Chapter Eight
From the second floor, in an empty room with dirty windows, Misty watched Paco walk out of the club. She wanted to call out to him but she didn’t dare. Bobby was furious. When he’d come back inside, he’d stumbled into the dressing room she shared with Crystal and Amber Jade, hopping mad. For almost an hour, he grilled her on who the “asshole” was who’d broken his nose, and she kept repeating over and over like a mantra, “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him. He was out there smoking a joint just like I was.” She hadn’t changed her story once, hadn’t flinched when Bobby raised his hand and struck her, and hadn’t acted like her insides were a melting mess of anxiety and excitement. As Bobby ranted, she’d thought of the handsome biker, unable to believe he was at the club. She never thought she’d see him again.
Then Bobby had stopped, and silence pressed down on her. She’d looked up into his glowering face. “What the fuck are you thinking about? That fuckin’ asshole who broke my nose?”
“No. I was thinking how awful it is that you’re in a lot of pain.” Even to her, she’d sounded insincere.
Bobby had held her gaze as tension crackled around them. Not moving a muscle, she’d willed herself not to show any weakness. Bobby can’t read my mind. Then the door flew open and she jumped as her hands flew to her throat. The pig from the night before came into the room.
He’d smiled widely, his straight white teeth gleaming. “You looked good out there.” His eyes ran up and down her body, and she felt like scrubbing her skin off. He’d turned to Bobby. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Nothing. I didn’t see a door, that’s all. So you like my women?”
Victor had taken a few steps closer to her. “I like this one.”
“Get out. Victor and I need to talk.”
She’d walked away, cringing when Victor squeezed her butt as she passed him. And now, watching Paco leave, a heaviness settled in her limbs. “Don’t go,” she whispered. Her shoulders curled forward and she swallowed several times, trying to get rid of the lump in her throat.
He was so close. It felt like she could reach out and touch him. I could open the window and yell out to him, but Bobby would hear… and Victor. She didn’t want him to get hurt, although he’d held his own with Bobby. When she’d seen blood on his face, her insides had a party, and she liked Paco even more for doing what she’d wanted to do for a very long time. And he asked me if I was being forced to be here. I almost told him. And she may have if Bobby hadn’t come out. There was something about Paco that made her believe that maybe she could trust him. Since her kidnapping, trust in people, especially men, had eroded until it no longer existed.
A car door slamming brought her out of her thoughts and she saw him in the front seat, staring straight ahead. That was the way she’d remember him. She pressed her fingers to her throat, trying to stop the lump from getting bigger. The SUV drove away, and she stood watching long after it’d disappeared from her sight.
“What’re you doing up here?” Pixie, one of the dancers, asked her. “You don’t want one of the guys to come up here and find you. A cute, new girl like you would have a bad time. Come on back to the club.”
Misty nodded and followed her downstairs. Bobby was still talking to Victor, and when she passed by, Victor reached out for her, but Bobby stepped over and yanked her to him. “She’s not available for tonight.”
Nodding, he laughed. “You gave me a taste of her last night and teased me tonight when she danced. I can see why. She’s prime real estate.”
You fuckin’ pig. I’m a person. I’m me. “Chelsea Sullivan,” she said under her breath. A soft cry escaped through her lips. Oh shit. I haven’t said my name in years. She dug her fingernails into her palms. Focus. You need to know what the hell’s going down. Something doesn’t feel right.
Victor came over and stroked her cheek; she cringed under his touch. “That’s okay. I can wait. You know, waiting can be a powerful aphrodisiac. It makes me imagine all sorts of things I want to do to a fucktoy.”
She stepped away from him, and his thin smile turned into a sneer.
“Be a good girl and wait in the bar. Victor and me are finishing up some business.” Bobby pushed her in the direction of the bar. Darting her eyes between them, her shoulders tightened and she twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “Go on now.” Harshness seeped into his voice, and she walked away.
Inside the club area, she saw Crystal, Amber Jade, and a few other women laughing and drinking with a group of guys wearing green bandanas. The letters “WAB” were tattooed on their arms. She’d learned earlier that evening that the place was run by a gang called the West Avenue Bandits, and Victor owned it. The night before, she’d seen the roman numeral “XXV” tattooed on his upper arm and back. When she’d asked Bobby about it, he’d told her it referenced the letters in the alphabet, so “L” and “M” added up to twenty-five. She’d learned that one question was about all she could ask without Bobby flipping out on her, so she didn’t ask what the “L” and “M” stood for.
“Chica, you want a drink?” one of the men asked her. She shook her head. “I loved the way you danced. Next time we have to make sure the lights are brighter so we can see more.”
You have your fuckin’ boss to thank for giving me all the marks. Concealer and makeup could only hide so much, so she’d asked the sound and light man to crank up the smoke and turn down the lights.
“Let’s party, chica.” He hung his arm around her.
In one fluid move, she slid from under it. “Thanks for asking, but I can’t party with anyone.”
Two other men came over with their arms snaked around girls who looked to be fifteen. Emptiness reflected from their eyes. Misty saw the same thing in hers when she looked in the mirror—it was the look of resignation, enslavement, and despair.
