“And you escaped on July 7th in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Is that correct?”
“Yes. He had taken me there to sell me and purchase another slave.”
“And you escaped his care and ran to a hotel, where you called your prior boyfriend, Brett Betschart?”
“Yes.”
“And Brett Betschart just happened to be in the same city?”
“I was taken from there. I’m sure he made many trips there since my disappearance to look for me.”
My lawyer, a suit with a Yale diploma on his wall, leaned forward, far enough to catch my eye and gave me a warning look. Oh, right. No elaborating. I forgot. I flicked my eyes back toward the man, an FBI agent.
“Why didn’t you call the police upon your return to America?”
“I called my father. He’s the Chief of Police in my town.”
“So you called your father and told him where Mr. Menas lived?”
“Not initially. I was in shock.”
“What is your understanding of what your father did with that information?”
“I believe that he went to New Mexico and coordinated with local authorities there.”
“Would you be surprised to know that your father did not contact the police but instead went straight to Mr. Menas’ house, where it appears he tortured the man for several days before surrendering him to police?”
“Would I be surprised?”
“Yes.”
“No, I would not be surprised. But I don’t know what my father did when he left Quincy.” Or Brett. They left together, three days after I returned home. Three days spent in a combination of smothering me with love and grilling me about my stay. I didn’t want to know what they did to him, yet a small part of me wanted every painful detail. They let him live, I knew that. They let him live and now he was in the custody of the New Mexico judicial system.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Johnson. Special Agent Haster will escort you to a private room for your written statement.”
I nodded and rose. Remembered, at the last minute, that I could look him in the eye.
4 months, 3 weeks after rescue
I blew into the snow and it poofed, a hundred snowflakes bursting into the air, the wind sweeping a blast of them back into my face and I giggled, wiping a gloved hand over my ski mask. I looked around for Brett, the canvas of white before me blank and uninterrupted. Behind me, the glow of the cabin beckoned, the interior lights illuminating the cozy interior through the huge expanse of windows. I let out a long breath, the act frosting in the air before me, and looked up, into the night sky.
Out here, a galaxy above me, my view fringed with snow-capped branches and falling flurries, I feel— OOMPH. I stagger back, spitting out snow as I bat at my mask, the reaction futile as I am hit with another snowball, my twisting defense causing me to fall, one big awkward pile of fleece, my feet going up¸ gloved hands struggling to scrape at the snow, to form my own missile in which to destroy my opponent.
“Easy there,” Brett’s voice, his hot breath, warms my ear in the moment before he tackles me, pinning my arms and rolling with me down the slight hill. We roll to a stop, his mouth stealing a frigid kiss against an exposed patch of neck. “If you hit me with one of those, I’ll be forced to withhold hot chocolate.”
I dropped the partially formed snowball and held up my hands, grinning up at him. “A highly effective threat. I surrender.”
“Promise?” he tilts his head at me suspiciously. “You’ll be mine, forever and ever?”
“Forever and ever,” I whisper. “As long as that sentence comes with hot chocolate.”
His mouth twitches and he lets out a troubled sigh. “I can’t promise hot chocolate...” He pushes off and offers me his hand. “But I do have this?” He pulls me to my feet, us doing a seesaw when I right and he drops, onto one knee, his other hand lifting and holding out a ring box. “Riley, will you marry me?”
When I gasp, there is a cloud of smoke, and through it I see his smile. “I can’t open it with these damn gloves,” he says sheepishly.
I drop to my knees before him and wrap my arms around him. “Yes,” I say in a giant marshmallow hug of material. “I don’t need to see it. Yes.”
He squeezes me so tightly I laugh, his arms managing to lift us both up to standing. “Forever?” he asks, setting me down and stepping back, pulling me up the hill, towards the house. Through the glass, I see my girls, a few nosy ones at the window, their hands cupping the glass, Chelsea in the background holding up a champagne bottle. Brett’s friends, the same men who were there the night I was rescued, are scattered throughout the room, one ... I squint ... mid-kiss with Megan? I stifle a smile and turn back to my future husband.
“Yes, Brett. Forever.”
He pumps his fist in the air, and everyone inside jumps up and cheers, the muffled cry passing through the glass to us. I jog a few steps, catching up, and let him pull me against his side.
The word ‘tight’ has twenty-two definitions, but my favorite is Webster’s fifth - “a bond which cannot be broken.” We had survived secrets, suspicions, and separation, and perhaps been strengthened by all of it in some ways. Once he broke down and told me about Elyse, it all made sense. My suspicions found their answers and he found my trust. Now, we had no secrets, and a vow to never keep any. He had saved me from hell, and healed me back to life, all in less than two years. We were one unit and not only could our bond not be broken, it would only strengthen with time.
