Enticed:A Dangerous Connection (Secrets) (7 page)

“We like to cover our bases,” Bryce says.

“And now it’s time for you to go,” Marcia announces. “Rod? Please see Serena to her limo.”

He chuckles. “You got it.” Now he jerks me to my feet.

“Easy does it,” Bryce says. “No bruises.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Rod is a little gentler as he pushes me to the door.

“Don’t let us down, Serena,” Marcia says. “Your dear mother and friends are counting on you.”

“Bon voyage, Miss Delray,” Bryce calls out cheerfully as Rod leads me out of the room and back into the dark garage. Bryce’s farewell makes me wonder if I’m going on a boat. And if so, to where? Out of the country? As unbelievable as it is, I suspect I’ve fallen into some kind of human-trafficking scheme. I remember a woman who spoke at our school a couple of years ago. She talked about how human trafficking was on the rise and how it wasn’t just foreigners and street kids anymore. But really, how can this be happening to me?

I hear what sounds like a metal door sliding open. “Step up,” Rod tells me. “High.”

I lift my foot but only hit my shin on hard metal. Rod cusses, then picks me up. I expect him to throw me into whatever this is, but instead he gently puts me down on what feels like a mattress and blankets. And then he slams the door shut.

The bag slips off my head, but it’s even blacker in here than in the garage. I open and close my eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness, but it’s useless. It’s pitch black. And now I collapse on the musty-smelling blankets and just cry. I’m sure I’m in the back of a truck, and it’s not long before I hear an engine start and eventually the truck is moving.

I try to gauge the time it takes to get out of the warehouse and how long it takes to get out of this sleazy neighborhood. And finally, when the truck stops at what I hope is a stoplight, maybe at an intersection where people could be outside and standing around, I get close enough to pound my feet on the door, and lying on my back, I kick it as loudly as I can and scream for help. Then the truck is moving again. Each time it comes to a stop I do this again. But eventually I can tell by the sound of the tires that we’re on the freeway.

And now all I can do is pray. I pray and pray and pray.
God, please send the police to rescue me. And please make the truck break down or get a flat tire or run out of gas.
When that happens I will start banging on the metal door and screaming all over again. And hopefully someone will hear the noise and get curious.

What would I do if I heard sounds like that coming from a truck like this? Would I even notice? And if I did, would I do anything? I pray that whoever hears me will react and that they will call the police.

Praying is comforting, but eventually I tire of repeating the same words over and over again. So now I sing praise songs from our church. And then I repeat scriptures I memorized in youth group.

God is my lifeline and my anchor. God will get me out of this. I believe that he will rescue me.
Hopefully before this day ends. Hopefully before I’m handed over to this nasty Mr. T person. I don’t even want to imagine how horrible that would be. “God is my refuge and my strength,” I say aloud, “my stronghold in a time of trouble.”

Eventually my voice becomes hoarse from singing and praying and crying — and from thirst. It’s hot in here … I’m guessing more than ninety degrees. And I’m so exhausted and thirsty that I feel myself drifting into sleep. But even as I’m slipping away, I’m holding on to God. He is my deliverer. I believe it.

I wake up to the sound of metal grinding, and it takes me a moment to figure out where I am and what happened. Then I blink into the bright sunlight, hoping to see policemen who will let me out of here and take me home. Instead, I see a wicked smile and a glistening gold tooth.

“Thought you might be thirsty,” he tells me as he hands me a plastic cup.

I grab the cup and quickly drink the tepid water, and then he slams the door shut and it’s not long until the truck is moving again. But it’s not long before I feel like I’m getting dizzy, like everything is spinning, and I can tell something is wrong. Something was in that water I so eagerly gulped down.

I’ve been drugged. And now I feel myself slipping … tumbling … spiraling … down, down, down.

… [CHAPTER 7]………………

I
wake up and, sitting up, I blink into the darkness, trying to remember where I am and how I got here. Oh yeah, the truck. And yet I don’t feel any movement and it smells different. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I glance around to see what looks like blinds over a window. I am in some sort of a room.

I stumble to my feet and fumble along the wall until I find a light switch by the door. I almost turn it on and then remember I am being held captive. I need to think carefully.

I quietly try the door and although the knob turns, the door does not budge. I feel above the doorknob to discover some kind of a lock. Probably a dead bolt, which I assume must only open from the outside.

I reach for the light switch again and then decide that, for now, I do not want to draw attention to myself. That means no lights. And no noise. I go over to the window and quietly peek through the plastic blinds. There are bars outside of the window. That’s nothing unusual in the Los Angeles area. Most of the ground-level apartments in our complex have security bars.

I always assumed that bars were meant to keep criminals out of your house. Now I realize they can also be used to keep people in. There are spotlights outside, pointing away from the house and fully illuminating a fairly big backyard surrounded by shrubbery. And behind the bushes and trees I can spot parts of what looks like a tall metal security fence. It feels like I’m in some sort of a prison. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can see that this looks like a fairly typical bedroom. Not so different from mine at home.

Except I cannot get out.

Thinking of home fills me with both longing and anxiety. As much as I’ve complained about our cramped apartment, I would give anything to be there right now. Missing home makes me think of Mom. I hate to imagine how freaked she must be for me to disappear like this. How long have I been missing? Just overnight? Or was I drugged for longer than that? Does she have any way to know where I’m at or that I’ve been kidnapped by thugs claiming to be with Top Models and Actors Inc.? Are the police looking for me yet? Or will they treat me like a runaway and wait a few days before they respond? Oh, why didn’t I tell her where I was going?

