Page 25 of Meaner Than Evil

“And yours has a Mexican flavor.”

He nods. “So it does.”

Thirteen

Logan

At 11:58 PM, another helicopter flies overhead, and about one minute later, it flies back out. They have been arriving steadily every five minutes for the past thirty minutes.

Claudia and I sit on the bed together, waiting. Her job the entire day has been to occupy my mind with anything but what is about to go down. But after the first sound of a helicopter buzzing the room, she has failed miserably.

All afternoon and into the early evening hours, I held out hope that any minute Jack would bust down the door and come to my rescue, but the closer the clock approached midnight, the harder it was to hold onto that belief.

Now, sitting here with Claudia knowing I’m about to be sold as a sex slave, I’m sick to my stomach with nerves. The clock strikes midnight, and she reminds me as she slides off the bed, “Remember my advice. Good luck.”

Then I’m all alone hidden behind a white semi-sheer fabric hanging from the ceiling that fans out over a trellis and drapes over the side of the king-size bed in beautiful, elegant folds.

The spotlights next to the chairs turn on, and their brilliant light bathes the bed. The effect blinds me. Then the chain hooked to my handcuffs begins to flow through the top until I am kneeling on the bed.

When the latch on the door clicks, the sound echoes in the empty room, and time pauses. The sound of my breath subconsciously counts the seconds. I can hear the tone of low voices just behind the door. I strain to listen to what they are saying, but they speak too softly. Then they stop, and the door opens.

The sounds of soft-soled shoes crossing the marble floor sends chills up my spine. I strain to see through the curtain, but I can only see the fabric stirring as they silently pass.

One by one, they sit in the chairs, circling the bed.

My heart is pounding so hard in my chest. I’m afraid I’m going to faint.

The curtain begins to retract to expose my kneeling on the bed with my handcuffed arms stretched overhead—the thought of shielding my face flitters across my mind. But I know there is no use, and submission may be just what they want. Instead, I hold my head high, proudly and defiantly.

The rest of the room is pitch black, causing the men seated to be cloaked in darkness. I can vaguely see a pair of dark burgundy shoes reflecting the light on their polished surface.

The five men sit in silence, and I wonder why they are waiting. But then the door opens, and someone else enters the room. Apparently, he makes a dramatic entrance because the rustle of fabric from their suits is loud in the lingering silence when all the men seated turn to look at him simultaneously.

Several of their soft heels again scuff against the floor when they shift in their seat to get a better view, including the man wearing the burgundy shoes.

I may not be able to see their facial expressions, but there is tension in their reaction to whoever has entered the room. He has given them all cause for concern.

I hope these evil men feel how I feel. Vulnerable and exposed, being stripped of their bodyguards and weapons. No doubt, the desire to own another human is a powerful drug. Otherwise, why would they agree to appear personally?

Perhaps it’s an evil gentlemen’s club. Men continuously measure how they stack up against other men. Whose dick is bigger as little boys becomes who owns the most slaves as evil men. And the competition of bidding against the other, sitting side by side, enhances the experience.

They are all overcompensating for their pitiful, deprived personalities.

Until this new thug walked in and clearly broadcast to them, they didn’t measure up to him.

The tension in the room becomes thick with fear.

He’s upped the stakes.

I hold my breath and try to quiet my pounding heart so I can hear any sound made. Then the loud clicking of a pair of boots striking the floor with a solid and confident stride almost sends me into a panic. The man wearing those boots is big. Tall. Heavy. Overpowering. I have seen his type in the courtroom before. They are fearless. Ruthless. Mean. Killers.

I start to shake, and my handcuffs jingle against the hook that holds me.

I lift my face to the ceiling and silently beg God to have mercy on me. Please don’t let this man win the bidding.

But … I know he will. Men like him don’t play. They win.

He parades past the bed in front of the others, ensuring they recognize his dominance. The spotlights illuminate his body as he passes each one, but he is too tall for the light to show his face. I suck my breath in and hold it in my chest.

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