Tears of Tess
Page 20

Guilt crushed, pressing me against the floor. By lying to myself, I hurt Brax so much. A few tears dribbled and I fought the urge to sniff. One thing I knew, if he still lived, I’d make it a lifelong mission to make it up to him. I’d be the princess he always wanted, and take care of him, regardless if he couldn’t save me in Mexico.
Suzette and Franco started chatting aimlessly about the weather, and I forced myself to listen, pushing away debilitating thoughts. I couldn’t afford to think about sad things. I needed to be ready to run.
Through the window, hedges and shadowy trees flickered past, rolling hills and farm land. So quaint and picture perfect, it was hard to believe Q lived amongst perfect innocence and followed such darkness.
The twists and turns of the tiny country lanes made nausea swell and I closed my eyes.
I didn’t know how long it took, maybe twenty minutes, before the car slowed. Suzette asked, “Can you pull up on Rue La Belle? I won’t be long.”
Franco grunted in acknowledgement, and after a few turns, we entered a bustling township. Sounds of chattering voices and traffic thrilled me. So close to being free.
I dared open my eyes. Pedestrians skirted the car, and cute ancient buildings hovered in French glory.
Suzette climbed out. “Merci, Franco, à plus tard.” I’ll see you soon.
“I’ll be back at the car in ten minutes.” His voice rasped. I couldn’t believe my eyes as Franco locked the door and strode off, swallowed immediately by the bustling crowd.
I lay on the floor, sucking greedy breaths in the empty car. I was alone!
Wait before you run.
My body shook with the need to flee, but I waited an agonising minute. Slowly, I unfolded from the floor, reaching to unlock the door. I tried to clamber out quickly, but my legs cramped and I sprawled in the path of an elderly woman. Pretty cobblestones bit my ass as I looked up.
She frowned, hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder. “Excusez-moi,” she said, inching around, continuing on her way.
I bounced upright, commanding my limbs to un-atrophy so I could run.
The busy street looked the epitome of France. Quaint shop signs dangled in front of wonky buildings with flower baskets and fresh fruit in bushels looking waxy and delicious in the winter sun. Everything was written in French, and I knew I’d be lost within a moment. Where the hell was this place? Were we close to Paris?
I blinked in wonderment. I would never take freedom for granted again. After being caged for weeks, the breeze on my skin felt foreign; the sun an old missed friend. My heart flew. I escaped.
I didn’t know which way Suzette or Franco went, so kept my eyes trained on the crowd, dashing fugitively across the road to the green grocer.
“Bonjour, ma belle,” an elderly man said, tilting his head as I darted past. Rows upon rows of food made my mouth water. Everything was a burst of sensation, colour—a marvel to my senses.
Being in a crowd liberated and intoxicated. I never realised how much I needed to be a part of something. Sure, insecurities of being unwanted stemmed from lack of parental love, but up till now, I never evaluated how much I thrived at university. I had friends. Good friends.
My eyes pricked remembering Fiona, Marion, and Stacey. Women who I’d studied with and sketched the most far out buildings we could imagine. Tree houses. Underwater mansions. And yet, they didn’t know me. I never told them what I wished Brax would do. Even when we shared kinky conversation, I never opened up and admitted I wanted to be a submissive, just for one night.
My heart tripped. What would they say if they knew what happened? Would they understand how disobedient my body had been? How the sexual tension, the unwanted boiling, crippling need inside made me wet for a man I hated?
It was so off the realm of normalcy, they’d probably march me straight to the police for a shrink assessment.
Police.
All thoughts evaporated. I wasn’t free yet.
I chose the next building—a cute little one story, with a red chicken on the front called Le Coq. The rooster.
I paused, hating the thought that Q would hurt Suzette for letting me escape. I sighed, cursing that I felt loyal to stay, bound by obligation more than ropes and barcode tattoos. I held my breath, heart winging with terror.
Despite my fear for Suzette, I pushed open the café door. The little bell above jingled merrily, reminding I was on my way home. I couldn’t dwell on a breaking friendship with someone I barely knew.
Speed was my friend as I charged to the cashier.
The soft, pudgy woman behind the counter beamed, “Bonjour, que puis-je faire pour vous?” What can I do for you?
