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“Don’t worry about her. She’s nothin’. Nobody you need to worry about,” I hear Hammerhead call from his office. “Come on. Let’s do some business.”
“Yeah, comin’,” the stranger says.
He gives me one last look before turning and heading down to Hammerhead’s office, showing me the patch on the back of his cut. Ruthless Kings. So, that’s the VP of the Howlers’ ally in Vegas, huh? I can see why Hammerhead doesn’t want me looking at him—the VP is gorgeous, and Hammerhead’s so insecure, petty, and jealous enough that he’d assume I’d sneak away with him. And I can’t say if he asked, I wouldn’t.
It’s crazy, of course. As tempting as it would be to hop on the back of the man’s bike and ride for the horizon, I know I never would. I’m not brave enough. I’m too afraid of Hammerhead to cross him. As romantic as the idea is for this man to be my knight in shining armor, I’d never be able to muster up the nerve. If Hammerhead somehow ever found us, his revenge would be horrible. He slaps me around for something as simple as not fetching him a beer fast enough. It terrifies me to think what he might do if I ever betrayed him like that.
As it is, I’m half-afraid Hammerhead’s going to be pissed the guy stopped to look at me. Flattering as it was, it’s probably caused me more trouble than I wanted, and Hammerhead is probably going to lash out at me for it. Like it’s my fault. I didn’t ask him to stop and stare like a smitten schoolboy. But I’m sure Hammerhead is going to be pissed that I wasn’t hiding in my bedroom, well away from the wandering eye of his guest.
I finish up my noodles then wash the bowl and put it away as quickly as I can and scoot back to my room. I close the door and try to lock it, only to remember Hammerhead kicked my door in and busted the lock about a month ago after I refused to sleep with him. He’d managed to get it up for a change and wanted to put it to some use, but I said no and locked myself in my room. The next thing I knew, the door exploded inward. Splinters of wood from the door frame flew at me and the lock had been totally shattered.
The terror I felt when I looked into his drunken face nearly paralyzed me. He demanded I perform my duty, so I did, just to keep him from beating me. I wasn’t entirely successful as he slapped me around a bit anyway, splitting my lip and bruising my cheek. But the whole thing was thankfully over in a matter of minutes, and he stumbled out of my room, crowing like he was the biggest stud in the world. I cleaned myself up and closed the door as best as I could. Hogwild found out what happened a couple of weeks ago and said he’d fix it for me, but he hasn’t gotten around to it. Until then, I have to wedge a small piece of wood under it to keep it from swinging open.
Saying no to Hammerhead was one small act of rebellion I’d hoped would ignite more courage and strength in me. I’d hoped to make myself brave through sheer will. My thought was that if I became more troublesome than I was worth that he’d finally leave me alone. It’s a thought I have every few months, but every time I try, I wind up cowering in the face of his fury and giving in to whatever it is he wants. And I hate myself for it every single time.
You would think that after all this time and all the abuse I’ve suffered at his hands, I would be numb to the fear. That the pain would no longer scare me. Maybe I wouldn’t be so terrified of the thought of death if it meant being free from him. But the truth is, I like being alive. I cling to the hope that this is temporary and that all I have to do is survive until I can finally get free from him and from this life. Just survive.
That spark of hope is the only thing that keeps me going most days. I nurture it, giving it little bits of oxygen in secret. I don’t want to die. Although my life has been a series of terrible events for the past few years, I want to believe my circumstances are temporary. I know I’ll find a way out of this cycle of misery and come out the other side alive. I know I’m going to bear scars from my ordeals—mental, emotional, and even spiritual—but I know I can work through those. I know I don’t have to let my situation define me and that if I want to put this all behind me, I can. It’s just going to take time and work.
But I’m more than willing to put in the work that needs to be done to come through this whole thing. I want to work through it and move forward with my life. I’m young and there are still many things I want to do. I just need to hold onto that hope. I just need to keep that flame, small as it is, alive, and never let it go out. Because I know once it’s extinguished, once I give into the despair that is constantly hovering over me and lose my hope, I’ll probably be better off dead.
I can’t live in a world without hope. I won’t.
I sit down on my bed and press my back to the wall. Though, it’s probably generous to call it a bed. It’s four milkcrates topped with a piece of plywood that has a ratty old mattress on top. My room isn’t much better. It’s about as big as a prison cell—which is fitting—and has one window that latches from the outside so I can’t open it and escape.
The closet doesn’t have a door. Not that it matters. It’s not like I have anything to hang in it anyway. Most of the time, I only use the closet when I want to hide. A battered old chest of drawers fits all my clothes and has room to spare. And other than a small, mismatched and thoroughly beaten-up nightstand that sits next to my dresser with a lamp being held together with duct tape, I have no other furniture.
