HUNTER (The Corbin Brothers Book 1) (85 page)

“Thanks,” she murmured. “But I’m not that girl anymore. I became Cream, instead. And now I have to face my consequences. I don’t think I get to be Belle Nocton anymore.”

Life didn’t get any better after that night, even as the days stretched into weeks, and the weeks stretched into months. We walked on pins and needles, speaking in whispers to each other even if Andrew was at work. We cleaned and cooked, as he required of us, and tried mightily to stay out of his way or please him, whichever mood he happened to be in.

He took us and used our bodies whenever the mood struck him, whether we invited him between our legs or not.

Cream had protested once, and he’d backhanded her. All protests ceased after that.

“Don’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he’s taking you against your will,” I hissed to her as we cleaned the floor together. “Even if you have to lie to yourself, tell yourself you want it, don’t let him know he’s hurting you.”

“I’m not as strong as you, Pumpkin,” she said, a tear streaking down her cheek. “I hate him.”

“I hate him, too,” I said. “But we’re going to find our ways out of this. I promise you. We’re not going to let him win.”

At times, Andrew seemed reasonable, friendly, and charismatic—just as he’d been in the beginning, when I was trying to figure him out. Other times, he was cruel, yelling at us to laugh at us jumping or cringing, enjoying commanding us when we were in bed with him, inventing new things to torture us both physically and emotionally.

When I broke a glass by dropping it as I tried to put it away, he ripped my jeans off of me and told me that he was going to break me as punishment.

That was the first time we had anal sex, he taking me on the kitchen table, just like our first time together. He’d told Cream to watch, screaming at her not to look away as he plunged into my body with zero preparation.

I hadn’t made a sound, and he only grunted, but I took some satisfaction in the knowledge that he’d probably hurt himself just as much as he’d hurt me. Friction worked both ways.

When deliveries were made to the apartment, like food or new toiletries or clothes, Andrew was always there. He never had a delivery made unless he knew he was going to be there, no matter what we were out of.

One time, Cream had tried to slip the grocery deliveryman a note that she’d quickly scrawled on a napkin. I had brightened at her fast thinking and ingenuity, then pitied her as Andrew caught her.

“You silly, lazy thing,” he’d laughed, crumbling the napkin up. “The trash can’s over there. This hardworking man doesn’t clean up after you.”

When the deliveryman left, Andrew started beating her. Rather than let me comfort her, he locked her in our bedroom and fucked me all night long. I had trouble walking in the morning, and hadn’t been able to keep from screaming throughout the ordeal.

“I’m sorry,” Cream said, hugging me as soon as Andrew left. “I’m sorry. It was all my fault.”

He’d blackened one of her eyes, and her jaw was swollen. I was afraid to see the rest of her.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “The note was a really good idea. I’m sorry it didn’t work.”

Andrew didn’t have a landline. We combed the home looking for one to try to call for help. And he always had his cell phone on him, even when he was sleeping.

One day, as Andrew was showering after a bruising round of sex with me, I noticed the other door in the bedroom. It had been locked since that very first day, when I’d tried to go in to clean it. Andrew had explained it away as storage, and I’d never thought anything else about it.

Until now. Until now, when I saw it just a little bit ajar.

I could still hear Andrew in the shower. He would be getting ready for work, never willing to leave a minute later than his precious eight o’clock. I could do this. Maybe there was something in that room that would help us, like a phone.

I slid off the bed, trying to keep the springs from squeaking, and tip toed toward the room. There was a faint, bluish glow in the darkened space, I noticed, sidling closer and keeping an ear out for the shower. I pushed the door open, pleased that it didn’t squeak, and my eyes widened. My first thought was one of wonderment—why did a person need so many televisions in such a small room? Then, I realized that the televisions were really monitors, and each of them featured a different room in the house. I could see that Cream was still asleep in our bedroom, but stirring. I could hear the rustle of the bed sheets.

