Rule
Eighteen years ago…
“What the fuck’s keepin’ you here?” I muttered to myself, staring at the parking lot across the street.
The question was philosophical. One I’d been pondering since I turned eighteen just fifty-seven days ago. Each time I asked myself that, I came up with only two reasons, both weighing heavily in the pro column, for why I should pack up my shit and move on from this dusty little town.
First, I had no family.
Not since the bio-parents dropped me off at the local police department lobby and high-tailed it outta Dodge when I was two.
Second, I had no friends.
Not since Creed left, getting the hell out of Oklahoma the first chance he got.
If I were smart, I would get the hell out, too. I had options. I could head south to the little college town Creed now called home. Last I heard, he was settling in nicely. Learning how to fight, of all things. Professionally, I mean. The asshole knew how to fight because I’d taught him. I’d learned my lesson on more than one occasion not to fuck with him.
The thought made me smile.
Creed had been a scrawny little fucker with his nose stuck in a book when I came around. The kids picked on him like he was the only nerd in the bunch. Didn’t matter that he’d shot up a foot in a year. They’d treated him like he was four feet tall, not over six feet before his junior year.
Then again, size didn’t matter when you cowered and let them beat on you, which was precisely what that fool did until I taught him how to throw a punch and explained that throwing the first one was the only way to win respect.
It was just one of my many rules. Hence the name. I had a few dozen that I was known for in this tiny little shit-hole town, and one of them was to never back down from a dare. So when some jackass at school dared me to legally change my name, I did. I mean, it wasn’t like the one I’d been given was sentimental or anything. When the cops picked my diaper-clad ass up off the floor of their lobby, they hadn’t known what to call me. After two weeks of trying to find out where I came from and coming up empty, they’d been just as clueless, so some social worker who felt sorry for me gave me a name. And the day I turned eighteen, I gave it back and chose my own, ignoring the sideways sneer of the woman who processed the application. No, I didn’t have a last name because I didn’t fucking want one, thank you very much.
Too bad finding a job and a place to live wasn’t as easy as changing your identity. At eighteen, I had neither. Not since I’d been kicked out of Purgatory, the group home I’d been sent to when I was twelve. Although I wouldn’t go back there if someone paid me, I wouldn’t deny it had been easier when I was there.
Yeah, we referred to it as the place sinners went to repent for their sins, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as we all made it out to be. There were three squares a day, a room with a television, and beds to sleep in. Granted, when you’d been shit on by the world, you tended to think of everything as your own personal hellhole. At least at Purgatory, there’d been someone to entertain me—generally, the stupid assholes who ran the place.
There’d also been structure. Out here in the real world, I was ambling around aimlessly. Even with two jobs, I had too damn much time on my hands. Then again, night stocking at Walmart and part-time stocking at Dollar Tree weren’t exactly mentally stimulating. I made just enough to keep the rent-by-the-week room at the local no-tell motel while scarfing down three meals a day via the dollar menu at McDonald’s.
It would’ve been easy to hitch a ride south and find Creed. I could probably find tons of shit to keep me busy in the college town he landed in. But no, here I was, trying to do something good.
“Come on, man. Don’t be a dick. Just let him be,” I muttered, shaking my head when the redheaded asshole stood tall and pointed at the kid coming out of the convenience store.
I wasn’t sure why I even bothered to play guardian angel to the kid, but for some stupid reason, I couldn’t help myself. Clearly, I wasn’t doing it for thanks because the kid I’d been keeping an eye on would just as soon put a bullet in my head for trying to interfere with his life. Or it was possible he wanted to hug me. Truth is, I didn’t know the first thing about what was going on in his head. And since he didn’t talk, no one else knew, either. But that was Jinx for you. Rumor was he could talk. He merely chose not to. Again, no one really knew for sure.
Not that I was interfering so much as keeping tabs. And it was a damn good thing I was. That fucking kid found trouble everywhere he looked. And just like Creed had, this one never fought back. I’d tried to teach him how to throw a punch, even incited him enough to make him want to hit me a time or two, but he never took the bait.
He wasn’t taking it now, either.
I pulled the squished red and white box from my back pocket and popped a cigarette out of the pack. I stared at the scene across the street, wondering if it would escalate quickly or continue like this—with two assholes talking shit while the kid stood there and took it—for another half hour. Something had to give soon, or I was going to go over there and punch the kid myself.
I put the cigarette between my lips, wishing I could hear what those fuck-ups were saying. Not that it mattered. The kid wasn’t going to respond. He never did. I’d never heard him speak a single word in the two years I’d known him. According to the counselors at Purgatory, he was mute. As for whether it was a medical condition or a personal preference, I didn’t know. I didn’t give a shit, either. For the life of me, I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing here now.
