Page 2 of Bristol

“Bristol,” I say, telling him my name.

“Are you the only one?” he asks after a few minutes of silence.

“I think so. I don’t remember seeing anyone else.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Six years.”

“Six? Son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, I was barely seventeen when he kidnapped me. Lucky me, he was in Wisconsin for business and snagged me.” My cheeks redden. I’ve never had to tell anyone my story because, well, I’ve only spoken to Patrick for the last six years.

“That sick fuck! I knew it. I fucking knew it. I’m sorry I didn’t catch on sooner, or I’d have gotten you out a long time ago.”

“Where are you taking me?” I ask, wary of his answer. If I just got kidnapped again, I may just kill myself.

“Somewhere safe. Do you have family?”

“Yeah. Parents and a little brother.”

“Do you know their number?”

“No.” I hang my head. I was never good at numbers because I put them in my cell phone, and it was easier to access them in there than memorize them. Tears free fall without my permission at the thought of how stupid I was.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s all going to be okay. We’re going to get you back to your family, okay?”

He’s sitting across from me. He wants to comfort me but doesn’t. He probably thinks I’m all kinds of fucked up, and I mean, who knows… maybe I am.

I nod and sit with my knees pulled to my chest. The ride is long, and I don’t pay attention to how many twists and turns we take before the sound of the truck lulls me to sleep.

A large hand shakes me gently awake, causing me to jolt and pull back. Maurice is looking down at me cautiously, as if he’s shaking a hornet’s nest, unsure of how I’m going to react. I compose myself the best I can and sit up, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“We just got to our clubhouse. You’ve been out for a hot minute, but I figured I’d let you sleep as much as you could, considering where you just came from.”

“Clubhouse? Are you in some sort of organization?” The only clubhouse I’ve ever heard of is one for the Boy Scouts and that can’t possibly be what he means, can it?

He chuckles. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Maurice’s son rolls up the back door of the truck. To my surprise, it’s dark outside. Damn, I really must have slept for a while. My neck feels it, too. The back of this truck isn’t the most comfortable spot.

Maurice steps down and offers me a hand. I take it and hop down from the back of the truck, my bare feet landing on gravel making me wince. I didn’t even think to put shoes on before I left, but I didn’t think of much. There isn’t anything there that was worth the time to grab.

I look around, taking in my surroundings. We’re inside a privacy fence with a black gate entrance. There’s a dark red brick house in which I assume is the clubhouse Maurice referred to. There are motorcycles lining the carport and now my interest is piqued. What is this place?

“Follow me.” Maurice leads the way to the back door. I follow behind him quietly, and uncomfortably. I’m not at all looking forward to this and the churning in my stomach only reassures me of that. Oh, God I think I might be sick. I swallow back the bile threatening at the back of my throat and take a deep, centering breath. It’s okay. I got this. It’s just people. No big deal. They don’t know me or where I came from or what’s been done to me.

The back door opens, and I take one more deep breath before stepping inside behind Maurice. The house smells of food, divine delicious food. My mouth waters at the scent that wafts through the air making my stomach growl. Patrick hasn’t fed me anything worth eating in a long time. We enter in the kitchen, which explains that delightful smell.

The kitchen is nice, but poorly decorated. There are a few barstools on the right just inside the backdoor set up at the counter that runs longways through the kitchen. Two men stand in the center of the kitchen, both with leather vests that label them as Tattered Saints, a torn American flag in three separate pieces is the center part with a reaper peeking through and Mississippi beneath it. The tallest one turns around, and deep green eyes stop the world from moving around me. Dark black hair and a dark black chin strap adorn his face and the most perfect crooked smile I’ve ever seen tugs at the corners of his lips. He has a dimple on one side of his mouth and a faint scar beneath his left eye that’s thin and about two inches long. He’s talking to the other man when his eyes land on Maurice, his son, and myself.

He doesn’t react quite the way I did upon seeing him. He does look slightly confused at first but recovers from it quickly. The man next to him notices that he stopped talking and looks over to see what caught his attention.

“Hey, guys.” Maurice greets them but the somberness in his tone has the two of them eyeing me suspiciously. Great. I try to center my breathing, but the anxiety is building inside my chest and it’s starting to get a little harder to breathe. I take a few short, sharp breaths, sucking air into my lungs and pretty boy looks at me with panic written all over his face and that’s it. I lose it. I’m hyperventilating, trying to catch my breath. I reach for the counter, the chair, something, anything. Maurice’s hand catches my arm and steadies me.

“You alright, girl?” he asks, his questioning eyes searching mine.

---