All the little, niggling things that had been bothering me finally made sense. Cream hadn’t told him that I was from East Harlem. He’d heard it himself. He’d known I slipped the knife in my pillowcase because he saw it, right there on the monitor. And he knew that Cream and I were plotting against him, trying to save ourselves, because he could listen in and watch, even if he was at work.

I yelped as he dragged me out of the little control room by my hair.

“That room is off limits,” he said kindly, before punching me in my face.

Everything went black.

“Pumpkin? Pumpkin?”

I opened my eyes to a pounding headache and aching muscles. There were parts of me—the private ones, especially—that hurt terribly, but I didn’t want to think about what that meant. I couldn’t.

Cream was leaning over me worriedly, dabbing my head with a washcloth.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I don’t think either of us are.”

I told her what I’d found and she blanched.

“But that means that he knows we’ve been trying to get out of here,” she said, her eyes getting bigger and bigger. “That means he knows we hate him.”

“And now he knows that we know,” I said. “Which means that we have to get the fuck out of here.”

Cream bit her lip. “You’re cuffed to the bed,” she said. “He told me he had plans for us later, and to keep you comfortable.”

I looked up and rattled the metal cuffs. They were on securely, but not too tight. I yanked on them, gauging the amount of pain I could take.

“He also said that he’d be back at four,” Cream added. “He only has a meeting to go to.”

My breathing quickened. “What time is it now?”

“One,” she said. “He hit you really hard. You were out for a long time.”

“Go get some oil, or butter,” I said. “Whatever you can find that’s slippery. Lotion, even. Lube. We don’t have time. Go as quickly as possible.”

Cream came back with a small arsenal, rubbing each ingredient on my wrists.

“Have you ever tried this before?” she asked, watching as I twisted and pulled at my wrists.

“No,” I said. “But this is going to happen. I’m getting out of these.”

“But what if —”

“No,” I repeated. “There is no what if. I’m getting out of these because I have to. We’re going to find a way out today, Cream. I think he’s going to kill us.”

She helped me pull, yanking my arm as I twisted my hand furiously, helped by all the lubricant. We spent agonizing, worried minutes. I cried as I pulled it free, blood pouring from my wrist. Cream moved to try to staunch it, but I shook my head.

“All that matters is this other cuff,” I said.

Now that I had my other hand, I could turn around and push against the bed frame with my feet. Cream helped, wiggling the metal cuff until it finally slid off. I felt some popping, my hand burning, but it didn’t matter.

“How are we going to get out of here?” Cream asked, wringing her hands. “We’ve looked everywhere.”

“There has to be something,” I said. “There has to be something here to help. We’ll look everywhere. Don’t leave anything unturned.”

We started ripping through the house, pulling pillows apart, overturning mattresses and the contents of dresser drawers, looking for keys, phones, weapons, anything. We spent our precious, precious minutes taking the house apart. With every picture frame that I broke, each vase that I shattered, I wondered what would happen if we were still here when Andrew got home and saw his life decimated.

If there was a minute chance he wasn’t going to kill us, I was afraid he’d definitely kill us then.

Frustrated, I pounded my forehead against the window in the sitting room. I was dizzy already from my injuries, so it didn’t seem so bad to look straight down to the ground, so far away. Why did it have to be so far away?

With a sudden jerk, I realized that there was a pair of window washers working their way up the building. They were directly below us. If we could signal them somehow, they could call for help.

I looked at the clock. It was too close to four. I looked back out the window. It was too close to four and the window washers were still too far away. We couldn’t wait for them to get to us. We had to get to them.

“Here,” I said, shoving at the latch against the window. “Help me with this, Cream.”

“Can the windows even open?” she asked.

“They have to!” I shouted. “There are window washers! They can help us!”

That catapulted Cream into action. We both grunted as we threw our entire weights behind moving the windowpane, but it was stuck. Perhaps it had never been opened before.

I thought quickly. We were losing precious time.

