Thumper by Marie James

Chapter 9

Cara

Even in captivity, I’ve managed to grow complacent. Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t been touched, leered at, or threatened in days. Maybe I’m holding out hope that this is all just a dream, that what’s happening around me to other people is my subconscious trying to tell me something.

Maybe my complacency isn’t even that. Maybe it’s the lack of nutrients. Maybe I’m bone-tired and so overcome with exhaustion that I’ve been unable to keep my eyes open.

Whatever the reasoning behind getting caught off guard, it’s happening.

“Please,” I beg Angel as he crouches low, pulling the lock from my cage.

I don’t know how long it’s been since the girl beside me was taken—ten or twelve hours maybe—but she’s still gone, and now Angel has come back for me.

“Come on,” he grunts, reaching into the cage to grab me.

I slap at his hand, knowing if he gets it on me, I have no chance. Not that I really have one with my back plastered to the back of my cage. I’m a fool for allowing myself to feel even the slightest bit protected in this thing.

“Please,” I repeat, knowing I don’t have an ounce of pride left.

I don’t know exactly what I’m begging for or against. I can’t even give details.

I know I don’t want to die.

I know I don’t want to be raped.

I know I don’t want to be tortured.

But what if I have to choose? What if I can have one but not the others?

Would I even want to live if I’m raped?

Tears sting my eyes just thinking about how degrading and insulting that is to rape survivors.

How shitty it is to minimize their emotions and response to such things but thinking there are worse things that could happen.

I have no control over my emotions, or the thoughts racing through my head, but the only clear thing I know of is I don’t want to get out of this cage. Doing so can’t be good. Nothing good happens in a sex trafficking den when you’re pulled out alone.

I think about Lola and what has happened to her since we arrived, and I know I won’t respond the same way. I may have been strong by leaving Knight Salvation, but I did that under the cover of darkness, not while full-on facing someone who wants to hurt me.

“Out, now!” Angel snaps, and I feel almost betrayed.

He has been distant each time he came down here, almost robotic, as if he has a job to do and nothing more. He’s acted nothing like the man with the tattoos on his hands that makes comments about what he wants to do to us. Angel doesn’t watch us like prey like that man.

“Hey, asshole!” Lola shouts from several cages down. “Leave her the fuck alone!”

I shake my head, tears a constant stream on my face. How is she so selfless? How can she try to defend me when no one else in this room opened their mouths to defend her? She was brutalized, and we haven’t even brought it up or asked if she was okay. It’s as if we thought mentioning it would bring the same fate on us.

“Cara,” Angel snaps again as he reaches for me.

Stuck in my head once again, it allows Angel to grab a hold of my arm, and that grip is all it takes for him to drag me out. Not because I don’t fight, but because he’s so much stronger than me, a physical trait that’s obviously a benefit when stealing women.

“I don’t—Just leave me alone!” My throat is already sore from dehydration and hours and hours of tears rolling down the back of it. My words come out weaker than I’d like, not that I think he’d let me go if I’m louder or more assertive. Complying doesn’t seem like it will stop anything from happening.

I haven’t read a story or watched a single show where captives released their victims because they were just too nice to hurt.

“Not her!” Lola screams. “Angel, take me. Don’t take her.”

Angel doesn’t listen as he drags me out of the cage, my knee banging on the edge. It’s going to bruise. How fractured is my mind that I even notice? I’m covered in bruises and scratches. That little ounce of pain is nothing, but my mind focuses on it. Putting all my energy into worrying about a minor injury to my knee seems like a better choice than trying to analyze why Lola is so willing to replace me. I know I couldn’t martyr myself in this situation. I’m not brave enough to speak up when someone else is taken from their cage. I didn’t do it when it was Lola, and I didn’t do it again last night when the other girl was taken.

Come to think of it, Lola didn’t do it last night either, and that really worries me. Did Javier say something, make threats about me when he was hurting her? Does she know what’s coming?

Just the threat of it makes me fight harder. I kick and scream and try to scratch at his face, but he seems to be a professional at subduing people because before I know it, my back is pinned to his front, my arms locked at my sides and he’s carrying me out of the room.

My mind isn’t sharp enough to pay attention to the details around me. I don’t spend the time he’s carrying me to look around and try to figure out an escape. I wiggle and fight, but my movements are minimal in his grip.

“Would you stop?” Angel hisses in my ear, and I try to pull away further.

I don’t want his breath on me, and the feel of it hitting my skin makes my empty stomach roil.

“What’s going to happen? Where are you taking me? Please, I don’t want to die.”

He remains silent, and as we approach a dark door, I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. Do I want him to actually lay it all out for me, or is it better that I don’t know?

Somehow, as if he’s a magician, Angel manages to open the heavy door and push it open without losing his grip on me. It feels like another lost opportunity to get away, and I don’t think I’m going to get many more of them. I’m squandering my chances because I’m too upset.