1 year, 5 months after rescue
I spent the last week before my imprisonment thinking that Brett was running drugs. Spent the first few months in Carlos Menas’ basement of the same opinion. Somewhere, in between the sessions and the erosion of my mind, I stopped thinking about the bad and focused only on the good. I stopped caring whether Brett was involved in an illegal drug ring and started caring only about us. Whether our love was strong enough. Whether he would love me for me. Whether the teeth that had been pulled from my jaw reached him and my father or whether they simply settled into the kitchen trash of Menas’ home, a lesson in psychology and nothing more.
The police did find my teeth in their search of his home. They were bagged, tagged, and put in neat order next to the other exhibits. Photos of me. Recordings. My sketches. My early journal entries. Everything laid out in perfect organization next to his interviews. It made a stunning exhibit at his trial.
Carlos Menas ended up getting a twenty-four year sentence. He will be released from prison around his seventieth birthday. Brett, to this day, curses himself for not killing the man.
I moved to south Florida a month or so after my rescue, much to the chagrin of my friends. I am happy here, happy anywhere that is in arms reach of this man. I now work in the rehabilitation house, with the slaves that Brett rescues. I can relate to these women, can understand their struggle. Am taking classes in psychology in hopes of helping them more. My father, after being cleared from charges of assault against Menas, has also joined the rescue business. He works with law enforcement, feeding them information we are gleaning from the girls, and they are taking down as many of the trafficking operations as possible. While Brett’s practices might be frowned upon in the States, the Central American countries are turning a blind eye to any questionable methods, and accepting our funding and information with open arms. To date, we’ve taken down five traders and - with Brett’s previous tally included - saved over twelve hundred women. It will never be enough, there will always be monsters, there will always be missing women. But it is the best therapy I could ever have, the best use of my life I could ever wish for.
A part of me died in that cell, in my life as Kitten.
But another part of me was born. Grew. Held onto the love in my heart and fought back, was freed, became a woman who married a man. A woman who reclaimed her life. And today, at 2:21 PM, a woman who gave birth to a baby girl. I look down at my new purpose in life and smile. Gently squeeze her against my chest and feel the sigh of
her breath. Our baby. Elyse Riley Betschart. I glance over at my husband and see the fear in his eyes. His level of love scares him. Our happiness scares him. He has gone so long with loss that I don’t think he knows how not to fear, how not to worry. I reach out my hand and he grabs it. Holds it tight.
THE END
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Author’s Note
Oh my word. TIGHT is now my ninth novel. And I've never struggled with a novel like I did with it. I experienced, in these pages, my first ever writer's block. Ended up rewriting the book three times, with three different plot lines and outcomes! I just couldn't fit the pieces in place. Then, they finally did. I worried that they wouldn't. They kept me stressing up into the very end.
I think the hardest thing was the fact that I first published Still - a novella with Brett and Riley. That novella created them in the reader's mind, solidified them as the people that they were at that moment in time. I couldn't really change their characters once I went and published them. So… it was like my hands were tied, and I had to find my way back to the place that my mind was at when I first wrote that novella. When I finally found that place, I really tried to write a contemporary romance, one without twists and turns and deceit. But… yeah. My mind and my characters didn't behave and TIGHT was born.
I write this author's note to you only ten days before release. And tomorrow, I will start a new book, one whose storyline is already breathing down my neck. Want to know more? Click here to be notified by email when I have a new release!
If this is your first book from me, please know that this book is a little different from my others. You can view a suggested reading list of my work here. Thank you for picking up Tight, I hope that you enjoyed it and will share it with your friends.
This book did not grow to its full potential on its own. Thank you SueBee, Wendy Metz, Karen Lawson and Marion Archer for beta reading this baby through all of its rewrites! Your level of patience and attention to this book was admirable. Thank you Julie Kitzmiller and Sandra Anderson for reading the final version and pushing it further. Thank you Perla Calas and Janice Berry – you guys ran through the final version with a fine-toothed comb and weeded out all of my mistakes. An extra kudos to Perla for pointing out plot holes and tighten loose ends! And a giant thank you to Madison Seidler, my fabulous editor, for holding my hand and pushing the edges of this book and letting it stretch to its full potential. Thank you Keelie "Kiki" Chatfield for pimping me and my books all day, every day. Your support and marketing have spread my works to so many readers, thank you a million times over. Judi Perkins, thank you for designing amazing teasers and a kick ass cover that perfectly communicates what I wanted. Thank you Michelle Tan, Michelle New and Joanna (Jxxx PinkLady), you guys made incredible works of art that perfectly showcased this book - thank you so much for lending me some of your graphic brilliance. And Tricia Crouch, thank you thank you thank you for your lists and organization and support and graphics and friendship and cards and for keeping me in line and on schedule, you are the best assistant a girl could ask for. Thank you Maura Kye-Casella, my incredible agent, for your constant support and for opening doors I could never get to on my own.
And last but not least, thank you to the hundreds of bloggers who tirelessly promote this industry - you are all amazing and I appreciate every single one of you!
With love,
Alessandra
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Alessandra Torre, Tight
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