Owned: An Alpha Anthology Part 16

The biker glances at me quickly-an a.s.sessing, curious look-and then he bends over the contents of his hand and begins scratching the tip of the knife against the bullet. A rustling whisper runs around the group behind me.

Is he really doing it?

He's marking that round?

No way.

The biker finishes whatever he's doing and then holds the bullet between his index finger and thumb for Spider to see. "You want this?" he asks. From the eager look in his eyes, Spider definitely does want the round. I just don't have a clue why. In fact, I have absolutely no clue what's going on. Everyone else seems to know what the biker's actions mean, and all I can do is wonder.

"I do believe it's customary to hand it over," Spider says, amus.e.m.e.nt thick in his voice. He reaches through the railings and holds out his hand. The biker slowly shakes his head. He looks at me.

"I'll give it to her," he says.

Spider's face twists into a scowl. "As you can see, my friend is a little tied up at the moment."

The Widow Maker tips his head to one side, casting dark eyes over me and lifting both eyebrows. "Something tells me this woman isn't your friend, Raphael." And then, to me, "Are you his friend?"

I don't know what the h.e.l.l to do. My mouth is still covered, but I could probably shake my head. And then the guy holding onto me would probably snap my neck for p.i.s.sing them off. My eyes widen, my tears blinding me. How the h.e.l.l can this guy be so calm when it's clear I'm being held against my will? It's f.u.c.king obvious Spider, this Raphael person, whoever he is, isn't my friend.

"Huh. I don't think she's feeling very talkative," Raphael muses.

"Still. I'll give it to her, if it's all the same to you. This is worth it, right?" He curls his fingers around the bullet, making a fist. "You've been waiting for it for a long time. Pus.h.i.+ng b.u.t.tons, involving yourselves in s.h.i.+t that doesn't concern you. And now you've gone and done something entirely irreparable-" His eyes travel over my shoulder, back toward the man on the ground, whom I presume must be dead by now- "and you're finally getting what you want. A blood bath. All you have to do is let her take this from me."

Raphael seems to consider this for a minute. He then sucks in a sharp breath, gesturing an impatient flick of his wrist at the man holding me still. "Put her down, Martin."

The grip around me is instantly gone, and my feet are on solid ground. My legs don't feel like they're going to hold me, though. I feel like Bambi taking her first steps. Raphael produces a gun of his own and thrusts it into my face. "Go on. Go and take it," he snaps. A hard shove from behind pushes me forward, and Raphael moves to stand behind me. I then feel something I never imagined I would ever experience in my lifetime: the muzzle of a gun pressed against the back of my head. My limbs lock up; I can't f.u.c.king breathe.

"Walk, b.i.t.c.h, or I'll put a hole in your skull."

I lock eyes on the biker through the railings; he gives me an almost imperceptible nod, like he's willing me to come forward. I do as I'm told. My heart's kicking wildly against my ribs as I put my right arm between the railings and hold out my open hand. The biker steps forward, closing in on me and taking hold of my wrist. He places the s.h.i.+ning, tarnished gold piece of metal into my palm and curls my fingers around it tight.

"Tell them you're a virgin," he murmurs. "Whatever happens, make sure Hector knows that."

"The f.u.c.k you saying to her, ese?" Raphael snaps. Before I can register what the guy has said to me I'm yanked backward, away from the stranger and away from the gate. I almost lose my footing. I hear the soft clicking of a gun being c.o.c.ked behind me. "Open your hand. Tell me what you've got there," Raphael snarls in my ear.

My fingers barely work; it takes serious effort to stop shaking and open my hand. Inside, I can see the slightly scuffed bullet, see the scratched marks on its surface.

"What is it?" Raphael demands, jabbing the gun in my back.

"It's...it's a bullet."

"And what does it say on it?"

"It says..." I turn the metal over in my hands, trying to focus through my tears. "It says WAR."

Howls of raucous laughter explode behind me; Raphael reaches forward and s.n.a.t.c.hes the bullet from me, holding it up for his friends to see. "War!" he shouts. "f.u.c.king war!"

