Caging Liberty, page 5
Five years, and I’m finally standing in front of Lib, with her at my complete mercy. A shiver travels down my spine, but I don’t let any of the excitement show on my face.
She’s caked in dust and grime right now, but she’s still the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. I could kiss her right now... Fuck her right here on the concrete and it would be just as good as any bed.
That’s not an option yet.
I force my thoughts to center and stare at her as if she’s any other girl. “Hello,” I say, ensuring that the disapproving frown on my face remains.
“What the fuck do you want?” she snaps, her eyes narrowed to slits.
I try to gauge whether she recognizes me, but I can’t tell. From what I’ve heard, she aims her hatred at anyone who steps foot down here, so this may be her norm.
I pull the granola bar from my pocket and hold it up for her to see. Her eyes widen a moment, but she quickly recovers and goes back to glaring.
“I thought you might be hungry.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
I lower the granola bar and glance at the jugs of water sitting in the corner next to her. “I’m told your name is Ivy.” I move my eyes back to her. “Is that true?”
No response.
“I’m going to take that as a yes. I understand you want to keep your pride, Ivy. I get it. You’ve been stripped of your freedom, and you feel like playing nice would be giving in, and maybe you’re right. So I won’t ask you to. You don’t owe me anything.” I bend and extend my arm through the bars, placing the meager offering on the floor before I stand back up, turn, and force myself to walk away.
“Wait,” she says when I’m halfway up the steps. Her voice is barely loud enough for me to hear, and I question if I heard it at all. I look over my shoulder and see she hasn’t moved from her seated position. The granola bar is where I left it.
We lock eyes, and in hers I see so much despair that the frown my lips pull into is genuine this time. I turn fully but don’t descend the steps.
“Yes?” I call out.
“Is Naomi okay?”
“Naomi?” I ask although I know exactly who she’s referring to. Her new name is April, and she’s one of the women who came here with Lib. Apparently, she put up a decent fight the first few days, but she’s back upstairs and cooperating.
“April,” Lib corrects. She clears her throat. “Is April okay?”
I slowly walk back down and over to the cell. I lean against the bars and peer inside. “Is she your friend?”
No response. No surprise.
“I don’t know an April.” It’s a half truth. I’ve never met her. “But I could find out who she is and if she’s okay. If it’s important to you.”
Lib’s eyes bounce around my face as she studies me, her brows slightly pinched. I wonder what she sees. Just another monster, I’m sure.
“Who are you?” she asks. She narrows her eyes skeptically, like she’s bracing herself for a lie or for a truth she doesn’t want to hear.
I take a moment to think through what I want to say. She’s given me practically nothing, so I’d like to leave her curious.
“Mr. A,” I settle on. “I’m a resident of the island.”
There’s a pause while she digests that, her pretty eyes searching me for more information. “Why are you down here?”
I give a small shrug like even I don’t know the answer to that. “I heard you were having a hard time.”
Before she has a chance to ask another question, I turn on my heel and walk away. She doesn’t ask me to wait this time, and when I make it out of the cellar, I find Sawyer waiting for me with a smirk on his face.
“Better luck next time, bud.” He claps me on the shoulder and turns to wrap the chain around the door handle. He looks over his shoulder before speaking again. “I have to hand it to you though… The fact that she didn’t try to attack you is impressive.”
“She needs patience. Be gentle and she’ll quit biting.”
He laughs. “If you say so.”
He fumbles with the padlock, still snickering as if this is amusing. As if this isn’t a woman’s life we’re talking about.
“Give it time,” I say, my tone serious enough to snuff out his humor. “She’ll come around.”
He clicks the lock into place then turns to me. “You think so?”
I nod and pat his shoulder before walking past him. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
6
Liberty
I hold my breath when I hear the cellar door open.
Mr. A walks in, and I let it out, my shoulders sagging with a relief I’m disappointed in myself for having.
I don’t want to want him here. I want to dread his presence just like I do every other man I’ve seen since I was abducted. But he’s given me something I’ve been missing since I got here, and it’s somehow breaking me down more than anything else these sick fucks have tried.
Because of Mr. A, I finally have a better sense of time.
He comes once a day, gently places a granola bar into the cell, then leaves without ever saying a word. He’s done this four times, always wearing different clothes, so I’m almost certain that when Mr. A comes, it’s a new day. It even feels like I’m beginning to get a sense for when he’s about to arrive, so I think he even shows up at the same time. But that could be in my head.
There are no windows in this cellar, and having no obvious patterns, I can’t get a sense of Julio’s schedule. He shows up to fuck with me and to dump the toilet—which is just a plastic bucket…gross, I know—but there’s no internal clock clueing me in to how often that is. My stomach cramps worsen as time passes, to the point I spend a good chunk of the day—or night?—lying on my side, curled into a ball, wishing the pain would ease, but that’s the only indication that I’ve been here for a substantial amount of time.
Until now. Now I can tell how much time passes, and it makes things worse while simultaneously bringing comfort. I have something to wait for, something to crave, something to look forward to. That fucking daily granola bar.
