen.”
Almost a decade younger than my twenty-nine. I darn near moaned when she scrubbed my back with the sponge. “Well, do you consider Aleksandr old?”
“No.”
Now, I mirrored her eye roll, which I wasn’t fond of since the last time someone rolled their eyes at me, I promised to snatch them out.
No, I wasn’t a hypocrite. I was hungry, and I forgot my loathe of fluttering lashes.
“ Tsk . I’m an old woman, but you don’t consider Aleksandr old.
In our world, men have a longer life expectancy; thus, he’s younger, ratio-wise. Makes sense.”
“Don’t be so sarcastic, Jordyn.” She gestured for me to raise my arm. Monique scrubbed my pits, and it felt so good that I didn’t mind the teenage diva and her blabbing. “Your new owner, I’ve never heard of him. Rocket. I guess it ain’t as bad as the Bratva’s cleaner. Creepy m?—”
I plunged myself under the water again, more curious about Aleksandr’s connection to Rocket than anything Monique had to say.
This couldn’t be a return-to-sender type of thing.
My last encounter with him? Heck, I was younger than Monique.
Fifteen. He was twenty, maybe? A few years older than me, and I was convinced he was Rosemary’s Baby.
After a year in his presence, I should’ve looked Aleksandr’s age.
I did two hard years with Rocket. During a mission to re-up his weapons supply, my munitions knowledge caught the attention of an arms dealer Rocket worked with, commencing my international travels .
As I continued to hold myself under, the last bit of oxygen in my mouth bubbled out, tickling my nose.
“You’re not funny, Jordyn! Get up.”
Nah . I’d survived him once. Could I do it again? With that question, my lungs punched my chest.
Monique tried to pull me up from beneath the water. She tugged, pulled, and scratched at my arm. One scratch, though, as if she thought better of harming someone else’s property. “Help! Jordyn needs helpppp!” Monique’s cry echoed along the hot, sudsy water.
Nope . I just needed this to end. As my lungs fought for survival, my mind reiterated its request.
Could I survive Rocket again? My heart ached with the resounding answer.
No . Ah, if I were a trading card, they’d have placed me in a keepsake glass box.
Shined me. Treated me good. So not the case.
I would tear my lungs to shreds in this watery grave rather than become the property of Edgar Flanagan, a.k.a. Rocket, again.