Thumper by Marie James
Chapter 1
Cara
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a princess. I wanted the sparkly crown and the pretty shoes. I wanted the doting parents and for my prince to come along and vow to protect me. He would hold my hand and look at me with love in his eyes.
My prince would slay dragons.
At eight years old, when my absentee father walked out for the last time, I realized I needed to amend my dreams.
At fifteen, when my mother joined a religious sect, I was told I shouldn’t have dreams at all. Mind you, I had never set foot in a church before this point.
At sixteen, I was informed that my life was already planned for me. I was to marry Charles McKnight, leader of Knight Salvation. This union, I was told, was the only way to get into heaven, to find real redemption for the sins everyone is inherently born with.
Charles was not my prince. Even if the fast-talking evangelist wasn’t married to my mother and over a dozen other women, even if he was riding on the back of a gorgeous white horse, clad in armor ready to fight to the death in my honor, he couldn’t be my prince.
Noble men don’t leer at girls too young to vote. They don’t make comments referencing their sword and how joining him in their marital bed will enable them to rule in the kingdom of heaven.
My only saving grace is that even though Charles McKnight is a pervert, his rules about marriage and obligations didn’t happen until his future bride was eighteen. After overhearing a conversation on the phone, I learned quickly that had more to do with flying under the radar and not being arrested for sexual assault of a minor than his true beliefs. His eyes didn’t lie when he gawked at us. The man was a creep.
So, at seventeen, I left the compound. I’d be a fool to stick around for a ceremony to a disgusting man who was so far from a prince even the toads on the riverbank would be disgusted looking at him.
I quickly realized princes don’t exist. Men with fluffy blond hair and white smiles were also the devil in disguise. Their crowns were as crooked as their souls, and their only intent was to use, abuse, and throw away.
By twenty, I had to come to terms with the fact that if I wanted to be rescued; I had to do it myself.
Now, at twenty-four, I know I’m the only one I can depend on. I no longer wear rose-colored glasses or let the fantasy of being the only woman a man sees take up real estate in my head.
It took years of hard work and mistakes to come to the only conclusion I can stomach.
Men aren’t shit.
They aren’t saviors.
They aren’t misunderstood.
They. Aren’t. Shit.
Well, they aren’t anything good.
They’re predators, seeing women as their prey.
We’re the inferior sex, the ones who can be mistreated and taken advantage of, and if a woman is too strong-willed to be mentally manipulated, they can easily use brute force to get what they want.
There are a lot of factors that have led up to my current situation, and as I try to drown out the sound of sniffling to my right, I try to figure out where I went wrong.
Leaving home at seventeen wasn’t a hard decision. I knew I had to do it. It didn’t mean that it was easy. None of the last seven years has been easy, but I had determination.
I got my GED and was lucky enough to find a roommate after only three months on the street. I managed to stay away from the men who saw me as a paycheck because there was no shortage of men willing to let me earn some money on my back. It seems Charles isn’t the only deviant who is into young girls. The world is full of them, and at seventeen, I stepped out of the frying pan and jumped headfirst into the fire.
I worked at a diner until I was old enough to take college classes but was turned away because I couldn’t get financial aid. Did you know that you have to be legally emancipated to not have to include your mother’s income? It doesn’t matter that you escaped from a cult. The government doesn’t care.
I shake my head, trying to rid it of the bitterness I still haven’t been able to let go of even after all these years.
Instead of college, I ended up taking classes at a skilled nursing facility for geriatric residents—a nursing home. I couldn’t be picky with work. The classes were paid for, and a job after passing the state test was guaranteed. The pay was more than minimum wage, and I didn’t have to worry about handsy truckers grabbing my ass at the diner. Some of the men at the nursing home were just as grabby, but they’re much slower, old age having increased their response time.
Life hasn’t been great, but it’s been decent.
Until tonight.
Until I agreed to work a double, giving one of the girls the evening off so she could go to some school function with one of her kids. I was an easy target. All the people at work know I have no life and I’m up for earning overtime any chance I can get.
And walking home at midnight because I’m still saving to buy a car made me a target once again. Only the men that pulled up beside me wouldn’t listen to reason. They didn’t give me a chance to decline when they offered me a ride. I said no, and they snatched me up like I was a piece of furniture deserted on the side of the road.
“Shh,” a brunette whispers when the crying on my right gets worse. “You’re going to be fine.”
I’m not disillusioned that she knows more than we do, so her placating words don’t set me at ease.
All considerations that I’m stuck inside a nightmare vanished two days ago before I was shoved in the back of a moving truck. There were two other women. Now there are six, including me.
Escaping isn’t as simple as walking away in the middle of the night like I did years ago, and the longer we travel in darkness, bumping along in the back of this truck, the harder it becomes to hold on to any notion that things will ever be okay again. The men who took us have only opened the doors three times. Each time, they toss in a couple packages of food and another girl.
