Page 7 of Retribution
Soon.
Forty-five minutes later I’m back in the elevator, smoothing down my now navy dress as I touch up my lipstick in the elevator’s mirrored wall, my wet hair pulled back tightly in a bun, glasses perched on my nose.
Leaving behind Sir, his severed penis lodged in his throat, mouth forever frozen in a scream, wide eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
***
Run. Run. Run. Hide.
I race through the house on small feet, the shattering of glass echoing through the house. Shouts fill the air, terrible screams breaking the silence as I tuck myself into a closet.
Quiet. Hide. Shh.
The closet door is torn open, a man looms over me with a sneer stretching across his face.
“Hello, little beauty,” he purrs.
Tears coat my pillow as I curl into myself, seeking whatever comfort I can find.
Run.
Chapter 4
Rebecca
Papa is sitting on the sofa as I walk past, tossing me a reminder to behave as I head out the door. My Uber arrives, whisking me away to Flagstaff. If they hadn’t threatened my sisters’ lives so thoroughly, I might even now be tempted to beg the driver to drop me off elsewhere, so that I might make my escape. I will always be able to find you. You can never escape. If you are stupid enough to try, your sisters will be punished severely for your mistake.
Although dressed the way I am, and with only enough money to get to Flagstaff and back again, tonight would probably not be the best time to run.
I know I look incredible. The designer gown has a sheer black top, strategically placed roses embroidered through it to provide a modicum of modesty. The long voluminous black skirt trails to my ankles, red-soled heels on my feet, making my legs look even longer. Slits on both sides of the skirt showcase my legs when I move, making it very clear that I wear no undergarments. My long brown hair has been straightened, hanging like a waterfall down my back, diamonds sparkling in my ears.
Today is my twenty-first birthday. Tonight I will be sold. And next week I will be given to my new master.
Ignoring the driver’s attempts at conversation and the greedy eyes he casts over my body, I watch the trees fly past, letting the cool autumn moonlight rejuvenate me as the car brings me closer and closer to my waiting destiny.
Patience, my darkness breathes.Soon.
Pulling up in front of the conference center hosting tonight’s event, I pay and tip the driver before stepping out onto the curb. A red carpet is rolled out, liberally sprinkled with white rose petals, small rounded bay trees lining the path, lit up with sparkling fairy lights that rival the stars themselves. Mountains rise up in the background, giving the impression of a fairy den, just waiting to welcome me to the delights found within.
I wonder if the owners know what kind of event this is. What kind of people they are if they do.
Trying to ignore the pounding of my heart and sweaty palms, I release a deep breath, then step forward confidently, allowing the red carpet to lead me to my destruction.
***
Stopping just at the glass-paneled doors, I take a minute to calm my nerves, letting out several deep breaths as I let my gaze take in the room before me. It is decorated as beautifully as the outside, the owners obviously taking pride in their business. The ceiling soars above me, a good twenty feet high at least, rustic beams finished in a dark wood breaking the expanse of white. A double-story stone fireplace fills a third of the back wall, flames roaring merrily, chasing away the autumn chill and adding to the ambiance of the room.
Lighting is kept low, giving an almost romantic glow to the room, aided by hundreds of candles placed strategically around the room on tables and mantles. Riotous blooms in autumnal colors dot the room, and a four-piece quartet plays quietly in one corner. The bar is open and doing good business, if the amount of glasses around the room is any indication, and a table groaning under the weight of a bounty of hors d’oeuvres is available to help soak up the alcohol.
One could be forgiven for thinking that tonight’s event was a wedding reception. I suppose they wouldn’t be too far off. If the bride was an unwilling participant, that is.
The room is fuller than I expected it to be; Papa must have gone all out with the invitations. The men milling about range in all manner of ages and shapes, some masked to preserve their anonymity.
Some I recognize, others I don’t. Senator Charles Rankin is here, talking politics animatedly with Judge Easton. Over by the fire, Ernesto Diaz, a coach for an NBA team, discusses the finer points of basketball with a rival coach of another team.
There are regular in-house clients and some webcam ones. Others are strangers, or hiding behind their masks, making it difficult for me to identify them.
As my gaze stretches across the room, I find myself searching, hoping.There.It’s like my eyes are drawn to him. Hiding in the shadows, his masked face turned away from me, stands a tall, well-built man. His dark skin is luminescent in the candlelight, making me wonder what it would feel like to stroke my fingers down it.
