warped need to replace the man who I'd supposedly been with. I looked behind him at the expanse of room, the sweeping windows that overlooked the lights, the hustle and bustle of Las Vegas. It was a place where you could disappear if you weren’t careful. I’d disappeared here before.
"You're mine," he said.
"I'm yours," I parroted.
"Never forget it, Meia." He whispered the words in my ear, his breath hot on my skin, and I felt nauseous. My instinct was to run, to fight.
But then my son would be dead.
Aston's hands were up under my dress, sliding over my ass. "All of this is mine," he said. I could feel my entire body tense to his touch.
And then he did what he wanted with me, his touch rough, his movements painful.
Afterward, I straightened my clothing, smoothed my dress and my coat as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. At least he would let me leave, had no interest in seeing me until his lust for me had been stoked again. Thank heaven for small mercies. I didn't think I could bear it to live with my tormenter.
Of course, I'd been forced to do it before, with the old man, the man who first bought me.
"Aston," I said, my voice hoarse. He didn't look at me, standing on the other side of the room gazing out at the cityscape, sipping from a glass. "Can I talk to Ben?"
I hated the way my voice sounded - small and timid. I hated to beg him for anything, but this is what I was reduced to doing.
He still didn't turn. "Keith will set it up," he said. "Sunday. One hour."
I exhaled, my relief palpable, and felt a welling up of emotion, a feeling of overwhelming gratitude toward him. Tears filled my eyes, and I wiped them away. I didn't want to cry here, not in front of him. And I hated that for a moment, I felt gratitude toward my captor for allowing me the small mercy of calling my child.
The child he had stolen from me.
As I walked away, I half-expected him to be behind me, to pull me back inside, to beat me for daring to request to speak with Ben. Aston didn't like it when I made requests of my own. It demonstrated my lack of respect for him, he'd say. And so I held my breath as I walked quickly down the hall, my heels making clicking sounds on the tile as I walked across the hall to stand at the elevator. I waited, my arms crossed around my waist, my fingers dancing on the fabric of my purse. I waited for him to open the door, to walk out to the elevator and drag me back into the penthouse by my hair, to beat me senseless. Every part of my body was on edge, tensed. I held my breath.
Ready for the attack.
I clutched the purse to me, my fingers turning numb at the ends from holding on so tightly.
Then the doors to the elevator opened and I stepped inside, exhaling as they closed.
My breath caught in my throat. You would think I would be used to this by now, the feeling of terror. It was always around me, my constant companion. It would never leave me.
It was a feeling I'd known for years, since the beginning. One that only grew stronger, day by day. I'd thought it was bad when I was at the finishing school in Bangkok, but I didn't know horror, not until I was sold to the old man.
~ ~ ~
Nine Years Ago
Las Vegas
I stood there, wearing the dress that had been chosen for me by my handlers. On the outside, I was the picture of elegance, wrapped in silk and jewels. But the jewels were fake, costume jewelry purchased by my handlers. And the dress hid the fading bruise on my back where I had been hit, an outburst by one of my instructors, who had been reprimanded for leaving the mark so close to when I’d be sold.
It was a wedding day, of sorts.
Not the one I’d dreamed of, when I was a child, living in Burma with my parents.
That was a lifetime ago.
The man stood before me, looking me over. “You are lovely,” he said, reaching for my hand.
I smiled, just as I’d been taught, and bowed my head.
Gracious.
“Yes,” he said. “I think you’ll do nicely.” His thin fingers traced down my shoulder, then along my arm, as he looked into my eyes, his gaze intense. The way he looked at me chilled me to the depths of my soul.
I might have had an inkling of what I was in for, but I had no idea the depths of what would be done to me.
He was in his seventies I guessed, his hair white and sparse. His body was frail. But his mind was not. His mind was still active, full of perverse desires. And he was a sadistic man. He enjoyed inflicting pain, more than anything. More than sex.
He would try to break me.
I was fourteen then.
“Meia,” he said, looking me over. “The name suits you.”
I kept my head bowed, my heart continuing to thump in my chest.
“Look at me, girl.” His voice was sharp and I obeyed. I didn’t realize then he would want to see my eyes, see what I looked like before he stole everything from me.
What he didn’t know was what I had looked like before. Before any of this. He didn’t realize there was nothing there anymore. Nothing left to steal.
He could torture me, but it was irrelevant. An irritation. Like the sharp bite of a mosquito on the skin.
“You are to be given free reign here, provided you please me,” he said, taking my hand in his thin one. He guided me through the great room, toward the rest of the house. As we walked, I looked around at the vast expanse of my kingdom.
I would be a caged bird.