I dug my lighter out of my pocket and lit the cigarette, taking a long, deep pull and letting the nicotine ease the chaos in my head. It worked, although I knew it was merely another lie I told myself to find some comfort in this world. The nicotine did nothing for the racing thoughts or the constant mental calculations, but for a few brief moments, I could focus on something else. With every puff, I’d trained myself to ignore everything but the cigarette. Bad habit, sure, but it was a vice I couldn’t kick. It was the only reprieve I had because my brain worked overtime to process everything I saw and heard, keeping track of it even when I would’ve preferred to forget forever.
Some cocksucking asshole who called himself a school counselor said it was an eidetic memory and that I had a gift. Ass kissing bastard. That same motherfucker had spent the better part of three years with my dick in his fucking mouth. He’d wanted to pick my brain and learn what made me tick—under the guise of offering me guidance and helping to prepare me for college—and I’d wanted my dick sucked, so it had worked out well. Provided you didn’t figure in the fact that I’d been fourteen the first time he put his fucking face in my crotch. At the time, I hadn’t given a shit that he was nearly thirty or a fucking pervert with a penchant for boys. I’d used that fucker’s mouth for all he was worth. For three solid years. Right up until he was hauled away in handcuffs when the principal walked in and caught us.
As for his diagnosis, no, the photographic memory wasn’t a goddamn gift. It was a fucking curse. My intelligence level had made it impossible to blend in with the other pathetic losers who’d ended up in Purgatory with me. Instead, I had that fucker keeping tabs, exploiting me every chance he got.
For the year after he was arrested, I found a bit of peace. It was during that downtime that I met the kid. He’d been the newest guest at Purgatory—number eight at the time—and from the first day he arrived, I knew he would have to fight to survive. The staff called him Chester—which didn’t help the ridicule—but I called him Jinx. I still remember the day I’d given him the nickname.
“Did you get your homework finished?” Tony asked, hand on his hip as he stared at us.
I glanced at the kid sitting beside me on the couch, wondering if this would be the time he finally spoke.
He didn’t. Neither did I.
“You better get it done,” Tony said, attempting to sound stern. He sucked at it. It was his fault. He tried so fucking hard to be everyone’s friend it was impossible to take him seriously as some sort of authority figure.
Tony glanced between the two of us, then sighed before stomping off.
I glanced over at the kid. “Jinx. Owe me a coke.”
His light blue eyes swung to my face. His forehead scrunched in confusion.
“It’s a game,” I explained. “You know. Two people say the same thing at the same time…”
It was clear he had no idea what I was talking about.
“We didn’t say anything,” I drawled. “At the same time.”
He continued to stare as though I’d lost my mind.
I chuckled and turned my attention back to the television. “No worries, Jinx. It’s all good.”
From that day onward, I called him Jinx. If he didn’t like it, he could tell me. Otherwise…
As for the kid having to fight to survive, I wasn’t wrong. Proven by the shit he was enduring at the moment.
I took a final drag on the cigarette and flicked it across the street before pulling out another one. As soon as I lit it, the verbal exchange in the parking lot got heated. I guess, technically, there was no exchange unless you considered the mouth vomit spewing from both bullies since Jinx was … well, he was being Jinx. All quiet and shit.
One of the assholes stepped up to Jinx, chest-bumping him. From where I was, I couldn’t hear what the asshole was saying, but his mouth was moving, and an endless spew of bullshit was coming out.
Of course, Jinx didn’t do anything. He never did.
“Come on, kid,” I muttered. “Make a fist and punch that asshole in the face.”
Jinx’s arms remained at his side, his eyes on the bully.
I sighed. If only he would stand up for himself, people wouldn’t fuck with him. He was no longer the scrawny kid who’d landed on Purgatory’s doorstep two years ago. He’d come into his own, sprouting up to nearly six feet not too long ago. He was taller than the bully, but you wouldn’t know it by the way he backed away slowly.
I stared, waiting for the moment when Jinx would finally turn and leave. It usually happened right about …
As though on cue, Jinx turned away and started walking.
I grinned, proud the kid hadn’t instigated a fight. He couldn’t throw a punch for shit, so it usually resulted in—
My attention was on Jinx, so I didn’t notice the kid coming up behind him until he nailed Jinx in the back of the head with what looked to be a metal pipe. Before Jinx’s limp body hit the ground, I flicked the cigarette away and started running toward them.