Sharp pain seizes my stomach, and I wrap my arms around myself and squeeze, waiting for it to pass. Normally, I fight through it when someone else is here—I don’t like to show my pain—but today, I don’t care. Julio already came. I’ve already used my energy putting on a show for him. I don’t have any left.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
I open my eyes as Mr. A walks up and crouches to place the bar in the cell. I stare at his tan face and can’t help but notice how handsome he is. Today especially. He’s wearing black slacks and a white button-down he has rolled up his forearms. The top two buttons are undone, and he’s missing a tie today. His chestnut brown hair is tousled like he’s been running his hands through it, and his hard jawline sprouts stubble I haven’t seen before.
I wonder what his days look like. What made him run his hand through his hair? Where has he been? What has he been doing?
This is an island meant for play, but he looks like he does nothing but work. He doesn’t have the same casual attire as the others, and he always looks serious. There’s no evil in his eyes, and he isn’t annoyingly carefree like Sawyer. I haven’t caught a single smirk to tell me he gets pleasure from seeing me in pain, unlike the others. He doesn’t try to take anything from me or convince me that everything’s going to be okay, and all of this combined makes me hate him just a little bit less than Sawyer and Julio.
Who is he? I spend just about every moment I’m not plotting my escape imagining his life, coming up with characters who may resemble him. Some of them are vile, cruel, ruthless. Sometimes I let myself imagine he’s kind, as if anyone on this island is capable of that. I don’t know his motive for coming down here, but it’s hard not to sometimes imagine that maybe he just gives a shit.
I’ve been determined not to show my weakness, not to give these people any of the begging I know they’re after, but I’m breaking. I can feel it. I’m stripped down to my bra and panties, and my knees feel rough against my arms. My skin is dirty and dry. My stomach gnaws like I’m being eaten from the inside. I’m exhausted all the time. And I’m so lonely. If I’m going to break, I don’t want the other two to be the ones who watch it happen. If any of these assholes is going to see me vulnerable … I guess I’d want it to be him.
I try to meet his eyes, waiting for the moment he looks at me. I want him to see what’s in my head, see how badly I’m hurting, how terrified I am, and how fucking miserable it is constantly hiding these things. I want him to talk to me again. To say hello. Say goodbye. Say anything.
I will him to look at me, but it doesn’t work. He stands up straight, turns around, then walks back toward the stairs.
My eyes water as I move my gaze to the granola bar. A piercing pain lights up my stomach, and I suck in a sharp breath, air whistling past my teeth. I close my eyes and swallow.
“Thank you,” I call out, moisture coating my lashes.
His footsteps stop echoing on the walls, and even though my eyes are closed, I can feel his stare. Or maybe I’m just hoping for it. Maybe he’s already left.
I open my eyes at that thought and lift my head to see him paused on the bottom step. His back is to me, and he doesn’t turn around. After a moment, he continues up the stairs. I bite down on my lip.
Don’t go.
Don’t go.
“Don’t go,” I blurt out, tucking my face into my knees and letting my tears slicken my skin.
I don’t look up, but I hear his footsteps coming toward me. When they stop, I lift my head, wipe my eyes, and force myself to calm. I won’t beg. I promised myself I wouldn’t do that.
“Are you okay, Ivy?”
My vision blurs, and I don’t answer. That question doesn’t deserve a response.
“Would you like to talk?” he asks, his voice light. Gentle.
Fuck, I hate him. I don’t know him, but I hate him. He’s like a lifeboat in the distance, leisurely drifting this way, but I’m already drowning, and he must know it.
How pathetic do I look right now?
Anger heats my skin, melding with so much grief that it’s a confusing combination.
Don’t go.
I hate you.
Help me.
Kill yourself.
Confusing. Just so fucking confusing.
“Okay,” he says, turning his back to me.
“Why are you here?” my voice cracks.
He sighs and turns to face me. His palm extends, gesturing toward the meager offering. “I thought you might be hungry.”
“I’m not stupid.” I take a breath and try to make my voice steady. “I know this is some kind of fucked-up game you’re playing with me. If you felt bad for me, you’d bring more than a granola bar.”
He frowns then glances down at the offering like he’s just now considering that. If he’s acting, he’s doing a good job.
Sawyer was able to subdue the other women. He was able to confuse them, just like I’m confused now. Is that what this guy’s trying to do to me? Subdue me, tame me, trick me like they’ve tricked the others?
Who is he?
And if he is just trying to pacify me … why is it working so well?
“Would you like something else to eat?” he asks, his voice deceptively innocent. “We could go upstairs. I think there’s plenty of dinner left over. Margarette made roasted duck.”
My stomach twists, and I try not to let the pain show on my face. He gave me another piece of information with that, although I’m not sure it was worth the imagery that makes my mouth water.
It’s nighttime.
“And what would we do after?” I ask, injecting venom into my words. “I’m assuming you’d expect me to sleep with you.”
He raises a brow like I’m being crazy. Like I’m not a prisoner on an island of sex slaves.