My mouth became desiccated and I blinked. This was it, no going back. “I’ve been kidnapped. I need a phone and the police.”
Chapter 15
*Heron*
Her eyes widened, flying around the establishment as if one of her customers could enlighten her. Surely, this crazy Aussie chick couldn’t be telling the truth.
My chest heaved as panic filled. What if she didn’t believe me?
I looked around, glancing over my shoulder at a spattering of patrons. They gawked as if I was a chimpanzee escaped from the zoo. The little café would’ve been homely with its red colour scheme and over saturation of rooster figurines and posters, but to me it felt hostile. As if any moment, the roosters would come alive and peck my eyes out for disrupting a leisurely lunch.
I’d poured my heart out to a stranger and all she could do was stare.
“Can I borrow your phone?” My voice wavered; tears threatened. Being so close to freedom made me jittery.
She nodded hesitantly, clearly not quite understanding. I spied the phone behind the counter and snagged it, leaning over a plate of bagels and muffins.
My hands shook, apprehension tickled my spine. Fingers hovered over the emergency call buttons, but I couldn’t dial. I needed to hear another voice first.
I pressed the number I knew by heart and tears burst forth as the call connected. It rang and rang for an eternity. Please, pick up. Please, be alive.
The woman scowled and disappeared into the back of the restaurant, reappearing and dragging an elderly chef. Both of them wore yellow uniforms with white pinafores, and the same ‘what the hell’ expression.
I bounced, waiting for the phone to connect. My time was running out.
Hi, you’ve reached Brax Cliffingstone. I’m unable to get to the phone, but you know the drill. Leave your details, and I’ll get back to you. Or, if it’s life and death, please contact my girlfriend, Tess, and she’ll help out. Her number: 044-873-4937. Cheers!
Beep.
Something snapped in my chest. I hadn’t heard my name in so long. Hearing it in Brax’s voice robbed my fight, and I shrunk into the tame little girl I’d been before Mexico, before Q, before I knew what I was capable of.
I crumbled, sobbing. Brax’s voice resonated around my heart, vibrating with longing. Why wasn’t he picking up? Was he dead, or just busy? So many questions and I wouldn’t get answers from a machine.
Sniffing back tears, I warbled, “Brax, it’s me. I’m—I’m alive. I was sold to a man named Q. I’m not hurt and I’m on my way home. If you get this message, I’ll be at the Australian Embassy, hopefully working out passports and things.”
I sucked in a deep breath. I wanted to tell him so much: how I changed, what I lived through, but I would never be able to tell him what Q did, as I’d never be able to hide the sick, messed up desire in my voice. He’d know Q turned me on, even as I lied that I preferred tameness. I burned that bridge when I showed Brax my vibrator, asking for more.
Urgency itched; I had to get off the phone, time tick-tocked away. I could break down and find myself again once I was home.
“Brax, if—if I don’t get home, promise me you’ll find a man named Q Mercer in a small region of France. He has a big house, staff. Tell the police. I love you.”
Tears streamed anew as I terminated the call, and instantly dialled another number. The chef, covered in smears of sauce and flour, yanked the phone out of my grip.
“Hey!” I glared.
He shook his head, anger blazing. “You spreading lies. I do not believe—” Eyes shot past me. The door slammed open, bell clanging with warning.
I spun in terror.
Oh, my God. Franco stood in the doorway, eyes bugging out of his head. He froze for a millisecond before launching into action. Hands flew to his jacket, fumbling in the inner pocket. What was he looking for? A gun?
I didn’t mean to find out.
I ran.
Pushing past the man and woman, I charged into the kitchen and thanked God for the exit. The door rocketed open as I slammed it with a shoulder.
The back street was salvation, and I sprinted with every bit of strength. My sore ankle yelped as I flew over uneven cobblestones, darting down another alley. I zigged and zagged, trying to get completely lost, hoping Franco would lose all sense of direction.
A grunt and shout obliterated the hope; I ran harder. I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t. Q would punish me, and I didn’t know how much more my mind could take. I might never get another chance to escape.
Changing course, I charged for the main street, exploding from the alley into on-coming traffic. People scattered as I careened out of control, panting hard, eyes wild.