“You’re such a pussy, your momma didn’t even want you,” the fucker shouted, whacking Jinx in the back while his friend delivered a boot to Jinx’s ribs.
The cocksuckers were going to pay for that.
My feet ate up the asphalt even as my lungs tightened from exertion. Stupid fucking cigarettes.
The kid who’d hit him was laughing, banging Jinx’s shoulder with the pipe. “Get up, motherfucker. Be a man, not a fucking pussy.”
Jinx’s limp body shook from the impact of their blows. He didn’t even move to block them, his head completely unprotected from the next whack with the pipe.
“Son of a bitch,” I growled, anger surging in my bloodstream.
Jinx’s eyes were closed, and blood was pooling under his head.
As soon as I saw it, a red haze clouded my vision. I didn’t stop running. Not until I plowed right into the fucker with the pipe, taking him to the ground. The impact knocked him back. We skidded when I landed on him. The pipe fell to the concrete with a clang, rolling out of reach. I was aware of the air being knocked from the fucker’s lungs, but I didn’t give him a chance to breathe before I started wailing on him. He never saw it coming, but the same couldn’t be said for his friend. That fucker grabbed the pipe and swung it like a Louisville slugger, hitting me square in the jaw and knocking me for a loop before I realized what had happened.
As soon as my brain registered another threat, I went after him.
Time became inconsequential as I pounded the shit out of the two motherfuckers, taking punches but delivering three times as many. By the time someone came to pull me off, the fucker who’d hit Jinx with the pipe was unrecognizable, and the other was stumbling like he was drunk.
The cop who pulled me off earned a punch for surprising me, which tacked on a little more time to the multiple assault charges I earned—including assaulting a minor because those stupid fuckers were sixteen.
The good news was Jinx would live.
The bad news was I would spend the next six years in prison.
That was the day I learned the universe sometimes answered philosophical questions for you.
As they say, no good deed goes unpunished.
* * *
Jinx
Twelve years ago…
I parked my car outside the gates of the Oklahoma State Penitentiary and got out. The sun beat down overhead, the slight breeze doing little to diminish the heat that rose from the asphalt. I swiped a hand over my head and leaned against the car, ready to settle in for the long haul.
Aside from sometime today, I had no idea when Rule would walk out of that place, but I intended to be there when he did, if for no other reason than to give him a ride wherever he wanted to go. It was the least I could do, really. I mean, the man had saved my life. Probably.
Of course, no one knew what those assholes would’ve done that day if he hadn’t intervened. Maybe they beat me to death. Maybe they left me to bleed out. Maybe they grew a conscience and called 911. Considering I spent several days in the intensive care unit after having my head bashed open with a steel pipe, I figured instead of forking over the money for the hospital stay, the state would’ve applied it to the pine box they tucked me in and buried me in the dirt.
No one knew for sure how it would’ve turned out because those dickheads hadn’t been given an opportunity to make a life-or-death decision. Rule had done that for them.
Because Rule had been there, here I was, ready to return the favor in some way.
I only hoped no one came out to ask me what I was doing. I hadn’t spoken a single word since I was eight years old, and I wasn’t even sure I was capable at this point. Of course, that probably hadn’t helped Rule’s cause much since I hadn’t opened my mouth to relay what happened that day. I tried. Honestly. I’d spent days trying to muster the courage to get a syllable out of my mouth, but in the end, I failed epically. Another reason I owed Rule. For all I knew, he might’ve avoided jail time altogether if I could’ve told them he had saved my life. Instead, those dickheads told the cops that Rule was the one responsible for my beating, too, and they’d walked away without so much as a slap on the wrist.
They only thought they’d gotten away with it, but they forgot I knew the truth.
Six months after I got out of the hospital, I returned the favor when I hacked their parents’ bank accounts and drained every penny, moving it to an account I created in their names. I purposely made it somewhat easy to discover, and two months later, the FBI tracked it back to those two dickheads.
Oh, did I mention I concocted a nefarious, if not fictional, plan—complete with traceable email correspondence—where they hired a hitman to eliminate their parents? Yeah. That was me. No, the charges didn’t stick, but watching them squirm as the media compared them to the Menéndez brothers, claiming they nearly got away with killing their parents in order to inherit their millions was rather satisfying.
Minutes ticked by as I stared at the enormous white stone building and briefly wondered what went on inside those walls. I didn’t really want to find out, but like so many other things, I was curious. Perhaps one day, Rule would tell me.
As though I’d summoned him from my thoughts, the large chainlink gates began to open, and a single guard escorted Rule away from the building, delivering him to freedom.
As soon as he passed the gate, it began to close.
Wow.
