Chapter 33
Zayne
I've left Zeus alone since the first night I brought Sable back to our cabin.
I hate to even think of her with that name. I know it's one she's been given by someone here, but she's refused to give me her real name. I've written that question a half-dozen times in the notebook, but each time she looks up at me with sad, desperate eyes and shakes her head.
There could be countless reasons why she doesn't want me to know who she really is.
It could make things too real for her, giving her an ounce of hope she knows better than to have.
She could've done something on her own or at the urging of someone on the compound, which is too shameful for her, and she doesn't want people to know.
She could've done something illegal, and the threat of jail or prison could be, in her mind, worse than what she has to go through here.
She has refused to divulge any of the other girls' stories, other than to tell me that some don't want to be here.
She won't tell me how they got here, and shuts down completely when I ask if she or others have been trafficked.
She won't even tell me how long she's been at the compound, so I have no timeline to aid Casper in his search for her identity.
I took a photo of her and sent it to him, but his facial recognition search hasn't linked her to any missing-person reports.
It's as if she's a ghost, a lost soul no one is looking for, and I think that hits the hardest.
Some women are in the news, their families desperate to find them.
They make sure everyone is speaking their names.
Their pictures are on the news, smiling faces seen on posters hung all around town.
They paper the streets and neighborhoods with missing-person fliers, begging people to help them be found.
Some disappear without a trace, and there's no one who cares enough to even whisper their name when they leave their lives behind.
These are the easier targets, but I don't have a clue if these are the type of women The League is seeking out.
The way Billy acted a couple of weeks ago at The Garage with Melody suggests they see someone they like, befriend them, and then never allow them to leave once they step inside the compound.
There's a misconception that trafficked women are simply snatched up off the street and sold, and although that happens in a lot of cases, it's not the only option.
It's more dangerous for the group to befriend someone, be seen together, and then never let them leave, but we aren't exactly dealing with the brightest crayons in the box here.
Trafficked women don't have to be tied up in some dark, dank basement, held captive with chains and cages.
A lot of people would probably see these women walking around the compound and blame them for staying.
They couldn't take a step back, work through their confusion, and understand that threats of punishment and undesired outcomes can be just as powerful a tool in keeping these women compliant as the chains and cages they picture when told stories about trafficked women.
There's a real chance some are here and abused continually out of love.
Threats to a family can make people endure so much.
They won't even have to witness someone else's family being hurt when someone steps out of line.
Whispers in the dark are powerful. If someone from the compound tells a story about a girl who challenges someone in the group and then their family was hurt in some way, those whispers stay alive long after the troublemaker has been removed.
These women don't need personal proof of what these men are capable of. They know that what they're experiencing here could be a lot worse if they misbehave.
The power these men have over them with mere words is no less restricting than physical restraints.
But even now that Zeus knows there's nothing sexual going on between Sable and me, it doesn't ease the sting that he thought I'd even cross such a line.
Allowing his silence for the last two weeks without explaining was meant to give me back a little piece of myself. It was a punishment of sorts for him and the way he treated me then, and the continued mistreatment now.
Like most petty and stubborn attempts at punishment, the silent treatment hasn't exactly had the desired effect I thought it would.
With us both not speaking to each other, there's been no lesson learned on either side.
I know him well enough that he probably thinks I've been silent for so long out of guilt because of his perception of how I handled this case.
He wouldn't take a step back and realize that I've made no attempt to explain myself, not that I believe he'd give me the chance to try and convince him that messing around with one of the women here is in the best interest of the case, or that what I've been doing isn't as bad as what some of the others have done.
It makes me wonder what kind of man he thinks I am. We didn't actually share a lot of personal things when we were younger, but he should know enough about me to know that I wouldn't do the things he has spent the last two weeks thinking I've done.
The pain comes from him thinking that time has changed me so much that even with the loss of Dakota, I could cross any of those lines in an effort to take this group down.
There's no greater good in my mind. There's no sacrifice of one to save ten. In my mind, they all have to be saved. I'd be a failure if even one doesn't get out of this place.
Although we can't stop all the abuse while we're here without blowing our cover, he has to know I'd never contribute to it.
The idea that he has thought for weeks that I'm just as despicable as any one of the men here is gnawing at me when I wake up.
I swallow against the pain I've felt as it threatens to climb out of my throat.
His discovery of us last night opens the door for that discussion, but the sight of the non-blinking light in the smoke alarm kills that idea.
This isn't exactly something we can write out in the notebook. The raw emotions we're feeling wouldn't translate properly with written words.
He shifts on the bottom bunk, making it clear that he's also awake, and I'd give anything to have a peek inside his mind right now to know what he's thinking.
Does he feel guilt for where he let his mind take him?
Has he had an apology on his lips since he climbed into bed?
Is he even a little disappointed in himself for not having faith in me?
Do I have the right to question him, asking him what about me made him even consider I’d do those things?
Time and distance can change a person. I'm personally well aware of that.
It was easy to see that he's no longer the sulky, angry boy who has anchored himself in shame for being who he is.
Did he not pay enough attention to me in the past to know that I wasn't capable of the things he thought I was doing?
I grumble a curse under my breath, sweeping my hands over my face. I'm thinking myself in fucking circles here, and none of it can be discussed right now. There's no immediate solution to this fucking problem, and I'm wasting time and energy on this bullshit when I should be focused on the mission.
I pull in a deep, calming breath, needing to start my day. It can't matter what he thinks of me right now, and if I want to be truly honest with myself, it won't matter when this case is over either.
His thoughts on me won't change my goals in life, and it was an error on my part to think that anything could come from our physical interactions. We were enjoying a way to get each other off, not building a life together.
It seems I haven't changed much at all. Hope still has a way of reaching inside of me and taking the helm.
"No more," I growl.
"No more what?" comes from the bottom bunk.
"I can't stay in bed any longer," I improvise. "My fucking back is killing me."
"Think they'll take requests for mattress toppers seriously?" he asks, a hint of laughter in his tone.
"Doesn't hurt to ask," I reply, still lying in the bed.
It seems neither of us wants to face the other, and as forceful as I was being with myself just seconds ago, that negative energy seems to have faded at the sound of his voice.
The realization makes me even angrier. I hate the control the man seems to have over me, and I can only be mad at myself. I've handed him my power without even realizing it, but once again, I don't have an immediate solution for that.
I groan as I climb out of bed. I might've invented a lie to cover my verbal slip-up earlier, but my back actually does hurt after sleeping in these fucking beds.
They're only a step up from what I know inmates in jail are provided, as much as that pleases me, knowing it's something these guys are going to face soon, it also makes me wonder if the lack of comfortable accommodations is Bobby's way of preparing them for a destiny he knew was coming for them all along.
I have no fucking doubt Bobby is sleeping in luxury, despite not providing the same to his followers.
Zeus stands from his bed, arms over his head, knuckles scraping the low ceiling.
I refuse to look in his direction, but the mental rejection has no power when my body controls me around him rather than my mind.
The peek of skin under the hem of his shirt makes me insane, and if we didn't have a listening device in this fucking cabin, I'd risk this fucking mission by punching him in the fucking nose.
The cabin door swings open, startling the shit out of me.
"What the fuck?" Zeus rages as he takes a step in that direction.
Scott smiles, and the pinpoint of his pupils tells me, like always, he's high as fucking kite. It's the only reason he isn't apologizing or begging for his life, given the rage coming off of Zeus.
"Bobby wants you in the conference room in an hour," he says.
"For what?" Zeus growls.
"Meeting," the guy says before closing the door back as if he didn't just invade our space without so much as a courtesy knock.