“Get her cleaned up,” Weston whispers to Derek angrily. Derek grabs me by my arm and pulls me into the guest bathroom. The picture frames that used to sit on the sink are gone as is the toothbrush holder I made for my mom when I took art in middle school.
“Jump in the shower and rinse off. Make sure you shave. Do it quickly.”
Once I’m done showering and shaving, I step out and dry off, waiting for further instruction. My body is shaking and my head and heart feel like they’re going to explode. Derek notices and sighs. “You need to chill out, Aria. Weston isn’t going to give you anything until after you’re done. Be a good girl and he’ll probably give you more.”
Chill out? Seriously? I didn’t even want this shit! They did this to me. They came into the basement and day after day drugged me to calm me down. Every time I screamed and cried and begged for them to stop and let me out, they shoved pills down my throat or gave me a bump of coke. They did this to me. They made me this way and now I’m supposed to chill out?
I don’t bother arguing. It’s no use. I just need to do as they say. I need to get this over with so I’ll get my drugs and be allowed to go back to my room. My room. The fact that I’m calling the basement my room sickens me. It’s a reminder that I’ve officially lost hope. That I’ve accepted I’ll most likely spend the rest of my life in that basement.
Derek guides me to the library where there are several men sitting around in the oversized reading chairs my mom and I picked out. They’re drinking liquor and smoking cigars, stinking up our once perfect reading room. I remember the nights I used to curl up with my book and read while my mom wrote. She was a mystery romance author and would write for hours. Sometimes she would stop and read me her scenes and ask for my opinion. I shake the memory off because now is not the time to remember. When I remember, I feel, and when I feel, I hurt, and hurting right now isn’t going to do me a bit of good.
Taking a closer look, there are four men all over fifty years old. I recognize two of them from the dinners my mom and Weston used to throw. I know for a fact one of them is married with kids, and this knowledge puts the final nail in my coffin. These men have reputations to protect. There isn’t a single man in this room who would risk his reputation in order to save me.
“Aria, I think Mr. Nelson would like some attention.” Weston points to the fat, slimy-looking man sitting in my favorite reading chair. The man smiles at me, causing me to throw up a little in my mouth.
All the men sit around the room discussing next year’s election, the poll numbers, and the campaign donations, like a young woman isn’t servicing a man three times her age. My hands continue to shake, still needing something to take the edge off. As my brain tries to find its escape, I hear a door swing open.
“What are you doing here?” Weston’s voice sounds different—nervous, shaken. The man forcing himself on me pushes me away while the entire room goes quiet. I hit the floor flat on my butt before turning around to see who’s entered.
When I look up, the most beautiful man lock eyes with me. From head to toe, he is the epitome of perfection. Messy chestnut brown hair that looks like he’s been running his fingers through it all day, soft brown eyes like milk chocolate that’s been warmed up. He’s in a three-piece suit, which hugs every inch of his body perfectly. It looks like it was designed just for him. He’s tall, well over six feet. But what catches my attention is his smile. It’s probably capable of being sweet, but it’s not. It’s filled with contempt with a bit of humor like he’s in on some private joke nobody else is privy to. He towers over Weston, exuding power and confidence. He’s sure of himself and of his place in this world. I remember when I had that same feeling, knowing the world was at my fingertips. When I had a bright future.
Normally Weston is the one in control, but right now he’s scared. He’s cracking his neck like he used to do when my mom would catch him in a lie and he wasn’t sure how to get himself out of it. His uninjured hand is opening and closing into a fist, but he’s not towering like he usually is, instead he’s cowering. Whoever this man is holds more power than Weston.