Tears of Tess
Page 8

Stringy hair was all over the place, a cut oozed on his cheekbone, and he heaved as if he’d been beaten by a gorilla. He snarled, “Vete a la mierda, puta.” He nursed his finger and shoved aside a man with a gun, reaching for me.
I didn’t think. My body just reacted. I slapped him as hard as I could; my palm burned, but it was nothing compared to my happiness at the red handprint I painted on his cheek. I’d caused grievous bodily harm and enjoyed it.
I was more dangerous than I thought.
He glared. “Estás muerto.”
I knew that word: die.
Before Leather Jacket could touch me, two men grabbed him, carting him out of the room. His voice raged as they disappeared.
The remaining men backed out of the room, pointing guns until the lock snapped securely.
I spun slowly in the centre of the dungeon, looking wide-eyed, at the women. Some held sheets to their throats, some gawked open-mouthed.
What did they see when they looked at me? A feral woman who signed her own death sentence, or a fierce warrior who saved herself from rape?
The pretty Asian girl with long black hair, dropped her sheet and clapped. “I’ve wanted to do that since they stole me from the nightclub with my friend.” Her voice trembled but the glint of fire in her eyes reminded me of myself. “We’ll be free again,” she added.
I stared, startled and silent, as a voluptuous black girl joined her clapping. One by one, the ladies clapped and smiles stretched unhappy faces.
One by one, fire lit in their gaze.
One by one, they rallied, and I knew we wouldn’t be passive anymore.
We were right, and they were wrong.
Righteousness would set us free.
* * * * *
The next day, I was taken by rope leash to shower again. I’d learned to live with the pain in my joints and muscles—they reminded me of victory, not weakness. A badge of honour.
Once I was clean, Jagged Scar pulled me down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. This part of the house, factory, trafficker hotel—whatever it was—was different. Ugly artwork graced the walls, and the room he shoved me into was a normal study. Glass windows with an industrial view, a desk, chairs, and a man reclining, stared at me.
He was as white as me with blond hair, tanned skin, and blue eyes—the same bright blue as Brax.
My heart twisted.
Jagged Scar forced me into a chair, but I never took my eyes off the man in a business suit.
“Who are you?” I rasped.
The man narrowed his eyes, placing palms on the desk. Jagged Scar retreated to lurk by the wall. Tingles of fear darted down my back, but I refused to bow to terror any longer. I’d drawn blood—that counted for something.
“I’m the man who holds your fate in his hands.”
“I’m the only one who owns my fate. Not you. Not your guards. Not your sick operation. No one.”
He chuckled. “Ignacio was right. You’re a fighter.” He leaned forward, twirling a pen. “Being a fighter is what gets you killed. You should let go. Let us guide you.”
Ignacio? Was that Leather Jacket? I twitched in anger. “Let you guide me to my death by rape and mutilation?”
He leaned back as if I slapped him. “Stupid girl. If you behave, you will be sold to a gentleman who will treat you like a prized possession. Lavish attention on you. Buy you whatever you want.”
My mind ran crazy. I was right. I was to be sold into sex slavery, into bondage.
“I am nobody's possession.”
He shook his head, smiling. “Ah, but you’re wrong. You already are. Sold. Contracted. The deed is done.”
My heart tried to claw its way out of my throat, but I sat frozen, brave. “You won’t get away with this.”
He stood and threw a package into my lap. I caught it on reflex, horrified to find my photograph on a fake American passport, and papers written in Spanish.
“Already have, pretty girl.” He came to the front of the desk, stopping in front of me. He trailed fingertips along my cheek, just as gentle, just as adoring, as Brax used to. “What is your name?”
“You’re not worthy of my name,” I snarled, trying to bite his fingers.
He stepped back, laughing. “Well, I hope you are worthy of the client who bought you. I don’t do refunds.” He nodded at Jagged Scar, who’d snuck up behind me. “Do it.”
My world ended as hands smothered my face, pressing a rag, reeking of chloroform against my nose and mouth. I tried not to breathe, fought to get free, but the fumes stung my eyes, entering my bloodstream.
A fog descended, whispering and stealing.
Unconsciousness claimed me.