I inch my way across what feels like dirty carpeting until I reach the door again. I consider pounding on it just in case there’s someone out there who might let me out. But I suspect the only ones out there are my captors. Or maybe it’s Rod with the golden tooth and stun gun. Whoever is out there, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to aggravate them in the middle of the night. Who knows what they might do to me? And what about Mr. T? What if this is his house? I really, really don’t want to meet him. Just thinking of this monster fills me with terror.

My head is throbbing, probably from the drugs Rod slipped me, and my mouth feels as dry and gritty as sand. But the light coming in from the window gleams upon what appears to be a water bottle on the floor by the bed. I rush to get it, hoping it’s not empty. To my relief it’s full — but now I stop myself. What if it’s drugged too?

I try the lid and the seal seems to be unbroken. But I’m so thirsty I’m not sure I care. I open the bottle and sample what tastes like ordinary water. Unable to control myself, I gulp it down. If it turns out to be drugged, I will simply escape into another long lapse of sleep, which could be a blessing. And maybe I’ll wake up to find this has all just been the worst imaginable nightmare ever.

The next time I wake up, it’s daylight outside. I have no idea what time it is, but it feels like early morning. I look around the drab room. The walls and carpet are dirty beige, the color of dust. The bed consists of a bare mattress on the floor with a cheap blanket and a stained pillow that is so gross looking, I cannot believe I slept on it. Around the mattress, on the carpet and the walls, are nasty-looking stains. I don’t even want to think about what might’ve caused them.

There are no other furnishings in the room and, besides the closet, which other than a couple of plastic hangers is empty, there is only the door and the window to break the monotony of the bare, scarred walls. I go to look more closely at the window now, thinking perhaps I can open it and at least yell loud enough to get the attention of neighbors. That is, if there are any neighbors.

I can’t see any other houses from my vantage point. But I quickly discover that the window’s bolted tightly shut. From the outside. There’s no way to open it. How difficult would it be to break this window? If I could get a hole in it somehow, I might be able to scream loud enough to draw some attention. Unless I just draw the wrong kind of attention.

I begin frantically pacing, trying to decide what to do, but the harder I think, the more confused I feel. Suddenly, I remember the first-aid class I took last year. One of the first things our instructor taught us was “don’t panic.” Of course, I’m not sure how this applies to my situation.
How can I not panic?

Still, I remember how he explained that if your brain surrenders to terror, it impedes blood flow and you stop thinking clearly. For that reason I take several deep breaths and attempt to calm myself. Now I try to remember more tips from that class. We were told to assess the situation and prioritize needs. We were also taught not to do anything to make matters worse. Perhaps like breaking the window.

Suddenly, breaking the window seems like my best hope. It’s possible that this house is located near others. If I can make enough noise to get someone’s attention, I might have a chance. I go back to the window, staring out onto what seems a surprisingly well-maintained yard. Other than being a little overgrown with trees and bushes along the perimeter, it seems fairly green and the lawn looks healthy. This isn’t the norm for Los Angeles area backyards. Of course, I’m probably not anywhere near LA now.

I stand on tiptoe, trying to peer out beyond the vegetation, but it’s impossible to see if neighbors are nearby. Still, I wonder if it might be worth a try to break the window and cry for help. I’m looking around the room for something solid enough to break glass. I consider my high-heeled shoes or even better, the heavy metal latch on my purse. I pick it up and practice giving it a nice, hard whirl around and around. If I can just swing it hard enough, I might succeed. Just then the door opens and I stop my purse in midswing and pretend to be looking inside it, although the only thing there is my empty wallet with the stupid fake ID.

“Oh … you’re already up,” the girl says without much interest as she looks around my room with curiosity.

I stare at her. Who is she and why is she here? I’m guessing she’s about my age, but there’s a definite hardness about her. And it’s not just that her short-cropped hair has been dyed jet black, or that she has a pierced lip, or even the creepy tattoo of a large black snake slithering up her right arm.

“Who are you?” I ask with a timid smile. I’m hoping against hope that she’s come to set me free.

“Tatiana.” She comes closer to me now, peering curiously at me as if I’m the specimen in the bottom of a petri dish. Suddenly I’m aware that I’m still wearing my black choir dress, which is wrinkled and dirty. It hurts to remember how I convinced myself I looked so sophisticated in my LBD. So certain that I was going to make a great impression on Marcia and Bryce as I launched my new modeling career. How could I have been so stupid and naive?

“And you’re Serena, right?”

Reminded of my new identity, I simply nod. She’s so close I can smell her breath and it’s rancid like rotten meat, but I try not to react. “So, Tatiana, do you think you can get me out of here?” I quietly ask. And I’m about to offer her money, although I have no idea where I’ll get it, but it seems worth a shot. “If you do I can — ”

“No way,”
she cuts me off, scowling darkly. “Don’t even go there.”

“Oh … okay …” A discouraged sigh slips out.

“But I can get you some breakfast.” She’s staring at my red high heels over by the bed, gazing longingly at them as if she’d like to try them on. Perhaps they can be a useful bargaining tool … in time.

While she’s checking out my shoes, I cautiously move toward the door, which I assume isn’t locked. “Can I go out and — ?”

“Back off!” In one quick move, she snatches my purse from me and leaps between me and the door. “I’ll take
that
.”
She’s already got the red bag open and is pawing through it like she thinks she’ll find something valuable.

“But it’s mine.”

“Not anymore.” Standing like a barricade in front of the door, she glares at me with a doubled fist just inches from my face. “Watch your step, girlfriend.”

“Marcia and Bryce said I’m not supposed to get any bruises.” I try to keep my voice calm, hoping to reason with her.

“Yeah well, I take my orders from Jimmy.” She opens the door. “Stay put and you won’t get hurt.”