13.

Livvy

 

My eyes blink open and close several times before they finally stay open—only I have to squint. The brownish-orange light, what there is of it, is dim, filling in around the seam of the door. My head hurts so badly. As I bring my hand up to rub the spot where the pain seems to radiate from, my fingers rub against grit. I pick at the grit and bring it back to look at. Dark red and crusty. No, not grit. Scab. The whole back right lobe of my head is covered in a scab.

No wonder my head hurts. It’s probably a concussion. All my joints ache terribly. How long have I been out? I stand to stretch and get my bearings. Long side walls, short at the endcaps. Corrugated metal. A semi-truck bed? I don’t think so. A heavy sliding door lines the long right wall. So railroad car? Either way, the space is only wide enough to accommodate the dirty full-size mattress I’d woken up on.

I shudder to think what those large brown stains are actually from. He’d left me without a blanket and with no heat, so it’s chilly inside. So best guess, it’s nighttime out. Two buckets sit side by side, butted up against the left wall. When I walk over to peek inside, one is empty and one has water. Well, I figure I know what the empty bucket is for.

Not that it’ll do any good; I already know it won’t. But still, what kind of kidnap victim would I be if I didn’t at least try to escape? A few good tugs on the door, it doesn’t so much as creak or groan, let alone budge. It was worth a try. Surprisingly, unlike the first time I’d been taken, a calmness washes over me.

The first time I’d freaked when I woke up in that dark box filling with water. Freaked out until I realized if I didn’t conserve air, I’d screw myself even faster than he could by putting me there in the first place.

Maybe, maybe I’m just done being scared.

I don’t know, who knows?

What I do know is when I move back over to the mattress, I stumble over a horseshoe-shaped piece of metal welded to the floor of the car. It’s oddly jutting out for no apparent reason. I pull on the horseshoe thing, hoping for a weak spot in the floor. There isn’t one.

Palms to eyes, I press and force myself to breathe slowly in and out. Think, think, think, Liv…

Okay. Gage will be looking for me. This, I know. The one person in my life I can always count on. Missing him, I roll myself up into a ball, continuing to breathe in and out to hold the calm and close my eyes without the pressure this time. The phantom smell of his cologne fills my nose.

“We’re going to St. Louis?” I ask, clasping my hands together. I’ve never been to St. Louis. The arch, it’s iconic. My dad has never taken us on a trip before. He’s gone on plenty, but this’ll be a first for me and Raif. “I can’t believe we’re going on a trip.”

My brother has a strange look to his face, and he opens his mouth to say something when the old man lumbers in smelling strongly of whiskey and perfume. Not his wife’s brand. My stepmom Misti’s scent smells smoky and flowery. I can’t describe it. But if I had to, I’d call it biker class. This perfume reeks of cheap. Biker cheap.

“Who’s goin’ on a trip?” my father asks.

Regressing to the nervous habit I’ve had since I was a kid, I twist and untwist the ends of a rope of my hair around my finger. He has this way of making me feel so small and stupid without ever calling me a name; just the way he says all the other words.

“Speak up,” my father chides. The asshole gets off on making me uncomfortable.

“I…uh…” I stumble and stutter.

“I… uh…” he teases me, changing his voice to a lower, derogatory, what he always calls “country bumpkin.” “Come on, girl. You dumb like your mother?”

Talking cruel about my mother, that’s a punch to the gut that I feel deep. She wasn’t dumb—she was addicted and now she’s gone and it’s his fault. Tears begin to flood my eyes. “R-Raif said we were going to St. Louis.”

“No, we”—he gestures between himself and Raif—“are goin’ to St. Louis. You’re stayin’ here with Misti.”

“No,” I say before I think. “Misti hates me.” And she does. She absolutely hates me because I’m a constant reminder of her husband’s cheating ways.

“You think we want a fucking bitch hangin’ around? Hard to get pussy that way, eh, boy?” He looks to my brother, like they’re having some kind of bonding moment. They probably are. Raif has been spending more time with our father and the club than me lately. My brother laughs, but from the look on his face, it’s because he doesn’t want to piss off Dad, not at my expense, at least. “Get your bag,” our dad orders. “We gotta roll.”

A few moments later Raif walks back into the front room carrying a small duffle over his shoulder. The front door pops open and Gage sticks his head inside. “Knock, knock,” he says.

“Hey, man,” my brother greets his lifelong best friend.

Cue the asshole, my father walks back into the room with his duffle. “Hey, boy.” He greets Gage with a chin lift. “Goin’ to St. Louis this weekend. Welcome to come. Lots of easy pussy to wet your dick.”

I flinch. The thought of Gage and easy pussy turns my stomach. “Nah, no thanks, Ripper. I got something I need to see to. Maybe next time.”

Raif and the old man offer back pats for Gage as they leave, a glance for me from my brother only. Nothing from my father. I don’t exist for him unless he’s cutting me down. Once we hear the rumble of Harleys out front, Gage walks the two steps over to me and takes my hand in his, pulling me toward the front door.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Seeing to what I need to see to.” His smile is glorious and only for me.