I’ve learned to stay as far from the door as possible. It puts some distance between the sneering men and also helps me maintain my balance on whatever rugged terrain we’re traveling on. I’m covered in bruises and scrapes because we’re less valuable than cattle right now, and whoever took us doesn’t have a single concern for our safety and well-being.
“We’re slowing down again,” one of the other women whispers, and even though I can’t see her, the fear is clear in her voice. I can tell from her location in the back of the truck that she was one of the ones that was here before me.
The last girl that was tossed inside whimpers, and I keep my mouth closed. It’s not my place to tell her that her prayers are going to go unanswered. She’s going to find that out soon enough.
We’re tossed around the back of the truck, our hands tied to thick ropes around our waists for several long minutes before the truck slams to a stop. The skin on my wrists oozes blood and pus from the constant irritation, but there’s no pain to be felt. Nothing is going to compare to what is to come, of that I’m certain.
The door on the truck rolls up, and I try to shield my eyes from the harsh light shining inside. The ropes I’m bound with don’t allow it, and I’m left squinting, trying to see what’s coming for me.
“Out,” one man snaps, but no one moves.
He lifts that huge rifle we’ve been repeatedly threatened with and a ripple of cries echoes in the back of the truck. I’m not brave or immune to the threat of being shot dead. Tears burn hot down my cheeks, everything in my head telling me I’ll be fine so long as I obey, but my feet are welded in place, my fear too great to face whatever is outside of this truck.
I’m no fool. I know why girls are snatched up off the street, and it isn’t to be taken to a castle to be protected and worshipped.
The brunette who spent so much time trying to calm everyone down is the first to climb out of the back of the truck, but no one else seems as willing. It isn’t until the man fires off a couple of shots into the pitch-black distance that we begin to move.
Rough hands grab me by the shoulder, the grip on my arm the only thing that keeps me from face-planting on the dusty ground. I know I’m going to have even more bruises, but the pain doesn’t really register as I dart my gaze around and notice two other men standing off to the side. A huge house looms to my left, the porch a wide expanse that would be welcoming in any other situation, but I imagine those concrete steps lead to levels of depravity I don’t think I would’ve faced had I stayed at the compound and married Charles McKnight. A lump forms in my throat just thinking that a man I despise is possibly the lesser of the two evils.
We’re lined up facing the two men I don’t recognize, and I’ve watched enough television to know that these men are our buyers. We’re being sold. I also know not to hold out any hope that we’ll be treated with respect and dignity, despite their clean appearances.
“Six pretty girls,” the guy with the huge gun says as the newcomers look at each one of us, eyes traveling from the tops of our heads to our feet. “Untouched.”
“Untouched?” the taller of the two men snaps, his eyes locking on the brunette who tried so hard to keep our spirits up. “They’re covered in bruises. From the looks of it, that one probably has a fractured cheekbone.”
“You’re going to like that one, Javier,” the gun-toting man says with a quick lick to his lips. “She’s feisty and full of fire.”
“I won’t be able to sell her for weeks. My buyers like to be the ones to mark them up. They want fresh, unmarked skin. How is her pussy?”
My heart drops to my stomach. Knowing something is going to happen and actually hearing it are two different things. The confirmation makes bile burn my throat.
“Their pussies haven’t been touched.”
Javier looks pleased with this information. “I’ll take them, but I want the next batch to arrive in better condition.”
The gun-toting man nods but doesn’t make a move to leave.
Javier nods toward the other man he’s standing with, and that man hands over a manilla envelope—payment for us, I’m certain.
The man takes the envelope but still doesn’t move.
“Is there a problem?” Javier snaps before looking at his partner. “Get these whores in the house.”
The other man goes to move, but the sound of a gun getting cocked stops him in his tracks.
“Is there a problem?” Javier snaps again, and I just know that we’re going to watch these two men die and then be loaded up in the back of the truck again.
“The boss wants proof,” the sneering man snaps. “He wants to know how dedicated you are to this new endeavor.”
Javier’s jaw ticks as he clenches his jaw. “Fine. You. Come here.”
My eyes widen as the brunette shakes her head, fresh tears streaming down her face.
“Now,” Javier snaps and instead of being the feisty woman she was before, her feet shuffle forward.
Javier’s hands work open the fly of his jeans.
“If you bite me, I’ll blow your fucking brains out. Do you understand?”
She nods, her breath coming out in harsh gasps as her eyes dart all over, looking for an escape.
“No. That won’t be enough.”
Javier snaps his eyes from the brunette back to the man with the gun. The man is now holding up a phone, no doubt making a video of this depravity either for proof like he claims or to use later for personal use.
Javier doesn’t argue as he reaches into his back pocket. I have to close my eyes at the sound of a foil packet being opened. My entire body trembles, tiny whimpers escaping my lips.
I nearly throw up in my mouth when I hear the sound of him spitting.
“Please don’t,” the woman pleads, but he doesn’t listen.
I’m going to hear her pained cries every second for the rest of my life, and at this point, I’m hoping that won’t be for much longer. Death has got to be better than this.