That wasn’t the same guy I remembered. Somewhere along the way, my memories had been jumbled because I didn’t recall him being quite so fucking … big. And I wasn’t talking about him being over six feet tall. It was the breadth of his damn shoulders that tripped me up now. He’d put on some serious muscle during his time in there.
I stared at him, wondering if he would even remember me. Six years was a long time, after all, and I wasn’t a scrawny fifteen-year-old anymore.
While he’d spent his time locked in a cell, I’d focused my efforts on graduating from high school and making money. Since college wasn’t an option, I started out with part-time jobs. Due to my inability to speak, finding something suitable hadn’t been easy, but I’d found work in a garage, tinkering under the hoods of cars and handling the maintenance jobs for the shop. It paid enough to keep my head above water and gave me something to do while I waited for this day.
But it was what I’d done with my spare time that had made the difference. I’d bought a laptop with my first paycheck and used it to make real money. I’d learned from my hitman setup that I had a real knack for computers. More specifically, for gaining access to places I shouldn’t. People paid hefty for that skill, and that was the money I invested. A few good gambles and I was now set for life.
When Rule looked my way, I tilted my chin in acknowledgment, noticing the way his dark eyebrows pinched.
“Who’re you?” he asked, angling toward me.
I lifted my eyebrows in response.
“Jinx?”
I hadn’t heard that name in six years. To everyone else, I was Chester Mahoney, the poor kid who’d been taken away from his drug-addicted parents because they preferred to snort a line rather than feed their kid.
I nodded.
That was all it took because a smile pulled at Rule’s mouth, and his dark brown eyes glittered with recognition.
“I’ll be damned. You grew up.” His eyes raked downward, then slowly back up. “And shaved off all your hair.”
I jerked my chin in agreement, then gestured toward the car.
“You’re offerin’ me a ride?”
I nodded, then pulled a cell phone out of my pocket and passed it to him.
Rule frowned but took the phone. “What’s this for?”
I pulled out my phone and texted the number I’d entered in my address book.
The phone buzzed in Rule’s hand, and he stared at the screen.
“Thanks?” Rule said, then looked at me.
I nodded.
“Thanks for what?”
I typed a response.
“For savin’ your life.” Rule laughed, and I felt that strange buzz in my chest that I’d felt all those years ago when I first heard it.
So maybe I had a slight crush on the man. So what? Not like I was going to make shit weird for him or anything.
“Dude, seriously?”
I nodded, gesturing to the car once more.
The expression on his face said he was contemplating the idea of getting in. It was obvious to both of us that he didn’t have any other options, but he wouldn’t be Rule if he didn’t pretend otherwise. Which was why his next question didn’t surprise me.
“What’s in it for me?” he prompted, moving closer to the car.
I was about to text a response, but he stopped me with another laugh.
“I’m kidding, Jinx.”
I wouldn’t pretend my insides didn’t warm simply from hearing that name. While Rule didn’t know what his actions had done for me, I did. And as far as I was concerned, he was the only person in the world who’d ever stood up for me. For that, I owed him.
“If you really want to thank me for savin’ your life, I’ll take the car.”
When the punchline didn’t come, I figured I had two options. I could get in the car and leave him, or I could pass over the keys.
In all fairness, there really was only one option.
I held up the keyring.
Rule’s eyes widened, but then that heart-stopping smile appeared. “You always were too fucking soft.”
Oh, if he only knew. There wasn’t anything soft about me. At the moment, I meant that literally.
“You’re not what I expected, Jinx.” He shook his head and reached for the passenger door handle. “Come on. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
Two hours later, we were bellied up to the bar with beers in front of us. Rule was carrying on a conversation with the bartender, an old guy who seemed rather impressed that Rule had spent the past six years in prison.
“I bet you’re hard-up for some pussy, huh?”
Or maybe stupefied was a better adjective. The guy was fixated on the fact Rule hadn’t gotten laid by a woman in all that time.
Rule cast a glance my way and smirked.
Admittedly, I was curious as to the answer, but not for the same reason as the dude with the wire-brush eyebrows.
Before Rule could respond, a skinny blonde shuffled up beside him, sliding her fingers over his shoulder as though she knew him intimately.
“Did I hear correctly? You’re looking for a date, sugar?”
Rule snorted. “Honey, I don’t date.”
I wasn’t sure whether Rule understood the meaning of date in this regard. The too-skinny woman certainly wasn’t looking for a night out on the town or dinner by candlelight.
“Well then, how about some relief?” she offered, lowering her voice in an attempt at seduction.
“Naw,” he said, shrugging her hand off his shoulder.
His rejection didn’t faze her. “What about you, sugar?”