The bullet is clearly a declaration, and Raphael and his men are overjoyed by it. The biker gives me a firm, meaningful look; he holds my gaze for a long moment, and then he turns around and pulls up his hood. Somehow, through all the laughter and rough housing going on around me, I hear the creaking of the snow under his boots with every step this stranger takes away from me. The Widow Makers club emblem is emblazoned in white across his back; it's the last I see of him as he climbs back onto his bike, starts the engine and rides away.

Hands take hold of me again. Raphael's still grinning from ear to ear as he squeezes my arm. "We're done here," he says.

"What are you going to do with me?" Strangely, I almost feel like laughing. People ask that question in movies, when they're kidnapped and taken from their homes and their lives, stolen away from everything they know and hold dear. I never thought that it would one day be me asking that question.

Raphael smiles a cold, dead kind of smile. "Oh, Chiquita, we're not going to kill if you if that's what you're worried about. No, you're much too pretty for that." He strokes the back of his hand down my cheek again, the same hand he hit me with before, and a wicked light sparks in his eyes. "You're going to come with us. My name is Raphael...but from now on, you will call me master."

REBEL BY CALLIE HART.

2 - Alexis.

Three of Raphael's men disappear and return shortly after in a beaten-up panel van. The windows are so dirty I'm surprised the driver can even see the road. I may be powerless against so many of them, but that doesn't stop me from fighting like a h.e.l.lcat when they try and make me get in the back. I'm reminded of a poem, a famous one by Dylan Thomas, 'Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night.' The t.i.tle in itself is comment enough for the situation I find myself in. The poem demands the reader kick and scream against death, and that's exactly what I do. I kick and I scream, because getting in the back of that van is the same as dying, and I don't want to die. I want to go home and listen to my mom gossip about her church friends. I want to do the dishes, and I want to watch TV. I want my sister, always so strong and distanced from everything, to come and find me and save me. I thrash so hard that another of the men has to take hold of my legs in order to restrain me.

"Let me go! Let. Me. G-" I choke on the last word. My head spins as something hard and blunt impacts against the back of my skull.

"Get her in the f.u.c.king van," Raphael snaps, and then another heavy thud connects with my head. No spinning now. No fighting or screaming or clawing furiously for my life. Only a sinking sensation and blackness.

Only blackness.

The void envelops me, whisks me away from the events of the last half hour. I sleep, or lose consciousness, I don't know. It feels like I'm still awake; I can feel the side-to-side rocking motion of the van as it takes corners. My ears still hear talking, distant and muddled, but I can't make out the words.

We travel for a long time. I have no idea how long. It could be hours; it could be mere minutes. Everything is a blur. I'm in pain and I'm wet, chilled to the bone.

When I fully regain consciousness, there's no pretending I'm still out cold. I throw up onto the bare metal flooring of the van, my stomach fiercely rejecting everything inside it. My head is killing me. I want to cry, but I can't. I simply don't have the energy.

"f.u.c.king stinks back here," a male voices complains. "Open the window, a.s.shole."

There are more comments about the smell I've created by puking. I feel like informing them that they shouldn't hit people so hard over the back of the head if they don't want to deal with the side effects of concussion, but my tongue feels fat and swollen and I can't breathe properly.

f.u.c.k.

What the f.u.c.k am I going to do?

This is the part where I think about who's going to be looking for me. Mom will have called Dad to see where we are, and he won't have answered because he's in the OR. She'll maybe have called Sloane, but my sister will be out with her friends, celebrating another day's survival as an intern. Mom can't have called Matt, my boyfriend, because she doesn't even know he exists. None of my family do. Too many questions. Does he go to church? What is he studying? Where is he from? What are his prospects? Is he being respectful?

The answers-doesn't go to church; not studying anything; from Mount Rainier; no real prospects; and h.e.l.l no, most definitely not being respectful-would not go down well. So, long story short, my family will have no clue where I am, and neither will Matt.

I throw up again, and this time it's not from the concussion. It's from the overwhelming sense of dread cycling through me, feeding on itself, growing by the second. There's one question playing on repeat inside my head, and I'm too much of a coward to face it yet. It's there if I stop thinking even for a second, though: Are they going to rape you?

