Chapter 3 #2
Oh, Max. I knew, if anything, you would make it to Miami.
An opportunity for escape arises as the fighter's fancy footwork has them dancing my way. Quick and agile, I swing my leg out, tripping Steroids and sending them both crashing to the sand. They roll, the fight not even pausing for a moment, as they each try and get the upper hand.
With the crowd now distracted, trying to flee the tumbling mass of muscles and ego, I duck making my escape by jumping into a lower level balcony.
The railing is tall enough to obscure my movements, and with the help of a patio chair, short enough for me to get out again later.
Using the reflective backside of my keychain as a mirror, I glance over the edge.
People are picking themselves up off the beach, dusting the sand from their clothes and admonishing the men for knocking them down in the first place.
The barrage of criticism and sneers spewed at the fighters seems to have brought them back down to reality as they separate from one another with a huff. The circle has disbanded, the fight over, but my heart still breaks a little on the inside.
Max runs out of a smaller group, using his arms like a battering ram to get through.
He’s frantic, and panting, but the disappointment and confusion are clear among his features.
His hand tugs through his hair, his chest heaving up and down as he looks for me.
His sadness is nearly palpable, as it pulls at my own emotions.
We had been close, they meant everything to me, but danger follows my every direction.
Gnawing and swiping at my heels, and until I end the threat of Colt once and for all, no one around me will be safe.
Stealthily, I follow Max back to his car and watch as he climbs in. He doesn’t leave right away, instead, he leans his head on the back of his seat and closes his eyes. His features scrunch together, the skin on his face going tight as he holds back the emotions trying to betray him.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my breath feather light and still backstabbing me as it cracks from sorrow. He’ll never hear my words, but I’ll forever carry with me the image of his face contorted in pain.
I continue to watch him from the shadows for another fifteen to twenty minutes, unable to pull myself away.
To let go of this man who I, once upon a time, pictured a future with.
Max’s head rests against the car window, staring longingly towards the water, before wiping his face of the fallen tears and sitting straight.
The rumble of the engine turning over and crunch of the tires as they roll over the gravel, ring with finality. Providing me with my cue to leave as well as I slink back to the shoreline, in need of a distraction.
Goodbye, Max. At least you’ll be safe.
I have no real direction, my legs just walking on auto-pilot, my head stuck in a gray cloud, and my heart trailing after a certain blond. Fuck, I miss them all, but this is for the best. For their safety, their lives.
The sound of footsteps draws my attention to notice the kind stranger walking in my direction.
There’s a slice down his lip, and a gnarly looking bruise forming around his left eye.
His knuckles are cut up, blood still trickling from the wounds, and various other markings cross his chest and abdomen.
He’s walking with a slight limp in his right leg, but fuck he’s even sexier than before.
Gathering my ladyballs, I strut over, easily catching up to his side with how slowly he’s moving. He hasn’t noticed my presence, but in fairness, I’m also on the side with the eye that’s beginning to swell.
“Hey,” I chime, tapping him lightly on the shoulder.
His head twists to take me in, eyes widening slightly when he sees who’s talking to him. “Oh, uhh, hey,” he stammers while his hand rubs at the back of his neck.
“I just wanted to say thanks. In a proper way. It’s rare to see someone stand up for others the way you did. Even rarer when that person is a stranger and ends in you getting hurt.”
My hand reaches up, wiping away some of the blood clinging to his cheek. Biting my lip, I watch his eyes soften, the weight of his head falling into the palm of my hand. He looks exhausted, but his eyes glaze over with that familiar twinkle, and I know I’ve got him. She’s got him.
That’s one thing that came all too easily when my darkness emerged—seduction. A natural talent to which my captors exploited whenever they could.
Colt’s right-hand man, Dwight, used to always comment on my appearance.
The very first day I arrived, he started a list, recording every fleeting thought of what he wanted to do to me once he was allowed.
Joining me in my room every morning to recount the immoral and deplorable acts he’d come up with.
His eyes are the one thing that still haunts me. The darkness, the depravity within their depths… It made Freddy Kruger look like a teddy bear. The eyes are the windows to the soul… Well, Dwight fucking Lockhart’s soul was lost long ago, and no one’s been looking for it since.
It came as no surprise that on the day I turned eighteen, he was the first at my door. Slithering in like a coiling snake and squeezing the breath from my lungs as he forced himself on me. One hand around my throat, the other shoving a blade under my ribs to force me down.
That first time, I tried to fight back. To claw, kick, and scratch my way out from underneath him. I learned the hard way that day what happens when you release the monster from its cage. The seven inch long scar running down my inner thigh can attest to that.
Pinned to the bed, my arms tied above my head and my legs held down by some of his men, Dwight sliced his hunting knife through my flesh.
My blood pooled as my skin split, soaking through the thread-bared cotton sheet and down into the mattress as I screamed in agony.
My legs stuck to the fabric where the blood created a bond, making it easier to maneuver my frame the way he wanted.
Eventually, the sound of my wails must have become too much of an irritation. The sheet was ripped off my skin with a painful sting and shoved down my throat.
It wasn’t the last time I would bleed by that fuckers hands, but it’s one of the ones that sticks with a person.
The rest of the Havoc Vipers would come and go as they pleased during my time there.
Their eyes glinted with cruelty and their guns were always pointed at my head, as if I had the ability to actually run.
It didn’t matter the time of day, or if I was sleeping, bleeding, or straight up unconscious—they came.
The only saving grace was that Colt made condoms mandatory, threatening death to anyone who disobeyed.
He feared I’d fall pregnant and be unable to continue for him. That my body would no longer be pleasant to look at, and the targets I had been sent after would see through the charade.
For the first year, there wasn’t a single night I didn’t have a visitor, save for the day after my birthday.
Now back in the States, I was sent out on my first mission, a test if you will.
A single file folder, a packet of rohypnol, and the picture of a man was all I was given before getting kicked out of the SUV in front of some casino. No name, no message, no information.
Since I knew what the drug was, and what they primarily used it for, I went off my best guess.
Cozying up to the man whose picture I threw away upon entering the building.
A bat of the eyelashes, sway of the hips, and I figured he'd be putty in my palm. Turns out there’s such a thing as being too seductive.
His hands moved too quickly, roaming over parts of me I wasn’t comfortable with.
His dick pressed against my thigh while he lapped at my neck like a dog drinking water.
Before I knew it, we were making our way back to his private suite, and my panic attack was quickly on the rise.
I don’t know what I feared more in that moment, being at the mercy of this intoxicated, over-weight, balding perv or the wrath that would come from Colt if I failed.
Thankfully, his drunkenness kicked in tenfold when we reached his room, and while trying to get his shoes off he stumbled, allowing me to quickly slip the drug into the champagne.
Once he regained a somewhat standing position, his chunky fingers pawed at my dress as he mumbled something I didn’t catch.
When he was finally out cold, I didn’t even have enough time to straighten my straps before the door was kicked in and Colt’s men stormed the room.
Hands wrapped around my arms, the grip bruising as I was dragged into the hall and down to a waiting car by Dwight's younger brother Liam.
The ride was silent, the rain outside pelted the metal in furious drops.
The sound acted like a soundtrack to a horror movie as we drove back to the compound.
In movies, you have scenes that play out and lines to rehearse. You know what’s coming and how to react when it does, but with my current reality, not even a script could have prepared me for facing Colt again.