I pull the front door shut as he pulls me through it over to his bike and helps me mount. Then he slides on in front of me and twists to put his helmet on my head.

“Where are we going?” I ask, giddily squirming on the seat.

“I bought a boat. We’re goin’ out on the lake.”

My thoughts are ripped from that perfect memory when the sliding door creaks, then groans and slides open. I still. Oh, god.

Houdini.

No. It can’t be. It can’t. It can’t. It can’t. But apparently, it can.

“Miss me?” he asks. Bile rises from my stomach to burn the back of my throat. My eyes water partly from the bile, but partly because I know I’m not getting out alive this time.

“No,” I whisper. Not to his question, but to his mere presence. Though he mistakes my response and snickers. I feel woozy and my heart begins to beat like a racehorse running the Preakness in my chest.

“Well, I missed you.” There’s an evil, mad glint in the stare he aims at me, his face marred by angry, red welts where the wasps had stung him. It’s a small consolation considering that more than knowing I’m not getting out alive, I know whatever comes next is going to hurt. “Now, sit tight. I’ll deal with you in a second.”

He takes to meticulously setting up a tripod made for a smartphone already connected to the tripod base and aimed in my direction, and taps an app to bring up the phone’s video. Attention back on me, he bends forward to grab my arm tight enough to leave a bruise and hauls me over to the horseshoe welded to the floor. At the sight of the shackles he pulls from the bag by his feet to clip my wrists, I gasp and begin the pointless struggle to get away.

A cuff to my right cheek shuts me down. He pulls a second pair of shackles for my ankles and then a thick leather collar, which he fastens around my neck. A thicker chain attached one end to the collar, he secures the second end to the horseshoe.

Then he bends down to pull something else from the bag. My body begins to shake uncontrollably because in his hand he holds a long rod with a thick, heavy, plastic handle and a head with two brass contact prongs. That’s no Taser. I’d seen pictures of that thing online before. A cattle prod. He flicks the switch on… to a cattle prod. I hear the electricity coursing through it in the small room. Smell it.

His eyes gleam, alighted by some psychopathic joy. His smile looks manic.

 “Please, no,” I beg him meekly.

“Yes,” he says to me as he leans forward to press record on the phone. Then he faces the camera. “You brought this on yourselves.” He touches the prong end of the prod to my thigh. Unimaginable pain shoots throughout my entire body, my muscles constrict, shrinking me into a ball. There’s a heart-wrenching scream filling the room and I realize it comes from me, though I feel disconnected from the noise.

When he pulls the prongs away, he looks back at the camera. “Even trade. A whore for a whore.” Before I can recover, he touches the prongs to my thigh again. This time, I vomit all over myself and the floor. As he pulls the prod away again, he tells the camera, “I want the Hollister whore and her bastard.”

He hits the button to end the recording. “Now, wasn’t that fun?”

I don’t respond because I can’t respond. The tears continue to leak from the corners of my eyes while low, keening whimpers leak from the corners of my mouth.

“I figured you’d puke,” he says, tossing a clean T-shirt over to me before he unbuckles the collar and uses a key to unshackle my wrists and ankles. He knows I won’t try to fight back. I still can’t move my muscles. They twitch in little spasms from the shock. “They always puke,” he finishes.

He disconnects his phone from the tripod and shoves it in the pocket of the black hoodie he’s wearing, then folds down the legs of the tripod to stuff it back inside the bag he’d brought. “Use the water from the bucket to clean yourself up. Careful, that’s your drinkin’ water too.” He winks at me, then. Bastard.

At last he throws a wrapped granola bar at me. It hits my head. I can’t even flinch. He laughs, but thankfully, he leaves.

There’s no way for me to know how long I stay lying in my own vomit. Not that it matters in the scheme of my life or where it’s descended. When finally the spasms ease and my muscles get their strength back, weak, but enough to hold me, I push up from the floor to peel the nasty shirt off. The puke stench fills the car. Whether I clean it off me or not, escaping the smell is impossible.

Careful not to get the vomit in the clean water bucket, I clean myself and dress, if you can call it dressing, in the tee he’d left. Michael hadn’t given me a bra or panties after the bath. As if a pair of panties could perform magic to keep a psycho from having his way with me if the urge arises.

Eventually, the hunger gets to me, my stomach nervous but not roiling. I tear open the wrapper on the granola bar, making sure to keep the bites small in case my wayward stomach decides to revolt.

The thought of Gage out there worried for me, it hurts my heart. The thought that he wants Elise and Gun absolutely terrifies me. Elise, my sister from another mister. Why can’t he just leave us alone?

God, what had I been thinking leaving the compound? I’d been safe there, safe with Gage. You don’t go off alone; I’ll keep you safe, he’d said to me. And what do I do at every turn? Go off alone. I left him and the compound, and then I just had to go back to work. The whole reason I’m in this mess is because I wouldn’t listen to the one man I should have been listening to this whole time.

