Rescuing Their Virgin Mate(4)
“If we go by past events, he usually sells ten girls at a time. But that was Couch. Now that he’s dead, it’s John Hood’s show.”
“What do we know about him?”
“He’s new. Likes to dress the part of the man in charge. From what I’ve heard, he can be ruthless. He’s slick. So, watch out for him.”
Clay nodded. “We’ll be in touch.”
The sale was being held in the backroom of a strip club in the less than desirable part of Gulfside, Florida. To look the part, they dressed in fifteen-hundred dollar suits and three-hundred dollar shoes. Clay didn’t mind looking upscale once in a while, but Dirk kept tugging on his suit as if he’d rather roll in shit than put on the expensive clothes.
Dirk chose a black tie that Clay gave a thumbs-down. “Dude,” Clay said searching for another tie. “We’re supposed to be flamboyant rich boys, not freaking lawyers. Here.” The red and yellow striped tie at least looked like it might have come from a Miami store.
“I can’t do this right anyway.” Dirk ripped off his conservative tie. “I never learned to tie one.”
That was because Dirk’s dad split when he was a kid, and he’d had to learn everything by himself. Dirk grabbed the tie and made a shitty looking Windsor knot.
“You suck.” Clay stepped in front of his friend and straightened the mess. At least the guy had shaved. “Let’s get this over with and hope we’re not too late.”
#
The morning after Barbie disappeared, Elena awoke to the sound of the warehouse’s side door opening. She expected the guard, but when the sweet scent of lavender perfume reached her, her pulse raced at the change in routine.
Dressed in a formfitting black dress with white trim, high heels, and a pearl necklace, a thin woman huddled next to a taller gentleman. He had neatly trimmed gray hair, and from the cut of his suit, was rich. Together, they reminded her of a couple from the nineteen fifties—her grandpa’s era. Sleep deprived, she couldn’t figure out what a classy looking couple would be doing in a dump like this.
As she stared at them, blood whooshed through her veins. Had they come to rescue her? Or should she be afraid they’d kill her?
The two newcomers stood ten feet away from the three cages as if getting any closer would sully them. They leaned near to each other and whispered. They glanced at her and tossed out words like heavy, greasy, needs work, but she couldn’t piece together what was going on. Then they looked over at Cheryl and bandied about the words high price and perfect.
The powerful-looking man nodded, stepped over to Elena’s cage, and opened her door. He yanked her out by the arm, and the torsion wrenched her shoulder. She yelped.
“Shut up.”
Elena swallowed a whimper. She really needed to use the bathroom but didn’t dare ask. They seemed to have other plans.
“Christ, you stink,” Mr. Suit said.
Like that was her fault? He turned her around, and when he slapped cuffs on her wrists, her heart hammered at the restriction. His rough handling bruised her skin, but she swallowed her complaint.
She pulled her hands apart to test them, and the cold metal dug into her skin. Her adrenaline spiked as she pictured being shoved and prodded toward some kind of electric chair or worse a guillotine.
The man stepped behind her and dragged a blindfold over her eyes. Oh, no. Not being able to see was her biggest nightmare, and with her hands tied, she couldn’t rip off the cloth. To make it worse, he shoved a rag in her mouth. Panic ripped through her. Her stomach rolled and vomit shot up into her mouth.
“Don’t move,” he commanded.
If she ran, he’d probably shoot her.
From the direction of his footsteps, he’d stepped over to Cheryl’s cage. Metal creaked and Cheryl whimpered. The slap that followed hurt Elena worse than if he’d struck her.
“Let’s go, girls. Time to get you prettied up.”
Prettied up? The idea of getting clean appealed to her, but why would they care? Something wasn’t right. People didn’t drug someone, keep her in a cage for weeks, and then suddenly want to take care of her. This was wrong. These people were definitely not her saviors.
One of them pushed her forward and, with her hands tied behind her back, she stumbled and landed on her knee. “Ooogmsn.” Damned gag. Her breath caught in her throat as the pain raced up her leg.
“Easy with the merchandise,” the woman said.
The man’s meaty hand lifted her up again and, with a firm grip, he led her outside where the fresh air was a welcome contrast to the damp, stale air in the warehouse. She inhaled to fill her lungs with the goodness and caught a whiff of his cologne. It smelled like some version of Old Spice, a scent her uncle always wore. The good memory surfaced and helped lessen the tension.