We pass door after narrow door, each one a mirror of the room I just left, and I can’t stop picturing the other girls locked inside. Have they left yet?
Through a tough metal door, I’m dragged into an underground loading zone. More like a large service garage rather than a parking area. Random fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a sterile glow across the ground.
A limo idles between the yellow drop-off lines, and for a moment, the quiet shuffle of feet lets me catch the distant hum of traffic above. It’s the closest I’ve been to the outside world in a week, and though it’s pointless, I jerk my head back and let out a scream.
“Help! Help me please!”
One of the security men snickers at my side, while the driver’s side of the limo opens and a short, round man steps out. He jogs around to the back door and opens it.
Congressman DuPont pauses at the open door and sidesteps, allowing the security guards to toss me in. They aren’t gentle.
The bottoms I’m wearing ride up as I scramble across the seat to hug the window farthest from the door. I try the handle, but it doesn’t give. I’m still pulling at it when the congressman dips into the seat.
The driver slams the door, and I flinch. The man next to me only smirks.
Sick. He’s sick.
A roll-up metal door slowly lifts to expose the inky night dotted with city lights, and the limo squeals out of the garage. I gasp as we emerge from underground in the middle of the city and maneuver the streets of Chicago. Without thinking, I try the handle again and give the door a shove. I’m not sure what I’d actually do if I tumbled out of a moving vehicle in my underwear, but I don’t care. Anything would be better than what’s about to happen, what he’s going to force me to do.
When the door doesn’t give for a second and third time, I resort to banging my fist on the window. “Hey!” I scream. “Help me!”
Salty tears trickle into my mouth, and I wipe at my nose. Dragging a hand through my wild hair, I sigh. It’s no use. No one can hear me.
The quiet of the limo buries my pleas. There’s no music. No discussion between the driver and the congressman. Only a tiny rattle of metal against the glass, and the creak of the leather seat. It’s then I allow my gaze to drift to the right of me, eyeing him.
His tall legs are spread wide, right elbow propped on the arm of the door while his chin is tucked and resting between his thumb and forefinger. He’s staring at me, but not at my face. No,his eyes sweep over my unruly head of hair. Instinctively, I cross my arms over my chest, and he, once again, gives me a smirk before adjusting the frames on his face.
I ignore him in favor of the city outside the window, and watch as it dwindles away into suburbs I’ve never set foot in before. Lights and houses become few and far between, and I catch signage referencing the lake. My eyes widen when the limo turns into a gated driveway.
Dang it, I wish I could get out of this. Go back to my directionless life. Back to when my biggest problem was Edgar Allan Poe and figuring out how to tell Tristan how I really felt—that maybe I didn’t love him the way he wanted. At least with him, I knew what kind of mistake I was making. I’d give anything to be that naive again. Though, it still doesn’t stop my curiosity as the gates swing open and modern gas lamps light the way to the two-story home.
In the next few seconds, down the driveway and to the front door, I panic, longing for the stiff twin bed back in the underground bunker. To think every week girls have rolled down this same driveway, here or other mansions across Chicago. All to feed the addiction of powerful men who care only for their next pleasure point.
My sweaty palms slip against the crest of the seat beside my knees. The leather is cold and smooth beneath my fingers as I clutch the seat. Each bump down the driveway rattles my spine, and I grit my teeth to keep from letting loose a whimper.
When the limo pulls up in front of the double-door entrance, I don’t dare move. Instead, I grip the seat tighter, trying to look braver than I am.
Body trembling, I bite down on my tongue when the driver gets out and walks around the car. When the door finally opens, the congressman is staring at me again.
“Sir?” the driver says.
The congressman shakes his head and gets out while two new guards duck down to coax me out. I slide halfway across the seat to the door before they reach in to grab me, hauling me out with equal fervor as those who put me in here.
I tell myself I’m going to be brave and not show the fear coursing through my veins, but it’s no use. It’s like I’m sliced open on both wrists and letting the fear bleed out in front of me with how badly I’m shaking.
Another man stands with one door propped open. Posture straight, he’s dressed in a pristine black tailcoat. Beneath it is a starched white shirt fastened high up his neck and paired with a black bow tie. He taps a polished shoe beneath the marble stone floor, like waiting on me is the bane of his existence … whoever he is.
The balmy air soaks into my skin the minute my heels hit the ground, and it’s wrapped in a hush. No city noise, definitely not the clamor of music and sadistic laughter from the club—just the soft rhythmic lapping of … water?
We must be on the lake. Either that, or there is a wild wave pool somewhere nearby. It would be almost soothing if it weren’t for the circumstances of my arrival.
And with that, the beauty of the night is squashed, and I shiver.
“Move it!” One of the guards pulls me before wrapping a hand around my waist and shoving me along my spine. His hand grazes my belly.
I jerk to pull away, but he grips me tighter. Looking forward toward the door, I spot the congressman standing on the single step up to the double-door entry. His glare is razor-sharp, and I forget how to breathe.
That stare.
