Page 1 of Cruel Master

ChapterOne

I will not cry.

I will not cry.

Tears begin streaming down my cheeks.

Fuck, I’m crying.

But, damn it, how could I not?

I scream into my gag and writhe, my body flopping back and forth across the floor of the dirty van. The floor feels sticky against my legs, and I don’t even want to contemplate what’s contributing to that slimy texture. My hands are bound painfully behind my back, and my ankles are tied together too.

It’s as cold as an icebox in here, and I’m freezing in my cut-off jean shorts and flimsy little tank top. My nipples pebble painfully, and goosebumps break out on my flesh.

I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on breathing in and out through my nose. It’s hard to engage in meditative breathing when panic is making your chest so tight you feel like you’re going to have a heart attack even though you’re only nineteen years old.

Only nineteen years old. Naïve. Stupid.

I should have known better. My sister and I have loved to binge-watch Lifetime movies ever since we were little girls. I should have seen it coming. It had all the makings of a kidnapping flick written all over it, yet I still took the bait like the desperate little fool I am.

When the photographer in the mall singled me out and told me I’d make a perfect model, I should have seen it coming.

I’ve seen this very scenario played out in countless movies on LMN, yet I still fell for it.

I believed I was different, that I was untouchable, that nothing so horrible as kidnapping could really happen to me. Is that how the other girls whom this has happened to felt?

I also wanted to believe that I really was pretty enough to be a model, that I could start making some real money and change things for my sister and me. No more working two dead-end jobs, scraping by from paycheck to paycheck. No more going to the local food banks just to make sure my little sister had enough food. I’m not college material, and even if I was, it takes money to go to school. Even if I’d gotten grants or scholarships, it takes money to live, especially when you have a kid sister to take care of.

My heart twists at the thought of Gia. My god, what will she do without me? She’s only fifteen, too young to take care of herself, but I know my sister. She’ll do everything she can to avoid going back into foster care. It was hell for us both. That’s why as soon as I turned eighteen, I did everything I could to prove myself responsible so I could get custody of her.

I promised her we’d never be separated again, and now I’m being ripped from her.

What will she think happened to me? Surely, she’ll know I didn’t abandon her like our piece-of-shit mother. God, please don’t let her end up on the streets. I’ve fought so hard to keep us both off them. I’ve seen too many of us foster kids end up there, chewed up and spat out by society. I don’t want that for my baby sis.

Fresh tears rush to my eyes at the thought of my baby sis spiraling into a depression, thinking that the responsibility became too much for me and I bailed on her.

I flail again in frustration as sobs overtake me. My scream is muffled against the gag, but I have to let it out anyway.

The guy had sounded so legit. He had a business card and everything and gave me an official time and place to meet him for a test shoot.

As soon as I walked into the decrepit-looking old warehouse, I knew something was wrong. A shiver had run up my spine, and I’d turned to hightail it out of there, but it was already too late.

I felt the prick of the needle against my skin, and this is how I woke up.

Bound and gagged in the back of a dirty old van.

I try to be smart and take note of my surroundings, but it’s so dark in here I can hardly make out anything. There’s a sliver of light peaking in from the front where the driver sits, but there aren’t any windows back here, of course, so I can’t try to note any landmarks or street signs.

The light is flashing soft and yellow, though, like it does when you’re driving down the street at night.

So, it’s night. I don’t know yet if that knowledge will help me or how, but I make note of it. It’s nighttime. Maybe it will let me get a sense of time if nothing else.

I have to be smart. I think of all those real-life crime shows Gia and I watched together and how the girls who ended up escaping made note of everything they could even if they couldn’t see anything.

I try to remember every turn we make and time the minutes between each one. We turned left, then right after about two minutes, then right again after five? Then left again. No, wait, or was it right? And how much time has it been? There are sixty seconds in a minute, and I counted to three hundred fifty since last time...

Fuck this!I scream into my gag again in frustration. I’m not smart enough for this! I don’t have a good enough memory for numbers on the best of days—much less when I’m bound and gagged like a critter soon to be roasted over a pit.

---