Chapter 23
CELINE
“What’s this–half day?” Jackie says, walking into my path as I head toward the exit of the hospital.
“Guilty.” I laugh. “They let me use two hours of my holiday. Julian and I are going to the movies.”
“Lucky! Make sure you get a double portion of popcorn in my honor.”
I force another laugh. “Will do!”
I’m obviously lying, since Julian would freak if he knew I was walking toward the bus stop on my own. I can’t take my car because he gave me a ride here, and I haven’t got time to get it. Instead, I anxiously wait at the bus stop, wondering if I’m making a serious mistake.
All day yesterday at work, I turned this idea over in my mind. This morning, on the fourth day, something solidified in me. I’ve never been good at sitting around and waiting for problems to fix themselves.
I ride the bus to the recovery center, just about making their late afternoon meeting. When I walk inside, it doesn’t seem suspicious to me at all. A kind-looking woman in a floral dress flashes a bright smile at me and waves me into a brightly lit room with a circle of chairs in the middle.
I grab myself a cup of coffee, glancing at the woman beside me, an elderly lady with a big silver cross resting on her chest. She offers me a friendly smile and a wink. “Don’t worry. We’re not all as scary as we look.”
I smile. Are you part of the mob, nice old lady? Are you part of whatever’s going on here?
I obviously don’t say that.
“Okay, everyone, let’s take our seats,” the lady in the floral dress says.
Around fifteen of us, a mix of men and women, old and young, move to the circle of chairs.
“For the benefit of the newcomers, my name is Lila Storm. Yes, that’s right. That’s my legal name. Lila Storm. People often ask me if I changed my name to seem more unique and special. But no, this is the name my daddy gave me.”
That gets a polite laugh.
“I know that some of you will be nervous being here, but rest assured, gambling addiction is nothing to be ashamed about. It’s a problem that affects eight million people in the US alone, and that’s not counting the friends and family members who are suffering as a result.
This is a safe space to discuss our problems, our trials, our tribulations. So, who would like to go first?”
I take a sip of the hot black coffee, letting it burn down my throat, looking around the room for possible signs of… anything.
The struggles of these people touch me. One man talks about how he almost lost his house because of his addiction to online poker, his voice a devastating croak, his hands clasped as though he’s praying.
“God help me, keep me away from this sickness…”
One lady sold her grandmother’s engagement ring.
One young man dropped out of college because he couldn’t stop hitting the slots.
Soon, it’s my turn. Lila smiles softly at me. “You don’t have to share, sweetie.”
I clear my throat, feeling like a fraud. I’ve never been addicted to anything… except maybe Damian’s touch. It’s like when I went to collect my things after Julian drank himself into a stupor. I didn’t plan on sliding to the floor and taking him in my mouth, but it was like I couldn’t stop.
“My name is Celine, and I’m addicted to…” A man with a scar on his face and a war of dark and light shattering inside of him that no one else can see. “To, uh, slots.”
They all nod understandingly.
“It harms my life.” This has the potential to wreck my relationship with my brother, to throw an atom bomb into my family dynamics when Mom and Dad return and learn what I’ve done.
“But the truth is, I don’t want to stop.
It makes me feel too good. All my life, I’ve felt invisible to…
” Men. “And I liked it that way, liked not being seen. But then I’ve found something that makes me feel special and…
” Hot and sexy and clever. “And like I belong.”
I finish weakly, bowing my head, feeling like an idiot.
“Thank you for sharing,” Lila says. “Now, we’re going to take a short break…”
I excuse myself, saying I need to make a call, but when I’m alone in the corridor, I take a left instead of a right. I poke my head into empty rooms: a meeting room, an office of some sort, luckily empty, a storage room.
Something in the storage room makes me stop.
There are shelves with cardboard boxes and a bunch of magazines on the floor…
and a pair of underwear with kittens on it, hooked to one of the shelves.
It’s so out of place. My heart hammers without me knowing exactly why.
I study it for a long time, my mind swirling with sickening possibilities.
Something bad is happening here, right? Something so bad even the so-called Beast wants to bring it down?
Why would a pair of underwear with kittens on be here unless—
I gasp when someone pushes me violently from behind. My head almost crushes into the shelves. I just about stop myself with my hands, then turn.
A man steps into the room, around my age, with a nick of a scar on his chin. He shuts the door behind him, doesn’t turn, just reaches back and closes it with his eyes never leaving me.
“What’re you doing in here?” he demands.
“Sorry. I was looking for the bathroom.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Bathroom is right outside the meeting room. Try again.”
“Oh, is it?” I say, trying to act innocent, hoping he can’t see the terror coursing through me like poison. “I didn’t realize.”
“Right,” he growls. “You didn’t realize.” He licks his lips, and glances around the small room. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
“Please, can I just—”
He lifts his waistband, flashing his pistol at me. “You really shouldn’t have come here. I won’t question a good opportunity. I need you to be a good girl and stay where you are.”
He takes out his pistol, aiming it at me casually. My blood freezes in my veins. Panic tries to make me scream, but the consequences of screaming cause me to press my lips tightly together.
He kneels slowly, gun never leaving me, and brushes the magazines aside, revealing a trapdoor with a big metal loop handle. He unscrews something attached to the handle, then pulls it away without the door opening, and carefully lays it aside.
One-handed, he grips a smaller handle, then pulls.
I get déjà vu as I stare down a narrow staircase disappearing into darkness. It’s similar to the passageway Damian was keeping Rico in, except that something tells me these men don’t have a justification for what they’re doing.
“I’m going to make a lot of money off you,” he says, standing and gesturing with the gun. “You need to get moving before I pull this trigger.”
Fear tries to stop me from speaking, but I also know that once I go down there, I might never return. He’s right. I never should’ve come here without a more concrete plan. Tears prick my eyes, but I curl my fists, don’t let them fall, don’t let myself crumple.
“You won’t shoot me like this, with all these people in the building.”
He snorts, reaches into his jacket, and pulls out a thick edged blade. “Won’t have to.”
“I’ll scream.”
“Maybe you’ll have time for that. Maybe you won’t. Want to try?”
“They’ll wonder where I’ve gone—”
Another snort. “Know how many people come to these pathetic little meetings, get cold feet, then leave? Enough. Last chance. Get moving, or I gut you.”
He strides around the hole in the floor, bringing the knife to my throat. The cold metal kisses my neck. A shiver dances through me, not the good kind, not the kind that Damian produces.
With no other choice, I walk down the staircase. He laughs gruffly and slams the hatch behind me.
The door at the end of the corridor swings open when I prod against it.
The smell hits me first, thick and rancid. Around fifteen women and girls crouch on the other side of the bare stone room, a bucket in one corner, their clothes a mess, their skin dirty, their eyes haunted with all that’s happened to them and all that might happen.
I swallow, panic trying to seize me. When I was studying to be a nurse, a lecturer once taught me that to do our jobs well, we have to be like Buddha – handle each moment as it comes, don’t think about before or after. Nursing is about stress management more than anything else.
I let out a slow breath. “I’m a nurse,” I say, my voice far steadier than I feel. “Does anyone have any injuries? Can I help anyone?”
An older woman steps forward, holding up a trembling hand. One of her fingers is dislocated, jarringly pointing sideways at a wrong angle.
I approach her slowly. “This is going to hurt, ma’am…”