Chapter 7
*Nightingale*
My ears popped on descent.
I instantly recognised the hum of aircraft engines and gentle thrum of metal. I’d been on a plane only a week before. Had it been a week since I’d been a prisoner? It felt much, much longer. I’d changed so much. My life no longer evolved around exams and when I could get Brax naked. Now, all I focused on was survival.
The black hood rested over my head, and I tried to remain calm. Freaking out wouldn’t help.
My ears kept popping as the airplane left the clouds, returning to earth. Where was I? They’d given me a passport for a reason, so I must be overseas somewhere.
Time ceased to have meaning as we landed, then taxied a fair distance. Finally, the engines ceased and abrupt silence hurt my ears.
As I sat there, with hands bound and head aching from being drugged, I mentally prepared for the worst. The next stage of my new life. I had to protect myself. Be ready to fight and run.
I couldn’t think about regrets and my past. I couldn't think about Brax.
And I definitely couldn’t think about what was in store for me.
A sad smile graced my lips. If someone asked a week ago what I was most afraid of, I'd have said crickets. Those damn flying grasshopper creatures scared the bejesus out of me.
Now, if someone asked me, I’d say three little words.
Three little words that terrified, stole my breath, and made my life flicker before my eyes.
Three little words:
I was sold.
Noise.
The cargo door of the airplane opened and footsteps thudded. My senses were dulled, muted by the black hood, and my mind ran amok with terror-filled images.
Male voices argued and my arms were wrenched painfully as someone pulled me to my feet. I flinched and cried out, earning a fist to my belly. The blow landed on a particularly tender part, and suddenly, everything was too much. I’d been so strong and it hadn’t changed my future. Tears streamed down my face. The first tears I shed, but definitely not the last.
The wetness on my cheeks wasn’t cleansing, it made me feel worse.
A cold wind whipped, disappearing up the baggy brown sweater I wore. Icy fingers of winter said I was no longer in Mexico.
I kept moving until one set of hands released and another set secured me tight, dragging me against a hard torso. “This is for Mr. Mercer?”
“Sí. Our boss hopes he enjoys this one. She’s got spirit. He should have fun breaking her.”
My stomach twisted, threatening to evict empty contents. Oh, God.
“Pas de problème. I’m sure he will.”
The French words pricked my ears.
With a harsh pull, my new captor marched me forward. I had no choice but to do as he requested. After a while, he jerked me to a wobbling stop. My rib twinged, but I stood straight and tall. Hunching would show cowardice and uncertainty. I was none of those things. The moment the hood was off, I was running.
A rope looped over my head, catching my ears through the black cloth. I tossed my head, feeling like a prized pony; a thoroughbred ready for the glue factory.
Manly voices murmured, warbling with deep tones and gruffness. I strained to hear, but the wind snatched the vowels before I could comprehend.
The screech of aircraft engines grew louder as another plane landed. We had to be at a commercial airport, but I must’ve been smuggled in via cargo. I couldn’t see anything, but I knew we hadn’t been in a cabin with soft seats and air-hostesses. It had been icy cold and dreadfully uncomfortable.
I stood, shivering, while men talked. The tears I shed froze on my cheeks, reminding me to keep my frosty exterior to survive. I had to become an icicle—cool and impenetrable, sharp and deadly.
A hand looped around my bound arm, guiding me forward. I tottered with them, blind and disorientated. The twine around my wrists burned with every jostle.
Why couldn’t they invest in handcuffs, or something not as rudimentary? After all, selling women must be a profitable business. What did I fetch? How much for a non-virgin Australian woman with an unfinished bachelor in property development?
I’ll buy back my freedom. Bubbles of manic laughter tickled. I’ll walk into a bank and ask for a loan to buy myself. Because I’m such a good investment. I snorted. Oh, God, I was losing it.
We didn’t walk far. We stopped and I stood with my heart thumping, waiting, waiting, waiting.
A sharp tug on my wrists, then I was free. My shoulders ached as I brought my arms forward, rolling, working out the kinks.
I was free.
In a wide-open space.
I could run.
Someone behind removed the rope around my neck, along with the hood. I looked left and right, investigating the new surroundings.