Car horns blared as I slammed to a halt in the middle of the road. My gaze darted, trying to find someone, something, to save me. I daren’t look behind to see if Franco was close—my entire body felt hunted. Any moment, a bullet would tear through my brain, putting me down like the rabid runaway I was.
Battling useless thoughts, I put all focus into finding a saviour.
A car screeched to a halt, missing me by millimetres. My heart catapulted into my throat as the bumper whispered against my knees. Shit, am I so willing to sacrifice death for survival?
“Putain de merde!” What the hell? The youngish man with browny-red hair opened the car door, waving an angry hand. “I could’ve killed you!”
I latched onto his eyes, entreating instincts to say if he could be trusted. Could he save me? I ran to the driver’s side, and gripped the door with white fingers. “Please. Take me to the police. I’ve been kidnapped.”
I looked behind me, expecting to see Franco within grabbing distance. I was an exposed target, standing in the middle of a blocked road.
The guy looked me up and down, nostrils flaring as he ran a nervous hand through his hair. Brown eyes glazed with confusion, and I suffered a pang of fear. He wouldn’t help.
I backed up, bunching muscles to run again.
Just as I was about to take off, he shouted, “Wait! I take. I take.” He ran around the front of the car and opened the passenger door.
Hesitation filled me, looking into the small sedan. Was this a case of jumping out of the pan and into the fire?
Who else do you have to save you?
“Esclave!”
Heart spurted with terror; I threw myself into the car. “Get in. Get in!” I couldn’t breathe as Franco fought his way through lingering pedestrians, eyes locked on me.
The guy jumped into action and ran to the driver’s seat. He slammed the car into gear, and we peeled forward with a roar of the engine. Franco slammed the car roof as we zoomed away, bypassing other cars, and jumping the curb.
I peered at the guy—my rescuer. His mouth thinned to a white line, navigating the road at hyper speed. I wanted to hug him, crush him in thankfulness.
Twisting in the seat, I stared out the back window. Franco jumped up and down in the street, yanking his black hair. He yelled something and threw his hands up, before sprinting back to where he parked.
Breathing hard, I swivelled to face the front, trying to calm down. I’d done it. I was free.
We didn’t say a word as we drove from the postcard perfect township onto pretty country roads.
Silence lurked like a third passenger. I stared out the window, tension knotting my stomach. I wanted to dance in happiness, but I wasn’t free yet. I needed to stay collected, stay wary. I frowned. After three weeks of torture, could it really be that easy? Uneasiness pricked, and I bit my lip. Surely, it couldn’t be that simple?
The GPS! In my rush, I’d forgotten about Q’s freakin’ tracker. Shit! I brought my leg up, resting a heel on the seat. Fingers fumbled with my jeans, pushing them up to access the anklet. I tugged hard, trying to wedge fingers beneath the twist-tie, but it only tightened, cutting off blood supply to my foot.
I huffed with rage. How the hell would I get rid of it?
The guy looked over, eyebrow cocked. “What are you doing?” He navigated a turn, before glancing again. “What is that?”
We made eye contact. His face seemed kind enough, not handsome, but not ugly. Mid-thirties with early wrinkles around brown eyes. Deciding he seemed trustworthy, I said, “I need a knife, or some scissors. Do you have anything like that?” I fiddled with the anklet. If I could raise my leg to my mouth, I could gnaw it off. The image made me want to laugh —I escaped, only to have chew my own leg off like a starving rat.
I expected him to say no. I mean, this entire thing seemed too perfect. Who could say their knight in shining armour almost ran them over, then whisked them away in a crappy Volvo?
My mind shot to Franco. Had he called Q? Arranged a search party for me? Q wouldn’t let me go easily. He’d hunt, but I didn’t intend for him to catch me.
Urgency pumped blood faster; I wished the driver would step on it. I wanted Formula One driving, not sedate Grandma.
The guy shifted, his foot pressing on the accelerator as he fumbled in a pocket. He frowned, wiggling his ass, reaching for something.
I watched with an incredulous expression, trying to figure out what he was doing. After a few awkward moments, he smiled, pulling his hand free.