He continued to drag me to the end of the hall, and slammed the door behind him. More women walked around this new hallway, but in big costumes. Some were completely naked with fake tans and tramp stamps. They all smelled of stale perfume, used to cover up the dirty stench.
We walked through a dressing room full of strippers and prostitutes. For all I knew, they were all prostitutes.
A woman cried in the corner, and others with bright pink cheeks and dark eye shadow consoled her. Then they strapped a rubber around her arm and shot her with liquid. Her face went slack and then filled with a smile. The drugs controlled them, and it sickened me.
"Where are we?" I mumbled. But he ignored me and dragged me up a flight of stairs that led to a stage. Smells of decay and mold hit my nose, as warm flashing spotlights beamed down on me. I stood half naked in the little bra and panties, and the room of people turned and stared.
It couldn't get any worst than this, could it?
I didn't want the answer to that question, because it could always get worse. I knew that as a fact.
I stood in a room full of dirty whistling perverts. My legs went slack, and I almost fell, but my bastard guide picked me up in his arms and carried me to the edge of the stage. He spoke to the crowd, and I only caught bits and pieces of his speech. Frustration covered me because I felt like I was slowly losing myself to whatever that asshole had shot into my arm.
Words like: "virgin," "twenty-two," "stage name: Butterfly Wings," "for sale," caught my attention. Then he walked me over to a cage in the middle of the room, pushed me inside, and locked the door to my own personal prison.
I lay on the ground completely numb and stared into the lights, as women stripped on the stage, and men begged for a taste of me. Bastards crowded around and reached their dirty hands inside to touch me. If my name were Butterfly Wings, they had ripped them completely off. For the first time, I felt helpless and broken.
That unforgettable night in Vegas when I pretended to be a whore to lash out against Finnley, I said dirty fucking things to the people in that club. I knew why Finnley was so upset with me now, because the profession could be dangerous. It had an ugly side to it, and I was in the middle of the cesspool. Reminders of that night stung, as the dirty words that I had once said to strangers were being spat back at me. Lady Luck hated me, and Karma was a bitch.
But what did I do to deserve this?
I couldn't think clearly.
I closed my eyes. I had been taken and brought to a sleazy underground prostitution ring somewhere in Europe.
But the accents. They weren't European. Right?
With all the strength I had, I stood. I grabbed onto a bar that hung from the top of the cage and steadied myself.
"Where am I? Where the hell am I?" I screamed. My throat was raw with pure hatred.
"Dance for us, virgin slut. Give us what we want." A man yelled and threw sweaty dollar bills at me. I couldn't hold my body upright any longer and slumped back to the floor. The shock of it all, and the drugs that swept through my body, were too much.
Virgin slut. Virgin. Vir–
Why did they keep calling me that? Wet dollars stuck to my skin as I lay there contemplating, and trying to calm myself and grasp onto some sort of reality.
I grabbed a fist of money and crumpled it in my fist. U.S. currency. As my vision faded in and out, I made up my mind to be the most uncooperative bitch in this place. Jennifer Downs did what she wanted, when she wanted.
I wasn't sure how much time passed or how many songs played. After several women danced, the perverted men became bored with me and left me to lie on the bottom of the cage like a filthy fucking animal. I would cry if I could muster the emotions to do it, but weak people cried. I wasn't weak or strong, but somewhere in the middle: numb and void of all emotions, other than hatred. But what was the opposite of hate? Love? It couldn't be that simple, could it? Stop it, Jennifer.
Lights flashed across the room and reflected on the floor. Regrets flowed like water down a stream. If I weren't found, having to live this type of life would be a nightmare where death would be the only escape.
I had found my new low and was waist deep in it.
Welcome to your personal dark paradise, I thought.
FINNLEY
Twenty-seven
"I don’t fucking care how much it costs, do it," I yelled into the phone before slamming it on the counter.
Seventy-two hours had passed.
She had been gone for seventy-two, long agonizing hours, and no one knew what was going on. Not even me, and it angered me to an unhealthy level. Private investigators swept London, and I even hired people in Paris. Everyone came up short, which was in-fucking-excusable. The fuse on my patience had been lit, and I was going to blow the fuck up at any moment.
When I looked at myself in the mirror, I didn't recognize who stared back: a man with crazy hair, wild eyes, and scruff. Fucking scruff! I was always clean cut. Always. Impressions were important, and I liked to be ready for the stalkers that lurked behind buildings to take snapshots of me: the most fuckable CEO under the age of 30. Give me a bloody break.
I had no control over my appearance while not knowing if she was okay. Shaving was the least of my fucking worries. I hoped for once she would close her mouth and not talk back, but if I knew Jennifer—an unnerving feeling tugged in the pit of my stomach, and I couldn't quite place it. Statistics say after three days, the odds of finding a missing person decline significantly.
I would drive myself mad thinking about her skin on mine.
Her smile.
Her lips.
The way her hair felt between my fingers.
The last look on her face.
The horror in her voice as she screamed my name.
Earlier, Luke called. I told him to leave and go back to Vegas. He'd finished his project quicker than expected and said he would stay for me, but I told him to leave. A part of him blamed himself for Jennifer's disappearance but for no reason. Luke did the best he could, and there was nothing more that could be done. Abbot and his men were on the prowl. If anyone could find Jennifer, it would be them. The men that were born to fight and steal, and would do anything for money. They were loyal to Luke and I because we ran with them when we were younger. Actually, we ran them.
I knew that whatever I did in life, I would be leading. Never been much of a fucking follower. Being in control of situations was what made me tick. Give me a challenge and I will accept and conquer. But at this moment, I would follow anyone who would lead me to Jennifer.
Mark my words, if they touched or hurt her in any way, whoever was responsible will wish they hadn't. Love made people do ridiculous things. With love, I would destroy the world with my bare hands and make it my bitch. Destruction raged dangerously inside of me.
I ran my fingers through my hair as I stared out the window and watched the people scurry on the sidewalks. My hand wavered. Control slowly slipped through my fingers.
My phone buzzed on the counter. I picked it up.
"Felton speaking."
"Abbot."
The silenced droned on.
Abbot didn't play well with others, but what could be expected from the man that ran the underworld of London. He was the sub-culture and so were all the men that ran in his pack. Although he was one of the most frightening gang leaders on this side of the Atlantic, he didn't faze me. I beat his ass when we were teenagers, and we both knew that I could and would do it again, especially in my current state.
We bled together. We fought together. We laughed together.
Nothing could take that camaraderie away, not even a fucking ocean or time.
"I've found your driver. Shall I slit his fucking throat?"