“What’s the heaviest thing in this place?” I asked Cream. “We’re going to break this window.”

We both thought for a few moments, looking around.

“The cast iron skillet,” she said. “I’ll get it.”

She dashed to the kitchen and rattled around in the pots and pans. I grimaced at the clock—it was already just before four. Andrew could be there at any second.

The door beeped just as Cream was running back with the skillet. We stared at each other for what must have been a fragment of a second, but it stretched on endlessly. I was sure my own face mimicked the exact level of panic and dread on Cream’s. This was our chance. This was our only chance. She knew that as well as I did.

“Take it!” she screamed, lofting the skillet at me and sprinting for the door. Andrew had just been in the process of opening it when Cream threw herself into it, closing it again.

I danced away from the heavy iron thing as it made a hell-raising sound against the marble floor and then ran after it as it skidded. I could hear Andrew roaring out in the hallway. I prayed that someone would hear him, that someone would call the police.

Cream pushed against the door as Andrew threw his weight into opening it, the security system beeping and whirring and clicking almost worryingly. She cried out at the force of it, her leg muscles standing out as she leaned against his onslaught.

“Pumpkin!” she cried. “The window!”

I cursed luridly and heaved the skillet against the window. The thick glass only cracked, so I wound up and swung again. I hit the window so hard that the skillet spun out of my grasp, flying out the now broken window, along with shards of glass. The ear-splitting shatter wasn’t enough to drown out Cream’s scream from behind me.

I wheeled around to find her struggling with Andrew, who’d finally overpowered her and gained access to his home. He was beating her brutally, even as wind from the outside filled the room.

Cream wasn’t looking at her attacker. She was looking at me, wild eyed.

“Go!” she coughed as he hit her. “Go!”

Andrew jerked his head in my direction and stared at me. I saw my death in those ebony eyes, and it terrified me. I was torn. I wanted to help Cream, but I didn’t want to die.

“Get help,” she said, her mouth full of broken teeth, blood coursing down her chin. “Tell my brother.”

Andrew started toward me, but Cream grabbed his ankles, tripping him. He turned his fury again on her and I went to the window and looked down.

The height was dizzying, the ground too far away. The window washers were staring up, bewildered, a skillet on the scaffolding between them.

“Was that you?” one of them asked.

“Help me!” I screamed. “Call the police!”

I was pulled by my hair back inside the apartment, my hands scrabbling against the jagged window frame. I knew I was hurting myself, but I couldn’t make myself care. I needed out of there. I needed to get help for us.

Andrew slapped me, again and again, his face ugly with rage. How had I ever thought he was handsome, or sexy? How could this be happening?

Behind him, Cream struggled to her feet and jumped onto his back, scratching at his eyes. He roared and twisted around, trying to break her death grip on his neck.

“Get out of here,” Cream said, turning to look at me, her voice garbled. Her pretty face was mangled, but her eyes shone. “Go. Tell my brother.”

I wrenched my head around, back to the window, and leaned out again. The window washers were still there. I looked back at Cream just to see Andrew regain the advantage and give her a vicious kick to the stomach. Her breath came in wheezes and retches. Andrew started toward me again, his face as dark as his eyes, long scratches covering his cheeks. He was going to kill me. He was going to kill us both. I looked back to the window and didn’t give it a second thought. I jumped.

I landed with a crash on the scaffolding, which was a story below us. It shook and rattled with my sudden weight, but I was too scared—and too hurt—to scream with fear.

The window washers were picking me up, asking me questions, talking to me, brushing shards of glass out of my hair. I didn’t understand what they were saying. I barely understood why I wasn’t dead. I didn’t have a clue why we were still there until I looked up. Andrew was leaning out of the window, leering at me like a madman.

“Go down!” I screamed. “He’s going to kill me and my friend! We have to get help! Go down!”

“We called the cops,” one of them said, holding up his cell phone as the other pressed the button for the scaffolding to descend.