Living in squalor would be a step up from the way Hammerhead forces me to live now. I literally am his prisoner. The only times I’m allowed out of the clubhouse are if I’m escorted by one of his men, who never let me out of their sight. I’m denied access to the internet, don’t have a cellphone of my own, and no other way of communicating with the outside world. At least I’m allowed to have books and magazines to read. It’s usually Hogwild who remembers to grab some for me. He’s also brought me journals and pens to help occupy my mind, though he warned me to keep them hidden from Hammerhead. He says it’s important to keep the mind working.
I’ve thought about asking Hogwild to help me escape about a million times. I never do, though. I’m afraid of angering him and losing the only ally I have in this place. If I can even call him that. Hogwild is the best of the guys here, but that’s kind of like saying he’s the prettiest-smelling turd in the room. I appreciate what he does for me, but he’s still loyal to Hammerhead and the club. He may sometimes come around, but he doesn’t really care. If he did, he’d help me.
Even though I’m a prisoner, I’m an outsider, and I don’t see him sticking his neck out for me like that. I keep hoping he’ll bring it up, that he’ll suggest an escape play, but he never does. And I’m too scared to bring it up myself.
I honestly don’t know how I’ve managed to hold onto even the barest scrap of hope and the dream of getting out of here one day. I have no idea how I keep that spark alive when I’m stuck in this pit of misery week after week and month after month. But somehow, I do. I just keep hoping one day I’ll have the courage to make a break for it. Maybe one day I’ll have the strength to just run—and keep running until Hammerhead gets tired of chasing me. Maybe if I run far enough, he’ll eventually decide I’m not worth the trouble and leave me be.
That might be a pipe dream. He is one of the most possessive people I’ve ever known. I know that possessiveness flows from his insecurity, but to me, it makes him dangerous. It makes him hold tighter to those things he owns. And he definitely thinks of me as something that belongs to him. His property. He barely sees me as a human being. All I am to him is the house cleaner, dish washer, food maker, and fuck toy when he sees fit. What he said to the Kings’ VP, that I was nothing and nobody, perfectly epitomizes what he thinks of me.
Back when I was first given over to him, I tried to be kind. I tried to win him over, believing there was a good person buried underneath all the gruff bluster. I tried to see a decent man behind the cruel words and abusive actions. I was wrong, though. Very wrong. I learned fairly quickly that there is nothing good or decent in him. Maybe there was back in the day, but the version of the man right here and now has no redeemable qualities. There’s nothing but a charred piece of stone where his heart should be. Anything good in Hammerhead died a long time ago.
I pull my pillow into my lap, hold it to my chest, and lean my head back against the wall. I close my eyes and almost instantly, an image of the Kings’ VP pops into my head. In my mind’s eye, I see his long sandy brown hair. Those dark, smoldering eyes. The stubble along his strong jawline. In my imagination, I feel his thick, toned arms around me and his mouth pressed to mine.
A fire lights up in me and sends tingles down my body. I imagine his rough, calloused hands brushing on my cheek softly. I imagine him caressing every inch of my body, peppering tiny kisses down my chest and on my nipples. Touching me softly. Kindly. The way I deserve to be touched. I imagine him reaching a hand between my legs and pressing against my warm wet center, massaging in slow circles as he brings me ever higher.
I let out a soft gasp as I realize my own hand has already wandered down there, and I’m soaking wet. My other hand is already on my nipple, pinching it just slightly for that perfect pinch of pain mixed with pleasure.
I hesitate for just a moment before deciding to continue. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched. Really touched, not just abused and manhandled. I’ve almost forgotten the feeling. But as I slip my hand down my panties, imagining that it’s his fingers circling my clit, imagining that it’s his teeth softly nipping at my breasts, I feel an overwhelming sensation flooding through me.
I imagine his confident smirk—not cocky—as he stands up and removes his jeans. I didn’t get a good look at him, but I just know he is packing. It was only for a brief moment, but I definitely saw the outline of his thick cock pressing against his tight jeans. My mouth waters as I savor the memory.
In my mind’s eye, the man is lifting up his shirt, revealing gorgeous tattoos all over his taut body. He unbuckles his belt and pulls down his jeans, revealing his massive, hard cock tenting his boxers. I pick up the pace rubbing my clit as I envision the fires of lust in his eyes as he looks over me. I bite down on my lip, willing myself not to cry out as in my fantasy, he leans forward, kissing me deeply and pressing me back onto the bed. His cock rubs against my stomach and I whimper, begging for release, begging for him, wishing I could only make this real.
I close my eyes and let the vision take over as he prepares to enter me, prepares to make me his. I’m so close. I feel electricity tingling my body just from my own imagination. He’s holding his long shaft in his hand only millimeters from my entrance, ready to penetrate me and drive me over the edge. I want to beg him to take me, to make me his, to—
“Molly!” someone yells out, knocking the door roughly, and my fantasy dissipates in a split second. I’m brought back to the sheer disappointment of reality and I groan.
“What?” I finally manage once I’ve calmed down and caught my breath.
“Jammer clogged up the shitter again. Come fuckin’ fix it.”