I met her hazy gaze and shook my head.
“Well, that’s too bad. The three of us coulda had a good time.”
The three of us?
Rule snorted. “Darlin’, I assure you, you can’t handle us both at the same time.”
I took a long pull on my beer and watched the exchange as the blonde did her best to convince Rule he didn’t know what he was talking about. Their verbal volley was just getting good when the cell phone I’d given Rule rang.
He glanced at the screen, then over to me, and grinned.
“Yo, Creed. Good to know you’re still alive,” Rule said when he answered.
I couldn’t hear what was being said on the other end, but I caught Rule’s side of the conversation. It sounded like he was catching up with an old friend.
“California? No shit?” Rule’s dark brown gaze shot to me. “I might be able to make it out that way, sure.”
I nodded because it seemed Rule was expecting a response, and to be fair, nothing was keeping me here. The only reason I was still in Oklahoma was because of this man.
“A job?” Rule chuckled and glanced down at his beer. “Naw, man. I don’t need a job. I’ve got somethin’ in the works, and Cali’s just the place to implement it.”
His comment piqued my curiosity, and I waited for him to finish the call, waving off the bartender when he asked if I wanted another beer.
“I wouldn’t say no to a loan though,” Rule said. “I’ll pay you back with interest.”
For the next few minutes, Rule’s voice lowered, and he was nodding his head as he spoke. By the time he hung up, his grin had returned.
“You up for a road trip?”
I nodded.
“You sure?”
I cocked my head and fought the urge to roll my eyes.
“How long will it take you to pack your shit up?”
I shrugged.
“Will it fit in the car?”
I nodded.
“Will that POS get us to California?”
I nodded.
Rule’s grin was slow and sly, and there was a twinkle in his eyes when he downed what was left of his beer and got to his feet.
“What do you say we get on with the rest of our lives?”
He didn’t have to tell me twice.
* * *
Laikyn Quinn
Six years ago…
“I’m on my way, Monica. I’m leaving the house right now.”
“You were supposed to be here an hour ago,” my mother insisted, her tone shrill.
That was Monica Quinn, the queen of melodrama.
“No. I’m supposed to be there an hour from now. But you got your way, like always. I’m on my way.”
“Don’t talk back to me, young lady. Hurry up.”
“Be there in twenty minutes.”
That was the last thing I remembered as I came to, lying on the hard, cold ground. I grabbed for my dress to drag it over my legs but fumbled around and felt nothing.
Nothing but bone-penetrating cold.
Nothing but icy concrete.
Nothing but skin.
In a panic, still curled up on the floor, my hands shifted over every inch of my body from my neck to my toes. A sob tore free from my constricted chest when I realized I was naked.
What happened? Where the hell am I?
A loud noise drew my head up fast, my eyes searching the near pitch blackness for the source. I pressed one hand to the frigid stone floor and pushed myself up to a sitting position, but I didn’t get further than that. My arms felt like they were weighed down. My head throbbed. Nausea blazed a righteous path through me when I peered around, trying desperately to penetrate the darkness for something to ground me.
“Wakey, wakey, princess!” The voice echoed in the space.
The only light came from a sliver underneath a doorway at the top of the stairs. The golden glow didn’t reach far enough to show anything except a sea of blackness beneath.
The sound came again—like a steel pipe being banged against metal—serenaded by whistling. The reverberation was as deafening as the initial strike, growing louder by the second.
“About fucking time. Thought you was dead.”
I could barely make out the silhouette of a man standing a few feet away. The only thing separating us was a door constructed of thin vertical bars. A crescendo of metal on metal split the air, then the door opened with a squeak.
“Cover yourself up,” he snarled, tossing something at me.
A dark, coarse blanket hit me in the face, causing him to laugh. It smelled like cigarettes and body odor, but I clutched it like a lifeline, dragging it around my body and fisting it tightly. It did little to ward off the chill, but at least it concealed my nakedness.
“Otherwise, I’ll treat you like a whore.” His words brought with them the stench of cigarettes and rot. Or maybe that was what bone-penetrating fear smelled like.
Something smacked the floor directly in front of me. It looked like a plate, but it was too dark to see what was on it. A water bottle landed next, bouncing when it hit the concrete before rolling away from me.
“Who are you?” I choked out, but even I knew the garbled words made no sense. My throat was on fire, my brain fuzzy, and I sounded like I’d just come from the dentist after having the numbing drug injected into my gums.
I swallowed past the pain in my throat and repeated my question.
“Name’s Diggy. I’m your babysitter for the foreseeable future, princess.”
Based on his tone, he was proud of his job title.