Are they going to rape you?

Are they going to rape you?

I'm more afraid of this than I am of dying. I'm more afraid of something I have only thus far shared with Matt being forcefully taken from me than I am of losing my life. If I die, I'll just be dead. If they do unspeakable, horrific things to me, I will relive that experience every time I open my eyes each morning. Every time I close my eyes at night.

"Left up here, brother. Not far now," a gruff voice says.

The van's suspension is shot to h.e.l.l. My head bangs painfully against the floor as the vehicle swerves and leaves the road, turning onto what must be a dirt track. Someone snickers, and I get the impression it's at my expense. I'm sure to evil b.a.s.t.a.r.ds like these, a skinny girl, hands bound behind her back and lying in a pool of her own vomit, is a highly entertaining sight.

I try not to think about how vulnerable I am. I try not to think about what's going to happen when the van's engine stops spluttering and we reach wherever we're going. All I can concentrate on is my breathing, trying to keep it even. I'm dangerously close to hyperventilating, and I don't want to pa.s.s out again, which is what will happen if I let my panic take hold of me.

I breathe in. I breathe out. I breathe in. I breathe out.

"She's got some great t.i.ts," a different male voice says. I haven't heard this guy speak before, and I'm shocked-he has no accent. He sounds like he's from Seattle, though I know whoever he is, he must have some Mexican heritage. Each and every one of my captors appeared to be Hispanic. I barely register that they're talking about my chest until a hand suddenly grabs hold of one of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I try to open my eyes at this stage-being manhandled wins out over my splitting headache-but I can't see anything. They've blindfolded me. I kick out with my legs and manage to shove myself away, out of the reach of wandering hands. It still feels like the hand's there, though, squeezing and kneading my breast; my skin is crawling, p.r.i.c.kling with the intensity of my disgust. Matt's never touched me like that before. Whenever he's touched me, it's been to bring me pleasure. Whoever just grabbed hold of me did so for their own pleasure, a fact painfully clear by way they pinched and rolled my skin.

"What the f.u.c.k you two doing back there?" Raphael demands. I know his voice. He sounds suspicious, but then I've yet to hear Raphael sound anything but. "Don't touch that girl, motherf.u.c.kers. You heard me lay claim, right? I'll cut out your f.u.c.king tongues if you so much as look at her."

Two disappointed grunts follow after that.

Someone in the front cranks up the radio to obnoxious levels, and the sound of Taylor Swift's, We Are Never Getting Back Together blasts from the rear speakers. My head must be right next to one of those speakers, because it feels like it's on the brink of explosion. I used to like the song, but now? Not so much. The situation descends into outright weirdness when someone in the van, I can't tell who, begins to sing along. Enthusiastically.

My body is singing in pain. My shoulders are throbbing from the discomfort of having my wrists bound tightly behind my back. Thankfully my hands themselves have gone numb from lack of blood supply, so at least I'm now being spared that particular agony.

Less than fifteen minutes later, the van pulls to a jerky stop. Raphael is the first out; I can tell from the way his voice fades and then cuts off altogether when his door slams shut. The music is still blaring, though it's not pop music anymore. It's Mexican rap music. Angry. Hostile. Violent.

The rear doors open, and suddenly someone has hold of my ankles. I'm pulled from my cowering position in the back of the van, and I hit the ground hard. The drop from the vehicle to the ground must only be two feet, but my shoulder impacts first, sending a white hot flash of pain charging through my back and neck.

I cry out, but no one says a word. Hands find me, more than one pair, and they lift me roughly to my feet, pulling me forward. I hear nothing but Mexican rap music and the frantic staccato of my own heartbeat. I stumble after whoever is dragging me behind them, tripping on unseen obstacles and rolling my ankles. The music fades away, and my heartbeat grows even louder.

"Now, you'll keep your f.u.c.king mouth shut, you hear me?" a voice commands. Raphael. Of course, Raphael. "If you want to live, you don't breathe a f.u.c.king word." He yanks on my arm, unbalancing me, and I drop to one knee, only to have my arm almost wrenched out of its socket as I'm tugged to my feet again.