“I want to phrase this as delicately as I can because I’d hate for you to take offense, but you aren’t exactly in the best shape to be lustworthy. I think you could use a few good meals and at least one good night’s sleep. A shower wouldn’t hurt.”
“So that I can make myself ‘lustworthy?’ ”
“No, so that you don’t die.”
My lungs seize at that. I know it’s stupid because, of course, they’ll eventually kill me. It’s been a struggle determining which fate is worse, dying or giving in. I still don’t know, but hearing the possibility of them killing me out loud makes it scarier somehow.
“The human body can survive about two months without food, as long as it’s hydrated. That’s without the little bit of food I’m bringing you. You have plenty of time to continue your hunger strike if that’s what you want, but I’d suggest ending it sooner rather than later. You’re getting dangerously close to mental health damage you won’t be able to come back from. Sawyer is forgiving, but he has his limits, and a slave who starts rubbing feces on the walls is one of them. You understand what I’m saying?”
I look down at my knees as my mind goes to the food mere feet away. I could devour it in a single bite. I just don’t want to do it in front of Mr. A.
“I’m not on a hunger strike. I’m being starved.”
“You’re being stubborn,” Mr. A counters. He lifts his eyes and points to the camera overlooking the cell. “You have the option of going upstairs with the rest of the whores anytime you choose. Just say the word.”
“Don’t call us that,” I snarl, my eyes narrowing.
Mr. A sighs like my dignity is a nuisance. “Staying down here is a choice, Ivy. It’s not one anyone wants you to make. Pitying yourself isn’t doing you any good, and neither is being prideful.”
“If I go up there…” I inhale a shaky breath. “We both know what happens.”
“I know what happens. You seem a bit hazy about it.”
“Naomi told me. You force women to have sex with residents like you, and then you sell them to the first person who’s interested. Sawyer even told me that, so stop trying to bullshit me.”
Mr. A stares at me without saying anything. For a moment, it’s a welcome stare down, but then my skin begins to crawl.
“I’m going to ask you a question that you aren’t going to like. But I want you to put that fighting spirit of yours aside when I’m gone and truly think about it. Okay?”
I press my lips together and remain still.
“You’re on an island with more wealth than you could know what to do with. You live in a mansion beside the ocean. You’ll eat great food, wear designer clothes, pursue as many hobbies as you want, and never have to worry about anything for the rest of your life. Someone will always take care of your every need, forever. And yes, in return, you’re expected to meet the physical needs of those who take care of you. You’re expected to be obedient.”
“Is your question coming anytime soon?”
His face sobers, and there’s no trace of empathy left in his expression. I was right… He doesn’t feel bad for me. He’s as vile as all the other men here, malevolent eyes or not. What did I expect him to do? Save me? Understand? Why? Because he brings me fucking crumbs?
My face heats with fresh anger, and it’s good because it distracts me from my sinking heart.
“How different do you think this is from the life you’d chosen for yourself?”
My jaw goes slack, and my chest aches. I’m stunned. Not because he knows more about me than I’d realized. Not because I can’t believe he’d have the audacity to ask me that.
I’m stunned because instantly, I know what he means. And finally, I know why they picked me to come here.
Because they think I’m a gold digger. And they see this as a gold digger’s paradise. I told saltyshells—Sawyer—everything, everything that Robert put me through. So not only am I a gold digger in their eyes, but I’m also a doormat.
They probably had no idea I’d fight back.
“I won’t be back,” Mr. A says, his face hard. He turns and takes a few steps before looking over his shoulder. “I hope to see you around, Ivy.”
With that, he’s gone. And for the first time, I don’t hide my tears. They flow down my face freely, and a sob barrels up my chest.
Finally, I break.
7
Angel
My eyes roam the playroom, the low lighting making it hard to recognize faces. Light flickers like this is a nightclub—Sawyer’s taste, not mine—and I catch glimpses of women, but none resemble the blue-eyed beauty I’m searching for.
Yesterday, Sawyer told me she was being moved upstairs. I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt more relieved. I’ve been wanting Lib for years, and her stubbornness was beginning to make me think I’d never get my chance. Acting as if I’d given up on her was risky, but it was only hours before Sawyer called and told me she’d caved.
That gave her twenty-four hours to get cleaned up and rested for tonight. I didn’t ask Sawyer if she’d be here because I didn’t want to seem too eager, but now I regret that. If she doesn’t show up, I’ll have endured Sawyer’s affinity for strobe lights and club music for no reason.
I’d been lingering at a table off to the side of the playroom, but now I make my way to the bar on the other side. To call this a ‘room’ is a bit misleading considering the square footage of this space must be more than most houses.
Tables for two line a portion of both walls with two fully stocked bars on opposite sides of the room.
Several stages with poles and cages occupy the middle of the space with plenty of chairs surrounding them.
Couches are strategically placed on both ends, and various equipment is sprinkled throughout. Sibians, spanking horses, and pillories … one of which is currently being used to lock a girl in place while several men line up behind her. I watch her face twist with ecstasy and think I hear her moan, but it’s too loud in here to be sure.
