Page 84 of Lucky's Trouble

I nod, knowing if there is a way out, I’ll only find it by gathering information. Without my vision, that’ll be impossible. The blindfold is removed first, and I blink rapidly at the drastic change from dark to light. Then, the gag is untied and pulled from between my teeth.

As I’m shoved forward by someone standing behind me, I take in the modern mansion before me. It’s a classic desert style, boxy and beige, with enormous black framed windows. The property is landscaped with palm trees and lush plants, but it’s rocky, mountainous, and dry beyond the tall metal fence, making me think we’re possibly on the outskirts of Vegas.

I’m stopped in front of the entrance to the home, and the man turns to face me. He’s tall with dark features and dead eyes.

“This is your home for the time being.” He runs a finger down my cheek, pushing my hair away from my eyes and tucking it behind my ear. “Aren’t you a lucky girl?”

I don’t respond, trying to follow his earlier orders. Apparently, that’s the wrong thing to do because he backhands me, snapping my head to the side, a radiating sting spreading through my face.

“I expect a response when I ask you a question.” His expression remains impassive, not even showing a hint of anger, despite the violence. “So, I’ll ask again. Aren’t you a lucky girl for being allowed into such a beautiful home?”

I cast my gaze at the ground. “Yes.”

He tsks. “I told you not to speak.”

There’s no time to brace for impact as he backhands the other cheek. There was no winning in that situation; it was all about his need to assert his dominance.

“Don’t worry, you’ll catch onto the rules quickly enough,” he says as a guard appears and opens the door. Dead Eyes moves past the threshold before stopping. “Or you won’t, which might be more fun for me. Take her to her room.”

He disappears into the home, and the guard shoves me forward, up a set of stairs, and down a long hallway. I can’t help but notice none of the doors have an outside lock but the one I’m led to, which doesn’t surprise me.

My hands are untied, and I’m pushed through the doorway. I turn to face him, rubbing at my sore wrists. He’s tall, muscled, and straight-faced, as if imprisoning women is nothing out of the ordinary for him. It was probably part of his job description.

The door is slammed shut, the clink of the lock latching into place following. You’d never know this is a multi-million-dollar home judging by the room I turn to inspect.

There’s no flooring, only exposed rough subfloor that pricks the bottoms of my bare feet. The single window is barred, and I can tell by the tint that I can see out into the backyard and the barren desert beyond, but no one can see inside. The room is all but empty except for the thin mattress in the corner with a plain white blanket and pillow tossed on top. Moving closer, I notice the mattress is filthy and stained with something dark.

Who was here before me, and where are they now? Did they die on this mattress? Will I suffer the same fate?

Wrapping my arms around myself, I approach the only other door in the room and test the handle. I’m surprised when it turns, and I’m able to push it open. Inside is a stripped-bare bathroom: a simple sink on a small floating vanity, a toilet with a roll of toilet paper sitting on top of the tank, a walk-in shower with the glass removed from the metal frame, and a single, threadbare towel folded on the tile floor. There’s no mirror or towel rack, nothing that can be used as a weapon. They’ve thought of everything, probably from years of experience.

The sob I’ve been holding back releases into the empty space, echoing around me. I slap a hand over my mouth, trying to hold it in, but there’s no stopping it now. Thinking that this is where I’ll spend my last days isn’t what has me curling onto the filthy mattress, knees tucked to my chest and my face buried in my hands as I cry. No, it’s knowing Lucky, Myla, and all the Sons I consider friends will never know what happened to me. I’ll be reduced to a sad story they’ll think of sometimes.

And that’s if Myla made it out alive. I’m choosing to believe she did because the alternative is too much to bear. Neal is a sadistic asshole, but at least he’s an honest one. He doesn’t say or do things he won’t follow through with, so when he said “me for her,” I’m almost certain he meant it. I let out a watery huff. What a stand-up guy.

I stay curled up until the sun lowers in the sky, and the room grows darker by the second. It’s nearly pitch black when the lock disengages, and I sit up and scoot into the corner. A figure steps into the room, and the light flicks on, revealing a woman dressed in a black pantsuit, much like the one the man who brought me here was wearing. Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun, and she doesn’t have a stitch of makeup on.

“Get up,” she says, pulling a suitcase into the room and lowering it to the ground. She crouches to unzip and open it before standing and closing the door. I remain where I’m at, too scared to move. When she turns to face me, she shakes her head, her blank expression shifting to annoyance. “It’s been a long day, and I’m tired, so please don’t make me hurt you. Just do as I say, and this will be quick and painless.”

I slowly get to my feet next to the mattress, waiting for further instructions.

“Could he ask for a smart one now and then? Pretty only goes so far,” she mumbles, walking over to me and gripping my arm. “Take your clothes off.”

I look down at my body, not wanting to get rid of my last possessions. But I’ve also been through enough pain today, and this woman looks like she’d be good at inflicting it. She’s tall and sturdy, the opposite of me. While she digs through the suitcase, I remove my shirt and jeans with trembling hands, leaving them in a pile next to me. My sandals were taken from me at the Thirst Trap, so I’m left in my underwear.

She glances up at me. “Bra and undies too. Hurry up, we’re already running late.”

Unhooking my bra, I add it to the pile and pull down my panties. My teeth chatter, either from the air conditioning blasting into the room or from nerves—probably both—as I cover my breasts with an arm and cross my legs, doing my best to keep an ounce of dignity.

I should’ve known that would also be taken away.

“Put this on.” She hands me something red and made out of a stiff material and covered in what looks like latex. It’s sticky and shiny.

I hold it up, trying to figure out which is the top and which is the bottom. On one end, there’s a three-inch-wide band of material with an O ring in the center. Judging by the buckle, this should go around my neck. Hanging from either side of the O ring are one-inch straps meant to run from my neck down to my sides, where they connect to a much wider expanse of material and a belt across the middle. I’m guessing this goes around my torso, which means my breasts will be completely exposed.

Even figuring that much out, I can’t buckle myself in. “How?”

She growls, standing. Taking the smaller end, she secures it around my neck so the O ring is at the base of my throat before moving to tie me into the corset part.

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