“What do you want from me?”
“Your virginity would be a good start.” He laughed like a hyena choking on a coconut. “Unless you want that to happen, that’s your last fucking question.”
I didn’t bother telling him I’d lost my virginity when I was fifteen. In the boy’s locker room, the night the Beverly Bulls won the homecoming game. I’d bet Rory Bingham, the star quarterback—also my boyfriend—that they wouldn’t win. I’d paid my marker with my body and hadn’t regretted a single second. Didn’t matter at the moment, obviously. Plus, if believing I was a virgin kept this creepy asshole’s hands off me, all the better.
The metal door slammed closed, the bang echoing over the concrete walls and floor.
“Maybe this’ll keep you company,” he chuckled.
A light flashed on, washing the room in a blue-white glow. I got my first glimpse of my accommodations, which included a toilet in the far corner and a drain in the floor. It took a second for me to realize the glow wasn’t coming from a light but rather an LED clock mounted on the wall over the door. It read 14:00:00.
Was that military time? Two o’clock? How long was I out?
The man laughed. “Sit tight, shut up, and you might make it back to your mommy and daddy in one piece.”
I stared at the dark outline of his body as he loomed in the doorway. Whoever this guy was, he didn’t know me. At least not the way he thought he did. If he had a clue who I was, he would’ve realized I didn’t have a dad—my mother claimed she had no idea who he was. Worse than that, I doubted Monica Quinn could be bothered enough to pay the ransom, much less put too much effort into looking for me. To say she was a narcissistic, self-centered bitch would be an understatement. And since the disappearance of her seventeen-year-old daughter would bring the press out in droves, I was sure Monica would have exactly what she wanted: attention. If I had to guess, she would drag this out as long as possible.
“Aww, do you miss your mommy and daddy?” he taunted. “So sad for you.”
Whatever hope might’ve flickered in my chest was snuffed out quickly because this guy … he was clearly the hired help. A henchman, a lackey. He was nobody, and he probably had nothing to lose.
He was also the only person I would see for the next thirteen days, twenty-two hours, and forty-two minutes. I knew because that clock wasn’t a clock after all. It was a timer depicting days, hours, and minutes. It started counting down from fourteen days, the amount of time I had left to live if my mother didn’t pay the fifty million dollar ransom.
My pervy jailer never realized that the fifty million dollar demand only ensured I wasn’t abused during my captivity. My kidnapper’s greed worked in my favor. Acted as a safety net that ensured Diggy didn’t touch me and that I was given enough food and water to keep me alive.
12 days, 18 hours, 57 minutes remaining
“Tell me, princess. What’s it like to be the daughter of a Hollywood queen?” Diggy asked when he brought me breakfast the following day.
Breakfast, as it turned out, was a piece of stale bread and a bottle of water.
“It’s fine,” I told him, knowing I had to give him some form of an answer or risk him coming in here.
He let loose with a broken cough as he pulled a cigarette from behind his ear. “Fine? That’s all you’ve got to say? I’ve seen the magazines.”
I was surprised he could read.
“She’s always out with some Casanova-lookin’ motherfucker.” He put the cigarette between his lips and talked around it. “Bet your dad don’t like that shit.”
“No,” I agreed. Since I didn’t have a clue who my father was and since he wasn’t around, I could pretend that was the truth.
Diggy took a moment to produce a cheap plastic lighter. It took him three times to get the flame to appear. The end of the cigarette burned red when he took a deep drag in.
“I wouldn’t either. I’d beat her ass if she did that shit to me.” He blew out a long stream of smoke. “You look like her.”
That wasn’t true, but I nodded as though agreeing. Monica Quinn was what the press called camera-worthy. Five foot ten with long dark hair, alabaster skin, and giant boobs that hadn’t required a scalpel, my mother was front page news on plenty of tabloids, not to mention primetime entertainment news. I’d gotten her height and her dark hair, but that was where our similarities ended. Everything about me was average. My boobs weren’t big, but they weren’t small. My hips weren’t curvy, but they weren’t narrow. My butt wasn’t rounded, but it wasn’t flat. My complexion was more on the tan side, something I assumed I’d gotten from my father, whoever he was. Where Monica Quinn was long and lithe, I was tall and plain.
“Does she really fuck all those guys?” Diggy asked.
“Yes,” I said because it was true.
The paparazzi loved Monica Quinn because she was always giving them a story, stringing them along on one of her sexcapades, of which she had many. During interviews, she said she was blessed with a body for sin and saw no reason not to let others enjoy it. She said she adored sex scenes in a movie and insisted on going Method. I hadn’t realized what that meant until recently when I learned she’d had affairs with most of her co-stars—regardless of their marital status.
