It’s just me, my skin, and the life I’m in.
My head turns slowly, as I’m dragged and pulled from the room. It’s not Temple tugging me. It’s another man – one of them that pulled me into the car. I stare, transfixed at my own tattoos as they move with me. The vines and flowers seem to tumble into each other as my own limbs crash and flail. Nothing hides the scars beneath them, though. Nothing ever will – not even Malachi’s cuts of possession. They sliced in deeper back then, wounded a part of me that never recovered from my mourning.
A bedroom comes into focus. I stare blankly at it as I’m dumped in a corner, and pull my knees up into me. It isn’t until the moment he walks in that raging anger seems to start taking over again. It boils inside me, making me tremble and shake. The other three come in after him, and the door closes behind them. He starts undoing buttons on his shirt, peels the cufflinks from his cuffs as if this is a given. I can’t work out what’s going through my thoughts now. It doesn’t even feel like this is a rape scenario, regardless of the other men in the room. He’s smooth, calm, near fucking smiling as he continues to walk around the space and look down at me.
“Get up,” he says. “On the bed.”
No.
I stay huddled, eyes remaining locked on his hands, his frame, his body so I can counter something he might try to do. Running won’t work. I’ve got nothing.
He snorts – fucking snorts – as if I’m amusing down here.
“I’m taking what’s mine, Alice. As many times as I want. Wherever I fucking want,” he says, unbuckling his belt and sitting in a chair. “Don’t make it hard on yourself. Who else gets the chance at four men and a fuck load of fun?”
One of the men moves quickly until one hand is reaching for me. It lands hard, and I watch the pressure increase to pull me upright. It doesn’t work. I lag in his hold, make my body as hard to move as it can be. Must piss him off because I’m suddenly hauled until he’s slinging me onto my knees in front of the bed. Harsh hands manoeuvre me, legs kicking my own open.
Grunts come out of him as he keeps handling me, and his mouth starts landing on my exposed skin. It’s laboured, slow, as if he’s got all the time in the world to enjoy his sick and twisted fantasy. Bile comes to my throat at the feel of him on me, and the sound of his zipper makes me tremble more than I already was doing. Not fear. I’m not scared – I’m disgusted. All I can feel is slime and sleaze, hot mucus and the grunts and groans of a letch.
His severe hand is trying to push my elbows out of the way so he can get to my breasts, and when he manages it he squeezes them, tears at the soft flesh as if it’s his to mould and grate. It isn’t. I can’t fight, though. Can’t stop him from trailing those same hands down across my stomach until they’re finding a way into these boxers.
“Fuck her mouth,” Temple says. “Make it hurt.”
My eyes shut tightly, mouth clamping closed as another man appears in front of me. Revulsion, hatred and loathing rolls over me in waves as one hand finds its way inside me. I swallow, bite my own lip, and try to keep the tears and humiliation at bay until I can’t bear it any longer.
“How does it feel, Alice?” Temple’s voice questions. “Scream for me.”
I don’t feel after that. I don’t feel or see or hear anything. I imagine. I let memories take me back to good times, to bad times, to indifferent times where life was any sensation or feeling other than this. Any fucking time that doesn’t involve the now or this version of reality I’m in has to be better – has to make sense in some way:
Malachi’s pinched grip.
His lips.
His arms around me while we slept.
Tommy’s laughter as he cut me and played his games.
Brett and Brandon’s confused faces as we ran.
More tears come. They choke me, drown me. Or something does. I don’t know anymore. It’s all just a mash of voices and images in my mind.
And none of them can help me.
Chapter5
Malachi
Finding Mr Greene’s whereabouts isn’t the problem, but getting a meeting with him is. Several phone calls and connections later and I’m now sitting in an idling car outside his residence with no invitation. Unusual that a man like him would choose a high-rise to live in, but I suppose the top floor of anything is more difficult to be ambushed in than a sprawling estate.
Seven of my team peel out of their own vehicles around mine and wait for command. For once, I’m not sure what that command should be. Too fast and they might kill her if she’s not already dead. Too slow and it might give him the opportunity to kill her if he hasn’t already done so. I doubt he has. The death of a son, if it was mine, would cause the need for a slow death – torturous. That would be relatively amusing if it wasn’t my Alice up there. If she is up there at all. He is, though, and, at the moment, that’s my first point of contact.
A black clad figure – Chad Benton -walks slowly to the side of my car, waits for me to open the window. “We can get in the private elevator now,” he states. “I’ve disabled the security. Immobilised the guard. Corrupted the cameras.” Good. What we’ll be walking into is unknown, and will probably involve a team of his own, but I nod anyway and get out to look up at the building. Glass. All glass other than the steel that holds it together.
Grabbing my bag, I watch a wall of men surround me as we make our way through the underground parking to head for a small area at the back. I can hear the echoes of our footsteps, which makes me smile and remember her own feet running my corridors and halls. She ran wildly, with passion and heat fuelling her, and then she stopped and wrapped herself around me for protection.
Or perhaps to protect me as much as her.
No one’s ever done that before her.
