Page 106 of I Would Beg For You

Joel Liam Joseph Smith.

Aka my father.

“No,” I say.

“What, bitch?”

“No,” I repeat louder, flinging the papers at him.

For a second, it looks like he will hit me again. But he bends and retrieves the sheets, then goes out of the room. I can hear him arguing with my father before the door closes tight.

I fall back onto the cot with a muffled sob.

All this for money.

Yet again, there’s nothing else my father cares about. Look what he did to my mother to get to her fortune. Look what he’s doing to me today to get to mine. The tears come now. For my mom. For me. For a future I might not get to see with the man I love because of the one who should’ve loved me unconditionally since my birth.

Valentino… Does he have any idea my father is behind all this? He’s no fool, though. He’ll figure it out. My uncle might also doubt something and will help him.

I have to cling hard to the hope they’ll uncover the truth and come find me.

When the door next opens, it’s not the big man. The light outside is still bright—it’s daytime still. This gives me hope. Being in such sensory deprivation inside is blurring the edges, and I have no idea how long I’ve been here. The boy who enters is young, still a teen, it seems. He’s carrying a metal glass, which he hands to me.

I take it after careful deliberation. It has no smell, and the glass is cool.

“It’s water,” he says.

Same accent I’m learning to detect in their words—sometimes crisp, sometimes flowy, a weird mix of both.

It’s sweltering inside this room, and I’m parched. If these men wanted to drug me, they would’ve already done it. They need me alive to sign the damn trust fund papers.

I knock the water back and hand him the glass. My gaze alights on the gun tucked in the back of his pants when he turns toward the door.

Shivers rack through me as I keep my eyes on the weapon. If I had it, I could escape.

Time stops, flows, moves until the next time the door creaks open. It has been a few hours, at most. I know this because I’m just a little thirsty, and I haven’t had to use the pot they’ve set in a corner to relieve myself yet.

There’s sunlight in the other room. The person coming in won’t be prepared for the pitch black inside here, darkness I’ve had time to get used to.

When the door starts to open, I shift off the bed and edge closer to the opening, hoping it’s the young boy and not the big man. It is, his slight frame cutting a small outline in the glare of the lightbulb powered outside. He stops for a second to get his bearings, and that’s when I jump.

I race toward his back, not letting triumph sing when my hand closes on the gun. I’m not good with them, but I’ve been to political rallies with my father—one place had a gun range, and they were eager to show us all how to handle a handgun. I thus know to check for a safety lock, how to wrap my hand around the grip.

I also know from experience how much the butt of a gun hitting one’s head can hurt. I’m sorry for hurting this boy, but I have to get out. Rearing my arm back, I slam it down as hard as I can, the gun hitting the side of his head.

He drops to his knees, moaning in pain. I rush past him and into the adjoining room. The light hurts my eyes, but I blink past it and go to the window which is ajar. Streetlamps outside showwe’re just below street level—I can even see the small flight of stairs leading to the pavement. It looks like a townhouse.

So, we’re still in New York!

The window’s jamming, though, and there’s no way I can fit into the opening right now. I have to—

I scream when a hand wraps into my hair and pulls tight. I don’t let go of the gun, though, and as I whirl around, scalp burning from the hard tugging, my elbow slams into the big man’s belly. It feels like he’s got rock-hard abs underneath, though, so the blow doesn’t affect him at all. He’s cursing aloud and trying to reach for the gun.

I’m not ready to let go of the weapon. If I can turn it on him, I could disable him temporarily and be able to open the window.

His large hand closes on my wrist. The pain makes me scream again. He tries to shake the gun from my hold, and in the tussle, it goes off.

No one prepares you for the recoil that hits your hand when you fire a gun. The wave of energy slams into me, compounding the pain of the man’s tight hold on my wrist, travelling up my arm and shocking my shoulder. I release the gun in the aftermath, too stunned by the pain.

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