Needless to say, her adoring fans were not usually the people she worked with.
11 days, 4 hours, 35 minutes remaining
“I’ve been reading up on you, princess,” Diggy said, initiating conversation as he had been doing every day since I’d been there.
I waited patiently for him to toss me the bread and water, but it didn’t come.
“You’re smart, huh?”
“Yes,” I admitted, willing to say whatever was necessary to get food.
As it was, my stomach felt like a giant black hole. The only thing I’d had for the past two days was two pieces of bread and two bottles of water. I wasn’t sure if he was rationing it or merely fucking with me. With Diggy, I couldn’t tell. I was trying to get a read on him to decide whether he might listen to reason and let me go if I could offer him something of value, but so far, the only thing I’d learned was that he was nosy as hell, enjoyed reading trashy gossip magazines, and smelled like he hadn’t showered in a decade.
“How come you’re not hot like your mom?” he asked as though it truly was a disappointment.
I was long past being offended that people didn’t think I was as beautiful as my mother. I’d seen pictures of her at seventeen, and Monica Quinn had been a beauty even then.
“There’s lots of pictures of you,” he mused, flipping the page of a magazine. “You should wear makeup.”
I didn’t contribute to the conversation. I didn’t figure it was necessary. Plus, I had no desire to take fashion advice from an idiot.
“You’re always by yourself.” Diggy looked up. “You ain’t got no friends?”
Because he was expecting an answer, I shook my head.
“I can tell.” He glanced down at the magazine. “Too bad. They might be looking for you if you had any.”
Yeah, that was too bad. But the truth was, I didn’t really have friends. The people I hung around with were more like acquaintances. The reason being none of their parents trusted my mother.
I couldn’t blame them. My best friend from middle school had learned the hard way what it meant to be close to me. My mother had seduced her mother—Monica didn’t discriminate against gender when it came to playing her games. That brief affair resulted in a divorce and, ultimately, the loss of my best friend.
My social status dwindled even more when Monica seduced the principal at the beginning of this year. He left his wife for her only to learn Monica was over him. To top it off, he got fired when my mother accused him of making inappropriate advances on her daughter.
It never happened, but you wouldn’t know it to hear Monica tell the lie. She was good at making shit up.
“I’ll be your friend, princess. All you gotta do is drop that blanket and show me your rack.”
Not happening, Diggy. Not in this lifetime.
9 days, 17 hours, 3 minutes remaining
“Come on, princess. Just show me your tits, and I’ll let you take a shower.”
I would rather sit in my own stench, thank you very much.
And that was what I did.
7 days, 8 hours, 52 minutes remaining
“Hey, princess! Good news!”
The clanging sound that announced Diggy’s arrival was louder than usual. As was his whistling.
I wasn’t sure if I was dying or just dehydrated, but I’d started shivering early this morning, and no matter how much I burrowed into the stiff, scratchy blanket, it wasn’t doing any good.
“The whore you call Mom said she’d pay the money. Shouldn’t be too much longer.”
I peered around the blanket to see him leering at me. He couldn’t see anything beneath the blanket, but based on his expression, he saw everything.
“You sure you don’t want that shower?”
It was tempting, if for no other reason than I needed to get warm. But the mere thought of him watching me while I was naked … I let the tremors rack my body and shook my head.
“Your loss, princess.”
5 days, 3 hours, 13 minutes remaining
“Dude, she’s sick or something,” Diggy said, his phone to his ear.
I remained curled on the floor, the bread and water he’d brought me for the past two days untouched nearby.
“She ain’t eating.”
Pause.
“I’ve tried.”
Pause.
“I can go in there if you want. I’ll be happy to check her for a fever. You do that by sticking a finger up her ass, right?”
The chipper sound of his voice had me stirring, attempting to sit up. I would pretend I wasn’t tormented by fever if it would keep his nasty hands off me.
“She’s moving now. I think she’s better.”
He disconnected the call and tucked his phone in his pocket. If only I could get that phone, then maybe I could call for help. But I’d tried persuading Diggy already, so I knew he wouldn’t cave easily. And I damn sure wasn’t going to sell my body for a five-minute phone call. I would rather die here than do that.
3 days, 15 hours, 6 minutes remaining
“There’s a bunch of shit about your mom on the internet,” Diggy mused. “So much shit.”
He was sitting on the other side of the bars with a laptop in front of him.
“Did you know she was at a party last night?” He snorted. “I guess she don’t care too much about you, huh?”