He coughed, the sound jolting me out of my thoughts. He brought a handkerchief to his mouth. “You are not a prisoner,” he said, as if he could read my thoughts.
“No, sir,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. I would learn to call him Master.
He stopped, turned toward me again, and I felt his eyes on me, but I looked straight ahead. “You are a rare beauty, Meia.”
I nodded. It wasn’t a good thing. It was a curse.
Later, when he showed me the room, the feeling of terror intensified again. I stood there, staring at the instruments, the implements I would come to know well, my child brain unable to wrap my mind around what could be done with them.
That night, I would begin a new set of lessons. He would subject me to small pains at first, stimulating my body at the same time. Those were the pains I was used to from the finishing school in Bangkok...the sharp sting of the whip, the flat hand across my body. It was gentle compared to what I had suffered before.
That first night was the easiest. It wasn’t until he had lulled me into a sense of security, treated me kindly over the course of the first week, that he began the torture.
~ ~ ~
It was an irony that the thing that saved me from the old man - my pregnancy - was the very thing that would become my undoing, the very thing that would keep me bound to Aston. The old man was no longer interested in me after I became pregnant. He left my child and I money in the will, an apology of sorts, or at least I liked to think it was. It was the money that made me bold, made me think I could simply walk away from everything with my son. But I hadn't been so lucky. Aston had found us.
"Fights?" I asked, looking around the old building behind the clubhouse. It was a small building, decrepit the last time I saw it and just about the same now, with a concrete floor and metal walls like any other warehouse. Except this looked like a fucking training facility, nothing fancy, but the type of thing you'd find in one of those old school boxing gyms - a makeshift ring in the center, some heavy bags hanging in the corners, and weights over in the side. Two of the brothers were inside, their hands wrapped, punching at the bags.
"What the hell is this?" I asked, turning toward Blaze. "You guys starting a boxing gym or something?"
Blaze smiled. "Benicio's doing some underground stuff." He shrugged. "Don't knock it. We get paid good for providing the muscle during the fights, running the books, and keeping the bullshit to a minimum."
"What's with the set up here then?"
Blaze shrugged. "A couple of the brothers have gott
en in on the action. They're legit pretty good, unlike Big Mike and his shit talking."
I remembered Big Mike, and couldn't help but laugh. Big Mike could barely walk a hundred yards without breaking a sweat, his gut hanging over his jeans. He was a walking fucking heart attack. He wasn't going to be doing any underground fighting any time soon, and we all knew it. But I had no doubt he would be talking himself up big time as the next big thing. Dumbass would get himself killed one of these days when someone called him out on his bullshit.
I watched one of the brothers go at the heavy bag, throwing jab after jab, his fist making contact with the bag over and over. It brought back memories of high school, of all the fighting I had done while I was growing up. That's what happened when you were white trash like I was. I'd been smart though, good with computers and figures- it's how I got away from all that shit.
But now, surrounded by the sounds of fists making contact with a heavy bag, the stale smell of sweat in the air...I clenched my fists at my sides, unfurled my hands and then closed them again. I could feel myself getting the itch to fight, and I told myself to shut it down.
But shit, on the other hand, all the working out I was doing now, the weight lifting, wasn't doing me any fucking good. Letting my fist connect with something might be what I needed.
It might even be goddamned therapeutic, I thought, smiling wryly at the thought of what MacKenzie's therapist might think. Somehow I thought beating the ever living shit out of someone else wouldn't exactly fit the bill.
"You want to give it a try?" Blaze asked. "Get in the ring with one of those guys, spar a little?"
My muscles tensed up at the thought of it, twitched at the idea of getting in there with one of them. It was like my whole fucking body was on high alert, every fiber tensed up and coiled.
Motherfucking right I wanted to get in there. But there was a rational part of me, a small part of me, that said it would be a bad idea, that I didn't want to cross that line, that I couldn't control myself, once I started. Just like it was with Tink.
For a minute, the image of Tink, broken and bloody, flashed through my mind's eye. I thought about how it had felt, smashing the sledgehammer through his body over and over again, first hearing the sound of bones crunching, then everything just going...softer...as there was nothing left to bludgeon into oblivion. The rage that coursed through my veins at the idea of what he'd done to my wife.
And the feeling of power. Omnipotence.
Did I want that feeling again? I longed for it.
I was afraid if I tasted it again, I'd never stop. I'd go over the edge. I'd need it, like some kind of junkie.
"Well?" Blaze asked, grinning. "It's pretty fucking fun, I'm not gonna lie."
I shook my head. "No," I said. The word came out slowly, languid, like I was forcing it. It was a lie, and we both knew it. I turned away from the fighters, looked at Blaze. "What's the job, Blaze?"
