Page 5 of Rebel
Are they going to rape you?
Are they going to rape you?
I’m more afraid of this than I am of dying. I’m more afraid of something I have only thus far shared with two people in the whole world being forcefully taken from me than I am of losing my life. If I die, I’ll just be dead. If they do unspeakable, horrific things to me, I will relive that experience every time I open my eyes each morning. Every time I close my eyes at night.
“Left up here, brother. Not far now,” a gruff voice says.
The van’s suspension is shot to hell. My head bangs painfully against the floor as the vehicle swerves and leaves the road, turning onto what must be a dirt track. Someone snickers, and I get the impression it’s at my expense. I’m sure to evil bastards like these, a skinny girl, hands bound behind her back and lying in a pool of her own vomit, is a highly entertaining sight.
I try not to think about how vulnerable I am. I try not to think about what’s going to happen when the van’s engine stops spluttering and we reach wherever we’re going. All I can concentrate on is my breathing, trying to keep it even. I’m dangerously close to hyperventilating, and I don’t want to pass out again, which is what will happen if I let my panic take hold of me.
I breathe in. I breathe out. I breathe in. I breathe out.
“She’s got some great tits,” a different male voice says. I haven’t heard this guy speak before, and I’m shocked—he has no accent. He sounds like he’s from Seattle, though I know whoever he is, he must have some Mexican heritage. Each and every one of my captors appeared to be Hispanic. I barely register that they’re talking about my chest until a hand suddenly grabs hold of one of my breasts. I try to open my eyes at this stage—being manhandled wins out over my splitting headache—but I can’t see anything. They’ve blindfolded me. I kick out with my legs and manage to shove myself away, out of the reach of wandering hands. It still feels like the hand’s there, though, squeezing and kneading my breast; my skin is crawling, prickling with the intensity of my disgust. Matt’s never touched me like that before. Whenever he’s touched me, it’s been to bring me pleasure. Whoever just grabbed hold of me did so for theirownpleasure, a fact painfully clear by the way they pinched and rolled my skin.
“What the fuck you two doing back there?” Raphael demands. I knowhisvoice. He sounds suspicious, but then I’ve yet to hear Raphael sound anything but. “Don’t touch that girl, motherfuckers. You heard me lay claim, right? I’ll cut out your fucking tongues if you so much as look at her.”
Two disappointed grunts follow after that.
Someone in the front cranks up the radio to obnoxious levels, and the sound of Taylor Swift’s,We Are Never Getting Back Togetherblasts from the rear speakers. My head must be right next to one of those speakers, because it feels like it’s on the brink of explosion. I used to like the song, but now? Not so much. The situation descends into outright weirdness when someone in the van, I can’t tell who, begins to sing along. Enthusiastically.
My body is singing inpain. My shoulders are throbbing from the discomfort of having my wrists bound tightly behind my back. Thankfully my hands themselves have gone numb from lack of blood supply, so at least I’m now being spared that particular agony.
Less than fifteen minutes later, the van pulls to a jerky stop. Raphael is the first out; I can tell from the way his voice fades and then cuts off altogether when his door slams shut. The music is still blaring, though it’s not pop music anymore. It’s Mexican rap music. Angry. Hostile. Violent.
The rear doors open, and suddenly someone has hold of my ankles. I’m pulled from my cowering position in the back of the van, and I hit the ground hard. The drop from the vehicle to the ground must only be two feet, but my shoulder impacts first, sending a white hot flash of pain charging through my back and neck.
I cry out, but no one says a word. Hands find me, more than one pair, and they lift me roughly to my feet, pulling me forward. I hear nothing but Mexican rap music and the frantic staccato of my own heartbeat. I stumble after whoever is dragging me behind them, tripping on unseen obstacles and rolling my ankles. The music fades away, and my heartbeat grows even louder.
“Now, you’ll keep your fucking mouth shut, you hear me?” a voice commands. Raphael. Of course, Raphael. “If you want to live, you don’t breathe a fucking word.” He yanks on my arm, unbalancing me, and I drop to one knee, only to have my arm almost wrenched out of its socket as I’m tugged to my feet again.
Without being able to see, my other senses have come alive. A saccharine sweet smell hits me—the smell of sugared almonds and cotton candy. There’s a screeching sound—a screen door opening?—and then I’m jerked to a halt.
“And what is this?” a male voice asks. The timbre of that voice is low and rumbling, husky with a thick accent. Spanish, but not Mexican Spanish. It’s softer, more muted than Raphael’s hard intonation.
“This ismine,” Raphael replies. “I picked her up along the way. The judge is dead, by the way. In case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t wondering. I gave you a job to do, and I expected you to do it. What I didn’t expect you to do is bring a stranger back to my home.”
The way this person speaks makes something very clear; he is pissed. Seriously pissed. It’s the quiet, careful way he parts with his words that gives me that impression. I’ve had a severe case of mouth sweats ever since I threw up back in the van, but now my throat is miraculously dry.
“She’s been blindfolded the whole time. She doesn’t know anything,” Raphael says.
A cracking sound, and then the dull, slow thudding of feet against wood. One step. Two. Three. The voice is closer now.
“Has she seen your face?”
“Yes.”
“Does she know your name?”
There’s a brief pause. And then, “Yes.”
“Does she know…myname?” The malice in this question makes my palms break out in a sweat. I’m beginning to get the feeling Raphael’s fucked up in kidnapping me, andI’mgoing to be the one paying the price.
“Yes,” Raphael answers. “She does. But she’s never gonna be out of my sight,Padre. She won’t be a problem.”
“The girl isn’t the problem here, Raphi. You are currently the problem. You do shit without thinking, and that is a really fucking big problem for me, you understand?”