If I’m honest, the whole reason I’d gotten on Houdini’s radar in the first place, the whole reason I’d lost my virginity to a man I didn’t love, was my fault. All my fault.

“I’m not going to wait forever,” I say, folding my arms in a ‘getting ready to argue’ stance. He tucks the tips of his fingers in each pocket, his thumbs resting against his hips, tipping his head to look at the ceiling of his bedroom as if asking the lord for patience. His mom is at work, where she always is now that his father is across the country in Seattle. They’re trying to save up enough money for Mrs. St. James to join her husband, but moving costs money. They want Gage to come too, but he’d never leave Raif… or me. At least I used to think me.

“We’re not waiting forever, Liv. I plan to talk to him; we just have to go in easy. Raif’s my best friend and Ripper, you’re his daughter. It’s a respect thing with the club; I got to get his permission. And they prefer you not have entanglements when—”

“When what? It sounds like he’s grooming you to—you aren’t planning to prospect?” Utter shock, sadness and anger all hit me at once. Betrayal. He knows, knows I don’t want this life. I won’t be Misti or worse, my mother.

The guilty look marring his beautiful face says everything.

“You promised me, Gage, you promised you’d take me away from this life. I’d never have to worry about jackhole men trying to hurt me. I’d never be just the daughter of a club whore ever again.”

“Baby, you won’t be. If you’re my old lady, the brothers won’t touch you. Their kids won’t touch you. It’s a measure of safety. Raif and I’ll look after you, you’ll see.”

“No. We won’t.”

“Don’t say that,” he implores, using his big, blue puppy dog eyes in a way that would normally work for him. Not today.

“We’re done. I’m done. I refuse to be Misti and wonder every time you head off to St. Louis if it’s for easy pussy, or god forbid, my mother. My poor, desperate mother, who hung on, hoping for a life, for a love that my piece of shit father never planned to give her.”

“Stop, Liv. Don’t talk about Ripper.”

“I will, Gage. He’s a piece of shit and if you throw your lot with him, then you’re a piece of shit, too.”

“It won’t be like that for us, baby. I promise you. I promise. Just because he cheats doesn’t mean I will. I could never hurt you.”

“You just did.”

I had planned on giving myself to him that night. After the breakup, god, I’d been distraught and went to one of the few places that brought me solace. Wrigley Field. Straight into the arms of a lunatic. Stupid, I’d been so stupid.

If I’d only listened to Gage then. He wouldn’t have hurt me. I know that now. If I’d just stayed the night with him, we’d have shared a wonderful memory and I’d never have had to run. Because Houdini would’ve met some other girl.

That’s selfish. I know it’s selfish.

Okay, that’s enough wallowing. Enough. Now is the time to make plans. How do I get out of here? How do we keep Elise and Gun safe? If she’s back in Kentucky on the compound, then she’s safe. Nothing to worry about.

No other plans, save escape, come to mind. I spend my time checking every inch of railroad car I can touch and scrutinize with my eyes those I can’t, looking for any hole or weak spot. Any place I could dig at.

Even flipping up the mattress, there’s nothing that I can find. Righting it, I flop down on the edge, knees to chin, and try to regroup. Please don’t let us end this way. Please, please, please let me see Gage again.

Stupid, so stupid. There’s noise outside the car, like someone walking around. And I guess, I don’t know. I’d just sent that prayer out into the universe to see Gage again and then right after hear someone outside. Serendipitous.

“Hello?” I call out. “Hello, is someone there? Please help me! I’ve been kidnapped!”

The click from the lock and the door rolls open. So, so stupid. Why would I ever think it would be my Gage?

“I know,” he says. “Since I’m the one who put you here.”

He throws the same black garbage bag from the first time he visited, not the stretchy kind but a cheap black garbage bag, down on the floor of the car before he hefts himself inside and slides the door shut.

“Go ahead and scream your head off, no one will hear. You think I’m stupid?”

“No, I think you’re certifiable,” comes out of my mouth before I can think better of it. He snickers as his bearded mouth tips up in the corner.

“Good, gonna make it fun this time.”

My eyes grow huge. His comment unnerves me. But if I could take him off guard, he hadn’t locked the rolling door… If I could get out, lock him in…

Not paying me a lick of attention, he bends down to riffle through the bag. I take the chance and tackle him with a head-butt to the gut. He falls on his ass. Tactical error—I should have used my shoulder, not my head. Despite the dizzying effect of the hit, I scramble into a run, just reaching the rolled door before he catches my foot, yanking it out from underneath me.

Even throwing my hands out to block the fall, my chin still clips the metal and splits open. Face wound and all, blood begins to seep down onto my shirt, blossoming out into a saturated stain by the collar.

“And so it begins,” he mutters, and then I feel the cold, metal shackle clamp around my ankle.

“No,” I whisper. Electricity hums through the air.