Now I know there’s something up. My knee bobs up and down in an agitated rhythm, I can’t get to sleep in this mood. I don’t want to leave him on his own for too long but I need to get myself a drink to help lull me to sleep. I pull the door shut behind me and walk down the hallway, I don’t hear any noise so everybody must’ve cleared out or gone to bed.
I silently thank Jacques for that one, I can’t be bothered to deal with anyone right now, I can’t answer the questions they’d want to know the answers to. I step behind the bar and add ice cubes to a tumbler, the front door to the clubhouse opens and before I’ve even had a chance to think, I’m ducking down hiding from whoever it is. Like I said, I can’t deal with anyone right now and by the sounds of it, they aren’t in a much better mood than me.
A crash echoes in the empty room as if something has been thrown against the wall, then the slur of curse words come shortly after. I don’t even need to look over the bar to see who it is, the harsh tone of the voice giving him away.
Taz is back with a bang, literally.
He starts muttering to himself. “You need to calm down, Merl, or you’re not going to have a chance to play with your new toy properly.”
The sinister tone of his voice makes me feel uneasy and I don’t think I want to know what or who he’s talking about.
“You’ll have your turn, you’ll finally break her.” He sneers.
What the fuck is he up to?
It’s an unspoken rule that Crows don’t beat or rape women. We may have club broads, but none of them are ever forced into doing anything they don’t want to do. It’s about the only rule that’s still adhered to in this club, so hearing this makes my skin bristle and I’m more determined than ever to lock down this asshole.
This is my third day of being locked up like a creaturel in a dirty, cold cage. I’m beaten from head to toe and the pain radiating through me never gives me a reprieve in its onslaught, which only adds to my misery. This is fucked up. I should be at home reading gushy texts from Sam, pretending they don’t make me feel like I want to puke.
I’d rather put up with being an outcast a million times over than be here anymore. I’m severely dehydrated and my stomach grumbles at the thought of its next meal. I’ve been given one bottle of water a day and one meal, if you can even call it that. But anything is better than nothing in this situation. I change position slightly, wincing as the scratchy blanket he left me with yesterday brushes against my neck.
I don’t feel like a human being anymore, I’ve started to feel like the animal that he’s clearly trying to show me I am. He wants to break me, mold me to do anything he wants me to do, I can see it in his eyes every time he looks at me.
I scratch a jagged line into the wall beside me with one of my broken, acrylic fingernails. It’s taken me nearly two hours to actually get a decent mark going but the third one is finally done. I sit back and look at the marks I’ve made. Three marks, three days.
I rest my head back against the cold, cement wall and take in a deep breath. Sometimes memories are the worst form of torture, I’d do anything for some coffee right now. A strangled laugh rolls out of my throat and I can’t stop as the high pitched, scratchy sound fills the room. There’s a trillion things I could - and should - be thinking about, but the only thing that doesn’t pain me too much to think about is coffee.
My laugh reverberates around the small room so loud that I don’t hear the nearing of footsteps. I don’t even know he’s coming until the crash of the door alerts me that he’s here, and I shrink into myself.
What are you doing, Keeley? You weren’t given the nickname ‘Steely’ for nothing!
I sit up straighter, waiting for his approach, only he doesn’t move from the doorway and I take in his ragged appearance. He’s wearing his leather cut over a black t-shirt tucked into black jeans. The jeans are held up by a metal studded belt and he’s wearing thick lace up combat boots. Everything is creased and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. Not that he’s ever been handsome, but his scowl on his face makes him hideous, and I screw my face up.
“Like what you see?” He snarls, finally taking the steps toward me.
I try not to flinch as he squats down in front of me.
“The only thing better than seeing you would be if you would poke my eyes out beforehand!” I spit out, and his face contorts with rage.
He moves within an inch of me and runs a finger down the side of my temple next to my eye socket.
“That can be arranged,” he whispers.
His voice is laced with so many sinister promises that I visibly cower away from him, which only makes him laugh. I curse myself, I’ve given him the reaction he wanted.
My face is turned away from him and I flinch as he strokes my hair.
“I don’t like your hair long, you don’t look like you.” I stay silent and he continues, “But black is my favorite color, your brown hair was bland compared to this. This suits your feistiness,” he whispers in my ear.