I tried to mentally calculate what day it was, but time had ceased to exist. The only thing I had to go on was the countdown clock. Assuming I hadn’t been here long when he first turned it on, my best guess was that it was Tuesday, March 20th. Eleven days since my arrival. Which meant my mother hadn’t been at a party but a fundraiser, one of many she participated in. Not because she wanted to raise money for a worthy cause. No, Monica Quinn was far too narcissistic for that. She went so she could be caught on camera doing something that made her look like she cared. If I had to guess, she took some poor, unsuspecting sap back to the house and pretended she was in love with him.
She did that a lot, both taking people to her bed and claiming she was in love. It never lasted more than seventy-two hours at most, and I’d long ago stopped thinking she would fall in love. I didn’t think she was capable of it—another trait I had acquired from her. Although I told Rory Bingham that I loved him, I was lying. I’d wanted to lose my virginity to him, and those three words had gotten me what I wanted. Since then, I’d told him the same thing at least a hundred times. I even smiled when he returned the sentiment, but deep down, I felt nothing.
“You sure you don’t want that shower now?” he asked, once again leering as he closed the laptop. “I could help you out. Wash your back.”
His cackling made my head pound, but I shook my head and feigned a sweetness I no longer felt. I’d done my best not to lash out because I didn’t doubt for a second that Diggy would hurt me. He wanted to. I could see the gleam of menace in his eyes. Why he was keeping his distance, I didn’t know, but I was grateful.
0 days, 1 hour, 18 minutes remaining
“Time’s almost up, princess,” Diggy announced as he strolled in, clanging his metal pole along the bars of my cell. “Good news is I get to do whatever I want to you when that clock hits all zeroes. I’m thinking I’ll start by shoving this pole up your twat. Get rid of that pesky virginity.”
He cackled, but a disgusting hacking sound followed it.
“I’d use my dick, but I’m gonna stick that in your ass. I’m gonna fuck you so hard, you’ll cry for your—”
A sound from above caused Diggy to stop suddenly. He spun on his heel and stared at the doorway before stomping off.
“Javier, is that you?”
Javier? I wondered if he was the guy behind this. Maybe he would listen to reason.
I sat up, praying someone had finally found me and I wasn’t about to be traded to an asshole who would do worse than threaten to do bad things to me.
“Hey!” Diggy shouted as he slammed through the door at the top of the stairs. “Who the fuck—”
There was a muffled pop followed by a heavy thud on the floor above. I held my breath and stared at the open doorway at the top of the stairs. What if no one came down here? What if I was left in this cell to rot? What if—?
A man appeared, this one far more menacing than Diggy. I clutched the blanket tighter and inched back toward the wall, praying this wasn’t the end while at the same time hoping perhaps it would be because I was tired. Tired of being here. Tired of my life in general. I wanted to go home.
I moved back a little more when the man produced a key ring. The click of the lock was so loud and so welcome that tears sprang to my eyes.
The man didn’t enter, but he held out his hand to me. “You want to go home?”
I nodded.
“Can you walk?”
I shrugged.
“I’m gonna carry you.” He took off the button-down shirt he wore over a T-shirt. “If you’re opposed to that, tell me now.”
I hesitated for a moment, weighing my options. I honestly didn’t think I had enough strength to get to my feet, much less walk up all those stairs.
“You don’t have to fear me,” he said, his voice smooth like fine Swiss chocolate. “Here. Put this on.”
He held out the shirt, and I took it with trembling fingers. As soon as I clutched it, he turned away from me. Clearly giving me privacy.
The shirt was soft and smelled good, so I hurried to shove my arms in the sleeves, then fumbled with the buttons to conceal my nakedness.
“You decent?”
“Yes,” I rasped, my throat so dry it hurt.
He slowly turned around to face me. “You have a problem with me carrying you?”
Deciding it was my only option, I shook my head.
He approached slowly, as though hoping to wrangle a feral cat but not eager for it to claw his face off.
When he crouched down, I tossed the blanket aside and fought the tears that threatened when he gently slid his arms beneath my knees and behind my back.
“I’ve got you, girl,” my savior whispered as he lifted me into his arms. “You’re going home.”
The good news was my mother did pay someone to look for me.
What I didn’t realize was that she would go so far as to hire a brutal, ruthless man to do the search and rescue. Diggy died mid-rant when a bullet hit him right between the eyes. A bullet from the gun of my savior, the same man I would eventually sell my soul to—intentionally or due to circumstance, I wouldn’t know until much, much later.
Too bad my mother didn’t realize it would’ve been cheaper to pay the fifty million, although I never understood why anyone would’ve thought I was worth that much to her.