Without being able to see, my other senses have come alive. A saccharine sweet smell hits me-the smell of sugared almonds and candy floss. There's a screeching sound-a screen door opening?-and then I'm jerked to a halt.

"And what is this?" a male voice asks. The timbre of that voice is low and rumbling, husky with a thick accent. Spanish, but not Mexican Spanish. It's softer, more muted than Raphael's hard intonation.

"This is mine," Raphael replies. "I picked her up along the way. The judge is dead, by the way. In case you were wondering."

"I wasn't wondering. I gave you a job to do, and I expected you to do it. What I didn't expect you to do is bring a stranger back to my home."

The way this person speaks makes something very clear; he is p.i.s.sed. Seriously p.i.s.sed. It's the quiet, careful way he parts with his words that gives me that impression. I've had a severe case of mouth sweats ever since I threw up back in the van, but now my throat is miraculously dry.

"She's been blindfolded the whole time. She doesn't know anything," Raphael says.

A cracking sound, and then the dull, slow thudding of feet against wood. One step. Two. Three. The voice is closer now.

"Has she seen your face?"

"Yes."

"Does she know your name?"

There's a brief pause. And then, "Yes."

"Does she know...my name?" The malice in this question makes my palms break out in a sweat. I'm beginning to get the feeling Raphael's f.u.c.ked up in kidnapping me, and I'm going to be the one paying the price.

"Yes," Raphael answers. "She does. But she's never gonna be out of my sight, Padre. She won't be a problem."

"The girl isn't the problem here, Raphi. You are currently the problem. You do s.h.i.+t without thinking, and that is a really f.u.c.king big problem for me, you understand?"

So I know this guy's name? That must make him Hector, surely? He is Raphael's boss. Raphael doesn't say anything to him in return, though his hand tightens around my arm, fingernails digging into my skin. I squirm, trying to free myself, but it's a complete waste of energy.

"Take the blindfold off her," Hector commands.

A piercing light stabs into my head, making me gasp. Daylight? Daylight? It was eight-thirty in the evening when I first came across the unfortunate Judge Conahue. I blink up at the sky, horrified when I see the sun's position directly overhead. That would make it almost midday, or around that time anyway. How the h.e.l.l is that possible? I was dazed after being hit on the head, but I thought I'd been mostly conscious. Obviously I was wrong, otherwise I wouldn't be surprised by the fact that at least eighteen hours have pa.s.sed since I was taken.

Eighteen hours. That means I could literally be anywhere. Definitely out of Was.h.i.+ngton State. Any hope of rescue I might have been harboring plummets.

"I see why you risked p.i.s.sing me off, Raphi," Hector says. I lower my gaze and I see him-a tall, dark-haired man with startling green eyes. He's clearly of some Latin descent, though his skin is more golden than olive. Maybe in his mid forties, he reminds me of the pediatrician I used to see when I was a kid. Except there's an air of something not-quite-right about this man that Dr. Hereford didn't have. Something that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

He holds out a hand to me, his cool mint-green irises locked firmly on my face. I don't know what the h.e.l.l he expects me to do. My hands are still firmly tied behind my back. Hector doesn't even turn his head; his eyes simply travel from me to Raphael, and then my captor is moving quickly, hands fumbling to pull a small knife from his belt so he can free me. I'm in instant pain. It's like my hands are on fire. Blood rushes back into my fingers so quickly and intensely, the piercing sensation takes my breath away. Hector reaches down and takes my right hand in his, and ma.s.sages his fingers over mine, making a clucking sound at the back of his throat.

"You'll have to excuse my friend here. He can be very uncivilized when the mood takes him."

Raphael's getting antsy in my peripheral vision-he clearly doesn't like anyone else playing with a toy he considers his-but something primal within me is warning not to look away from Hector. He's beautiful in an odd way.

And terrifying in every other.

Despite his consideration for my screaming wrists and his apparently sincere apology over my treatment, I haven't forgotten what I heard back in that alleyway. This man is suspected of murder. The murder of a woman. And I am currently at his mercy.