I looked up again, watching Andrew trying to negotiate the broken window frame, one of his long legs hanging out into the air.

“What if he tries to jump?” I demanded. “Can’t we go faster?”

“This is as fast as we go,” the washer with the control said. “But he won’t jump. We’re too far, now.”

I looked up to see that the man was right. Andrew had thought better of it and ducked back inside his home. My heart clenched to think of Cream still in there, and I started weeping.

“It’s okay,” said the washer with the cell phone. “You’re safe now.”

“What happened to you in there?” the other one asked.

“My friend’s still there,” I cried. “She’s still there.”

“Look at that,” the man said, pointing downward. “Cops are already here, sweetheart. They’re going to save your friend. See?”

I looked over the edge of the descending scaffolding and saw red and blue flashing lights, still too far away. I swooned and somebody’s arms around me were the last things that I knew. Somehow, they felt like Cream’s.

* * * *

I woke up to beeping and flinched, thinking it was Andrew’s door opening. But the beeping wouldn’t stop, and someone took my hand.

“Are you awake?”

I opened my eyes and wet my lips, but my voice didn’t work. Something was wrong with it. Slowly, a woman’s face came into focus.

“My name is Officer Kim,” she said. “Do you know where you are?”

I looked around. My hands were bandaged, and parts of me hurt. There was a window just a few feet away from me, and I shuddered. I didn’t like that. I didn’t like that window. I turned my head away from it and saw a jumble of wires and machines.

“Hospital,” I whispered.

“That’s right,” Kim said, smiling and nodding. “Very good. Now. Can you tell me your name?”

My name? Who was I? I was in a hospital room with a police officer. Did that mean that I’d escaped from Andrew?

“Is it safe?” I rasped. “Am I safe?”

Kim pressed her lips together then smiled again. “Yes, honey. You’re safe. Now, your name?”

I’d jumped out of a window, I realized suddenly, with a terrible jolt. Me, who was so afraid of heights, jumped out of a window on top of a building. I started shaking. I was chased out of that window. I only made it because Andrew had been too absorbed with beating the shit out of Cream. Oh, God. Cream. She had looked terrible when I jumped, a mess of blood and swelling and broken things.

“My friend,” I said. “Where’s my friend? I have to see her.”

I could feel Kim increase the pressure on my hands through the bandages, but I didn’t know why. I didn’t want to know why. It meant that as bad as I was, Cream was somewhere, worse off.

“Tell me,” I said, closing my eyes, unable to look at Kim’s face one second longer. I only wanted to see Cream. “Tell me.”

“By the time the police arrived in the penthouse, the other woman was dead,” Kim said, her voice emotionless. “Honey, I need to know your name. And hers, if you know it.”

“She was my friend,” I said, my voice breaking. “Her name was Cream. Belle Nocton. Cream was her other name. The one she didn’t want to be anymore.”

My eyes popped open and Kim looked confused. She couldn’t be confused about this. I had to make her understand.

“She used to be Cream,” I said. “But she didn’t want to be anymore. Her name was Belle Nocton. She was my friend. She saved my life—distracted him, Andrew. She let herself get killed so I could get away.” I was weeping.

“You’ve been through a lot, honey,” Kim said kindly. “Your friend Belle Nocton was a brave young woman. Now, tell me. What’s your name?”

My name? Who was I? Who could I be? Was Pumpkin gone? Were all the Pumpkins gone?

Could I let them go?

“I’m Sol Ramirez,” I said, wiping the tears from my face even as they continued to fall. “Andrew Steele bought us and kept us as his sex slaves. He tortured and abused us and killed my friend. He would have killed me, but Belle Nocton saved me. Belle Nocton and a well-placed window washers’ scaffolding.”

“Police took Andrew Steele into custody at the scene of the crime,” Kim said, her kind face serious. “Justice will be served, Sol.”

“Yes, it will,” I agreed. Sol Ramirez was going to see to that.