Page 2 of Bought By the Biker

But there was just enough tequila in me to weaken my willpower and add a hint of insecurity that made it easier to cave in to peer pressure. Maybe I was infected by Marybeth’s wonderful wildness, envious of the protective way her boyfriend held her close to signal that she was his property, his pussy, his possession. Maybe some part of me was even hoping I’d meet someone down beyond the border, step into some alternate reality which awakened a sexual part of me that I’m certain never existed, like maybe when I was being created they left that part out.

Though now I wish my life-story had left this part out as the stash-house lights blaze above us, dangling on their wires like one-eyed demons perched above this hell on earth.

“Stand them up so I can see,” orders the man who just walked in the door. Tall, burly, and deep-voiced, with a rough black beard and savage little eyes that dart all over the place like pinballs. He’s not Mexican. Accent sounds Eastern European, probably Russian, maybe Czech or Slavic. I’d read something about how the Eastern Europeans were heavily involved in the Mexican sex-trafficking business. They paid the Cartels a percentage, paid the local police a percentage, paid their Bratva bosses back in the homeland a percentage.

“Up against the wall,” barks the man, striding into the filthy one-room shack and kicking one of the women who hasn’t gotten up off the floor yet. She whimpers and clambers to her feet. The man glances at her ass, frowns, shakes his head, turns to the armed Mexican thugs who’d kidnapped us from the tavern and had been standing guard as our little group of taken women expanded to a full house of captives. “They are too old for selling,” the Russian snarls in accented English, which I guess is their only common language. “I no pay for this shit. Too old. Too ugly. Do not waste my time, amigos. I am busy man.”

“No, Kazi,” says one of the thugs. “They only look bad in the light. You can sell the pretty ones, and the rest will be good for whores. See, this one has good ass. Show him your ass, bitch.”

My heart lurches as the thug walks over to Marybeth, grabs her by the hair, turns her and slams her face-first into the wall so Kazi the Russian can see her ass.

“You fucking asshole!” I scream, unable to hold back the rage that I know is useless and probably counter-productive. “We’re Americans, you dumb shit. We can’t just disappear without a trace. Someone’s going to come looking for us. Our families would have already contacted the FBI. They knew where we were going, and they’re going to—”

A hard backhanded slap across my face shuts me up, sending me reeling into the wall. I gasp in shock, hyperventilating as the hot rage turns to cold fear.

“You are a stupid American bitch,” grins Kazi the Russian, whose knuckles are probably going to leave a mark on my cheekbone. “Do you know how many thousands of Americans disappear in Mexico every year? Your FBI does not give a shit. They have no jurisdiction here. They will contact the Mexican Police, who will file a meaningless report and do nothing. Nothing happens here unless the Cartels allow it to happen. And we are friends with the Cartels. Now please, shut your entitled American mouth or I will pull out your tongue and feed it to you, yes?”

My head is still spinning from that blow across my face. I lean unsteadily against the wall, all the fight gone from my shivering body. The thugs roughly push us women against the wall until we’re all in a line, those harsh white bulbs swinging wildly, sending strobe-like flashes all over us, making me sick to my stomach.

Kazi the Russian strolls down the line of stolen women, who are a mix of tourists and locals. We’re all in our twenties, best I can tell—which makes me sick when I remember Kazi complaining about how we’re all too old to be sold.

“No good for selling, but yes, OK, some of these we can put to work in the whorehouses,” says Kazi with an impatient grunt. “I will take this one. That one. The blonde one at the end. The black one in the middle. The Latina over there. The Filipina next to her.”

As Kazi picks out the women, the armed thugs yank them forward out of line, shoving them with rifle-butts towards the door. Marybeth is one of the chosen ones, and she looks at me with wide-eyed fear, her face stricken. I try to offer her a reassuring smile, but we’ve been here for days, and whatever hope we’d held onto has been drained out of us. Neither Marybeth nor I live with our parents, so we won’t be missed. Neither of us has roommates. I’m on vacation for another three days, so my job won’t notice. Marybeth is between jobs. I don’t know much about her boyfriend, but I’m guessing his body is rotting in a garbage dump on the outskirts of Juarez. All of which makes it seem highly unlikely anyone in the United States is going to call the FBI for at least a few more days, if not weeks.

And we’ll be gone like dust in the wind by then.

“What about them?” asks one of the Mexican thugs as Kazi hands over a small black duffel bag, presumably filled with cash. “You no want the rest? Come on. I give you them for cheap.”

Kazi glances disdainfully at the rest of us standing against the wall. He sighs loudly, strokes his unruly beard, then digs into his trouser pocket and pulls out a greasy roll of hundred-dollar bills. He tosses the roll to the thug, then gestures with his head for us to step forward like he’s doing us a favor by buying us. I don’t know if I’m terrified or relieved, but Kazi clears it up for me really fast by sending me spiraling back to the realm of pure terror.

“Not her,” he says, waving me back to the wall as the other women move away, leaving me alone against the floodlit wall like Exhibit A. “I don’t want her.”

I stand there frozen against the wall, the only one left. My heart hammers against my chest, the most sickening mix of fear and humiliation ripping through my gut.

“Ah, Kazi. What to do with this one girl?” complains the Mexican thug after pocketing the bonus roll of cash. “We cannot let her go now that she has seen all our faces. She is American. She could cause trouble if she makes it back across the border.”

Kazi shrugs. “So kill her.” He grunts as the doors open and two of his men stomp in and begin to herd the bought women to a blue van I can see outside the shack. “And next time bring me better stock.”

The thugs grumble in Spanish, then one of them turns in my direction.

And raises the assault rifle slung across his shoulder.

My knees almost buckle as gasps and shrieks ripple through the other women as they stare at me standing alone against the bare wall.

A wall which I now realize is pockmarked with bullet holes, streaked with dried blood.

“No!” screams Marybeth, suddenly finding her voice when our gazes meet. She turns to Kazi, her eyes wide, tone desperate. “Please, my friend Yolanda, she’s . . . she’s . . .” Now Marybeth’s eyes light up. “She’s a virgin! Men will pay for a virgin, right? You can sell her. You have to take her. She’s valuable. She’s the most valuable of us all!”

Kazi is almost out the door, but stops like he’s been shot. He turns, cocks his head at Marybeth, then follows her pointing finger to where I’m shivering against the wall, my bare legs like jelly-spaghetti as my body trembles uncontrollably from the shock of being so close to death, about to be put down like an animal whose meat isn’t fit for anyone’s table.

“You are virgin?” Kazi strides over, leans close, sniffs like he can smell a virgin pussy with those flared nostrils. “Huh. Let me see.”

I stare, not sure what he’s asking. My brain is a swirling mass of nonsense, my body drained of all its vital minerals, my cheekbone still throbbing from being struck by Kazi’s bear-sized paw.

“Um . . . what?” I stammer finally when I realize all eyes are on me now, like I’ve suddenly gone from being overlooked to being the center of attraction, trash to treasure.

Kazi raises an eyebrow. “Show me your pussy. I must check if you are virgin before paying. Without proof there is no deal.”

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