"What's your name, sweet girl?" he asks, smiling, head tipped to one side, as though I'm a delightful mystery he's looking forward to unraveling.

I clench my jaw, torn for a moment. I shouldn't tell him my name. I shouldn't tell him who I am. I don't know why, but I know it with a certainty that makes my heart race in my chest. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not say," I inform him. Hector's smile fades. A flicker of disappointment flashes across his face-I have been a bad girl. Hector's focus flits to Raphael again, this time accompanied with a single arched eyebrow.

"Sophia Let.i.tia Marne," Raphael reels off. "Twenty-one years old. Student at the Cornish College of the Arts in Seattle."

I can't avoid my reaction now; my head whips around so I can look Raphael full in the face. He's lying to his boss. Sophia isn't my name. I sure as h.e.l.l don't study at Cornish. Raphael's almost black eyes are glinting with a barely suppressed fury that confirms my suspicions: he hates having to answer to someone else. Hates it with a vengeance. Hector holds out a hand to Raphael; he seems to know what his employer is requesting from him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an intimately familiar object -my wallet.

He snaps the clasp open and fishes out a card, which he hands over to Hector. It hits me then, why he thinks my name is Sophia. I'm hardly a party girl, but last year a group of my friends wanted to hit a club to see a DJ play, and I was the only one underage at the time. Luke, the boyfriend of one of the other girls, made up a fake driving license for me. I'd memorized the card's details before going in, chanting my borrowed name and date of birth over and over again in case any of the doormen asked me, only to be let in without even having to produce the d.a.m.n thing. I then proceeded to forget my fake persona altogether.

My real driving license is sitting on my bedside table at home, snapped in two. I broke it at least a month ago, and since I'm living on campus and don't have a car at the moment, replacing it has been very low on my list of priorities. There are no credit cards in my wallet, either. Nothing else to give away my real ident.i.ty. A cold sweat of relief breaks out across my face. Hector studies the license, studies me, studies the license again. He grunts, handing it back to Raphael.

"Well, Sophia," he says, giving me a small smile. "It would appear you've gotten yourself into a bit of a situation. Are you content with Raphael as your new master?"

Am I content with Raphael as my...? I'm at a loss for words. I'm pretty sure I'm covered in my own blood from where I was. .h.i.t over the head. I reek of vomit, and each of my wrists are banded with a deep purple ribbon of bruising. I hardly look like the sort of person who came willingly to their newfound servitude. My mouth opens, but I struggle to find the right response to the question.

"Let me put it this way," Hector says. "Are you going to make trouble inside my home, Sophia? Because I have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to trouble within in my home."

I haven't given much thought to the building Hector is standing in front of, but now I take a closer look at the place. The two-story Colonial, white weatherboard with green shutters, looks like something out of Little House on the Prairie. It's quaint, with its wrap-around porch, swing bench, and mult.i.tude of potted flowers balancing on the windowsills. I'd expect this place to belong to some frail, little old Southern lady. I can picture her rocking slowly on the swing, drinking her endless gla.s.ses of sweet tea. There are no bars on the windows, and no security gates or armed guards. But...there is also nothing else out here. Not a single building for as far as the eye can see. Just desert. A burnt, alien landscape with no roadways, no stores, or any way of making contact with civilization.

"Well?" Hector asks.

"What if I say yes? What if I am going to make trouble?" I don't really need to ask this question, though. I know all too well what he's going to tell me before the words have a chance to leave his lips. Raphael snickers, a wickedly sharp, crackling laugh. Hector just shrugs his shoulders.

"One of the many bonuses of living out in the desert, so far from prying eyes, is that shallow graves are easy to come by, my dear. Should you wish to incite chaos here, to disrupt my peaceful life, you can bank on finding some permanent real estate of your own out here."

Somehow, I've strangely been holding myself together since I was grabbed from the side of the street. I've cried, yes, but I haven't completely lost it. Until now. My legs buckle out from underneath me, ditching me in a heap at Hector's feet.