Three muscle men stood in a triangle around me. All in black suits, looking very Men in Black, dark haired, and rugged. The night-sky glittered with a pepper-spray of silver stars. A crescent moon sliced the black velvet. I wanted to stare in wonder.
“Get on board,” a man ordered, eyes hidden by shades, even in the dark. His accent was thick, wrapped in masculine authority. Placing hands on my shoulders, he pushed me toward a private plane.
The white fuselage glowed, looking sleek, modern, dripping with wealth. Initials Q.M. scrawled in fancy calligraphy on the tail and wing tips.
Was this the man who bought me? A wealthy owner of a jet who bought women like a pair of new socks? If he was so wealthy, he didn’t need to buy willing partners… unless… I swallowed hard. Perhaps he had sick fetishes. Liked to hurt and indulge in sadistic pleasures.
How long would I survive?
I wasn’t about to find out.
“Go on. Climb the steps.”
It’s now or never, Tess.
I bounced on the balls of my feet, pretending to obey. My body revved with energy and I pivoted in thigh-high socks. I’d always been a runner. I used to run track for school, and jogged every day on the treadmill to get in shape for the holiday with Brax.
My body knew how to flee.
I shut my mind off and instinct took over.
I flew.
The cold tarmac bit my feet as I pushed harder. Men burst into action. They’ll probably shoot. I don’t care. A bullet to the head might be a better choice.
“Arrêt!” a man shouted, followed by “Merde!”
I sucked air—it whistled in my lungs. I had no clue where I headed. Hangars loomed like gaping mouths. Sparkling lights of the main terminal looked like the gates of heaven, too far in the distance.
The words Charles De Gaulle were bright and gaudy, taunting with hope and safety. Too far. I could never run that distance. Not with the suited hounds on my tail, quickly gaining traction.
Men closed the distance and I added another burst of speed. If only I could truly fly. Perhaps I could get free.
A cannonball of a body came from nowhere, cutting off my trajectory.
We toppled to the ground. The tarmac grated my thigh and I cried out in agony.
My tackler sat up, straddling me. He looked like the other guards—eyes hidden behind dark glasses, and his black suit crisp and all business.
My chest heaved with air and regret, stabbing me with pain from my rib. I tried. I failed. The second lot of tears burned, streaking down my flushed cheeks as the man hauled me upright.
I limped, wincing on a sprained ankle. I wanted to wail and shout. My body shackled me with yet another injury; I couldn’t outrun anyone.
Head down and hope gone, I hobbled back to the plane under the stern grip of guard Number Four.
I didn’t make eye contact with any of the men, and meekly climbed the steps into the private plane. The men muttered and laughed while I plonked into a white leather chair in defeat.
I tried. I failed. I tried. I failed. It repeated, over and over.
Don’t give up. Next time, you could win. Next time, it might work. My hands curled—I would never stop looking for a way out.
Never.
* * * * *
“Get up. We’re here.” A foot prodded my swollen ankle.
I flinched and opened my eyes. Faking sleep hadn’t worked. Every moment we flew in the height of luxury, I seethed with thoughts of how to maim the guards and take the plane hostage.
But I didn’t do anything. I sat in the chair, like a blow up doll.
It seemed so long ago I’d hounded Brax for more kinkiness in our love life. I’d do anything to have my old life back, my old love returned. I’d give anything for sweet and pure instead of the dark, sinister, and sadistic ownership that awaited.
If I could press a rewind button, I would, beginning with never going to Mexico.
I stood, and guard Number Four helped me down the plush, carpeted aisle. Coarse fingers wrapped around my burning wrists, passing me to a colleague at the bottom of the small flight of stairs. The bandage over the tattoo provided very little protection. The pain flared and itched. I hated it.
The moment I was on the ground, I froze. We stood in the middle of a manicured, grassy airstrip, frosty with ice, dark as the depths of hell, apart from the most gorgeous manor house I’d ever seen in the distance. Subtle outdoor lighting illuminated the soft pastel creams, blues, and pinks; French architecture at its finest.
The guard pulled my elbow and we trudged across the grass. I stumbled, stunned by incomprehensible wealth. Who could afford their own plane and mansion to house it?