"This isn't the place where the fights happen, obviously," he said. "We're not set up for that kind of shit here. This is just for hobby purposes, training for the couple guys who are doing it."
"So it happens at Benicio's locations."
He nodded. "Yeah. He's got some warehouses he's using for it. Takes bets on the outcomes. It's small shit here, honestly, but the Vegas ones are getting to be more...lucrative. The chapter out in Vegas is acting as muscle at the fights, but he wants an additional layer of security."
"Cameras?" I asked.
"Something like the casinos use," Blaze said. "Eye in the sky or some shit like that. Make sure no one's pulling out a camera phone and recording or anything. Shit that would be used as evidence. You know how people are. We do patdowns, make sure no one has a camera, but it's easy enough to hide something if you're motivated."
"When does he need it?" I still wasn't sure I wanted to get involved, however tangentially it was, in any more club bullshit. Even if it was more of Benicio's thing and less of a club thing.
And even if it involved this fighting shit. Especially if it involved this fighting shit. I needed to stay far, far away from that. I could feel it in my bones.
"As soon as you can do it," Blaze said. "It's Benicio, so you know he's not exactly stingy. He'll pay you fair. Cash. You have to keep it separate from anything else you're doing, that goes without saying."
I tossed Blaze a dark look. If that fucker thought something had changed with me, that retirement had somehow made me disloyal, then maybe I fucking needed to remind him of how loyal I'd been to this goddamned club.
"I thought you might be interested, since this is your area," Blaze said, interrupting my thoughts. "Easy cash, in and out, no questions. Figure I'd rather give the job to someone I trust, a brother, than outsource it somewhere else. Benicio's on board with it, didn't have a guy of his own that came to mind right away, so I told him you might be willing."
I felt my hands relax as he talked, unfurl from their tight clench. Blaze didn't think I was disloyal after all. He still counted me as a brother.
"You heading back to Vegas tonight?" he asked. Then, before I could answer that I was, he said, "You should stay. Prospects are going to grill, got a party going on, some low-key shit though, nothing crazy. But those guys are gonna go at it. For practice."
I nodded. "All right," I said. "I'll stay."
It was fucking strange being at a club party after being away for two years. Strange and familiar all at the same time. I didn't know some of these guys, but most of them were old friends. People I'd considered friends a long time ago.
A brother named Gunner clapped me on the shoulder. "Hammer!" he said, stopping when I looked at him the way I did. "Oh shit, is that not cool? I thought you knew that's what everybody's been calling you."
I took a drag on my beer. "No, you fuckstick," I said. "I didn't know."
He laughed, a sound that came from deep in his belly. Truth be told, I guess I did miss this guy. Just a little. And maybe I missed the club a little bit too. All of this, the chaos and din of the clubhouse, the friendships I'd had...I hadn't had any of that in well over two years. My life was quiet now. Too quiet sometimes. But all of this had been tainted by April's death.
I felt someone beside me, and the sensation jolted me out of my thoughts. Gunner was still talking about something, but I hadn't heard a word of it. Then he laughed, and I looked beside me at the topless girl who had attached herself to my arm, her bare tits pressed up against me. She leaned in and purred, her voice close to my ear, "Hey, baby, you want to play?"
"Hey man," Gunner said. "Have at it. You're retired, not dead."
I felt the familiar stirring of arousal, and slid my hand over one of her tits. Shit. I hadn't been laid in a long time. That part of me had been dead for a while. "What's your name, darlin'?"
"April," she said, leaning into me as she slid her hand down the front of my shirt toward my pants. I caught her by the wrist, pulled her away from me, filled with anger.
"Is this some kind of fucking joke?" I asked, looking from her to Gunner, whose face was chalk white.
"No, man, I don't know what the fuck," he said.
Her wrist felt tiny in my grip, and when I squeezed it harder, she yelped, her face contorting in pain. "What the fuck?" she screamed. "Let go of me, you psycho!"
I couldn't. "What the fuck do you mean, your name is April?" I heard my voice, loud even to my own ears, and I was aware that people were starting to stare at me.
She began whimpering. "All the girls here tonight - we're the months. April, May, June, you know? What's your problem?"
"Did someone tell you to say that?"
"Yeah, man." She struggled, trying to pull her wrist from my grip. "Our fucking pimp."
I looked at Gunner, who shook his head. "It wasn't on purpose man, just coincidence."
Not on purpose. Just a shitty piece of coincidence. Like the rest of the shit that happened with this fucking club, right?
I felt my grip on her wrist loosen, but my anger didn't dissipate. She
yanked her arm from my grasp, and I heard her