“Let’s go back to the clubhouse,” one of the men said to the guy who kept bugging her.
Gripping her arm tightly, he jerked her to him. “I’m ready.”
Misty tried to push away, but his hold was like iron. “No. I can’t. Let go of me.”
“Shut the fuck up, puta. You do what I tell you to do.”
“Leave her alone, cabrón,” Victor said.
The man instantly let go of her. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. I didn’t know she was yours.” He stalked back to the bar.
“I always take care of what’s mine.” The way Victor looked at her set off a thousand five-alarm bells inside her.
“Crystal, Amber Jade, get your asses over here. We’re heading out,” Bobby said, walking into the room.
“They want to party with us,” Amber Jade pouted.
“Not without paying.” Bobby motioned for Misty to come over.
“How much you want for the three girls to party with us?” a short burly man asked.
Bobby hooked his arm around Misty. “This one’s not available. For the other two, give me two grand.”
“That’s too much,” the man said.
“That’s the price.” Bending down, he whispered in her ear, “You want a drink?”
A single shiver ran up her spine. Why’s he being nice to me? “Sure.” She really didn’t want anything but to get out of the club. Some strange tension and energy was going around, making her nerves snap.
“Give my favorite girl a rum and Coke.” Guiding her to the bar, she trembled as her smooth skin prickled to goose bumps. “You cold? Lemme give you my jacket.” He draped it around her, then helped her onto the bar stool.
Her stomach churned. He’s up to something. Light-headedness overcame her and she clutched the side of the bar, fearful she would topple over or faint.
“Here you go,” Bobby said, handing her a tall glass.
She curled her fingers around it and brought it to her forehead, the coolness of the glass soothing her. Across the bar, Victor sat at a table, his dark eyes boring into her. The neon lights picked up glints of cruelty in that cold gaze.
She took a sip and thought she’d upchuck right there. “Bobby, I’m so tired. Can we just go back to the motel?” Holding her breath, she braced herself for his reaction.
“No problem.” He threw a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Keep the change.” He helped her down and snapped his fingers. Crystal and Amber Jade rushed over.
“What about a thousand?” the short man asked.
“Two grand is the amount. Take it or leave it.”
The man grumbled something inaudible under his breath, and a few other gang members threw dirty looks at Bobby.
“Come on, girls. We’re outta here.” With his arm curled around Misty, they walked out, the other two women shuffling behind them.
When they arrived at the motel room, Bobby took out a bottle of scotch and several bottles of prescription pain pills. “Why don’t you take a warm shower before you go to bed? I know you like your showers.”
What are you hiding from me, Bobby? “Okay.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, she kicked off her stilettos and rubbed her feet. “Is your nose feeling better?”
“It will after I take a few of these.” He poured out several white pills in the palm of his hand. “You want some?” She shook her head. “It’ll make you sleep real good.” Another shake of her head. Lifting his shoulders up and down, he poured scotch into a plastic cup. “Suit yourself.” He popped the pills in his mouth and washed them down, then went over to the bed, turned on the television, and settled back on the pillows.
After her long shower, she came back into the room and saw Bobby conked out on the bed, the TV still on and the plastic cup on the floor. She padded over to the window and looked out. There weren’t any lights on, and the parking lot was quiet. A dull ache pulled at her, and she wondered if Paco was still in Silverado.
Pressing her forehead against the cool windowpane, she closed her eyes. It’d been a long time since she’d felt the pull toward a man—eight years, to be exact. She’d been fifteen years old when she’d had a massive crush on Tyler Tarleton. He’d been the quarterback for the Roosevelt Raiders, and all the girls wanted to get his attention. Priscilla Mitchum had been head cheerleader and the most popular girl in the sophomore class. It hadn’t been a secret that she had her sights on Tyler. According to her, since she was head cheerleader, popular, pretty, and rich, it made sense that she and Tyler should be a couple. Whenever she’d laugh and flirt with Tyler, Misty—no, Chelsea. I was Chelsea back then, and I never thought I stood a chance with Tyler, not with Priscilla in the picture.
But Tyler had started coming over to her during lunch and between classes, and when she’d bumped into him at a party and he’d asked her to dance, she’d been over the moon. He’d made her feel special and pretty.
How fucking naïve I was.
A loud grunt yanked her back from memory lane to the present. She looked over her shoulder and saw Bobby sleeping on his back, his mouth open; he looked like a fish gasping for air. I wonder if he’d wake up if I put a pillow over his face. Another loud grunt and then he turned on his side. For several minutes, she watched him sleep, and when she was convinced that he wasn’t waking up, she tiptoed over to his jacket and slipped her hand inside the inner pocket. Her fingers curled around a fat envelope and she pulled it out, going into the bathroom and locking the door behind her. As she sat on the toilet, she opened the manila envelope to find stacks of bills. Ice ran through her veins, her ears pounded, and she couldn’t move. Sitting there, just staring at the money, sourness filled her mouth and she thought she was going to lose it. Then, with shaky fingers, she pulled out the bundles of money and counted. When she reached $65,000, she knew.
There was no doubt.
Bobby had sold her to Victor.