I stiffen in his arms when I see Javier sitting at his desk, my heart nearly stopping when his eyes drift up to us.

My head shakes violently, pulling a frown from his lips, and I don’t know how to play it. Will compliance make this situation better or worse? Should I fight? Would behaving the way he wants make it better or worse for me? Is he going to want the opposite no matter what I choose?

“Over there is fine,” Javier says with an air of detached disinterest, swinging his arm out toward a sitting area on the far side of the room.

Angel carries me, and even though our backs are now to Javier, I do my best to twist and look over Angel’s shoulder. It feels wrong somehow to lose sight of him, as if he’s a cobra looking for the right time to strike. Javier doesn’t move from his office chair, but he also doesn’t pull his eyes from the pair of us either.

“That’s not necessary,” Javier says when Angel places me on the sofa and pulls a length of rope from his pocket. “You’re not going to give me any trouble, are you, Cara?”

I look between the two of them wondering which one of these guys is more likely to hurt me. I lock begging eyes on Angel because I’ve borne witness to what Javier is capable of, and even though his jaw tenses, a sign I read as disappointment, I can’t determine if that disappointment is in me or what he suspects Javier is going to do.

“Leave us,” Javier snaps.

Angel stands, giving me one last look as if he’s categorizing the damage on my face in order to compare to the damage he’ll come back to once Javier is done with me.

“Please,” I beg, lifting my arms to reach for him, but he takes a step back.

“Close the door on your way out,” Javier says, and that’s all it takes for Angel to back away. His jaw is still filled with tension, but he doesn’t stay. He doesn’t help. He turns and walks away, making me realize that Angel is just as much a captive as I am.

By outward appearance, Angel looks stronger than Javier. His chest is broader. His arms are thicker. So that makes me believe that Angel is here under duress. Javier is able to control him, and the only thing that would make me compliant, make me willing to hurt others is a threat to April, my younger sister.

Before Angel leaves the room, I know in my gut that Javier has threatened someone he loves, and with what I know about the man, I wouldn’t put it past him to follow through with those threats at the first sign of Angel not obeying him.

I don’t make direct eye contact with him, but I make sure to keep my focus on an area of the room that puts him in my line of sight. I want to be brave. I want to lift my chin and show him that he doesn’t scare me, but I’m not brave, and I know he can tell by the uncontrollable tremble of my body that I’m beyond terrified.

I pull my legs up, bending my knees and wrapping my arms around my legs, but I don’t feel any safer. I know he’s watching me, and it feels like the way a sociopath stares down at a hill of ants before pulling out a magnifying glass to watch them scatter as he burns them. His gaze is just as hot on the side of my face.

We sit in silence for what feels like forever, and it’s almost worse than violence. The anticipation, the adrenaline, the apprehension of just waiting for something terrible to happen is wrecking my nervous system. My spiked heartbeat, the heat at the tops of my ears, and the shivering make me wonder if it’s possible to go into shock just sitting here.

I whimper when he stands, a response I have no hope of stopping.

I cringe away when he nears, my body instinctively leaning further back, but he doesn’t hit me. He doesn’t reach his hand up and run it through my hair. He doesn’t whisper all the evil things he’d like to do to me. I thought it was bad when I’d drop my guard and Charles Knight would do that shit—a simple brush of knuckles down my cheek or seeing him stare at me for a long moment before hitching his pants to emphasize an erection. Just the memories make me want to vomit.

I keep my head down, my eyes on the floor as his shadow casts over me.

“Here,” he says, his voice soft and void of emotion.

I don’t look up. I physically can’t face him.

I jolt like I’ve been struck by lightning when something drops in my lap because I was expecting violence not—I look down—a pair of socks?

He puts distance between us, his chair creaking when he sits back down, but I still feel his eyes on me, the pair of socks resting between my stomach and thighs.

I leave them there, my eyes locked on them as if they have the power to transform into something living that will also find a way to hurt me. Am I supposed to put them on? Be grateful? Say thank you?

“Your feet have to be cold.”

They’re freezing. The basement is warm enough that with the blankets we’ve been provided we stay fairly cozy, but this part of the house isn’t as warm, and the struggle with Angel forced all of my blood to my heart, leaving my extremities on the frigid side.

“Go ahead. Put them on.” I don’t detect a hint of malice, but it also doesn’t sound like he’ll be happy if I refuse.

This is another one of those situations where I don’t know if he genuinely wants me to obey, or he wants me to refuse so he can force me.

Pleasing him doesn’t feel right but upsetting him will only bring trouble.

So, I obey, moving my legs out and pulling the thick gray socks on my feet. The warmth is instantaneous, and I am grateful to have them, but I won’t say so because I know they come at a cost.

The sounds of fingers working over a keyboard fill the room, and I chance a glance in his direction. He’s focused on whatever he’s working on and doesn’t bother to look my way. It feels deadlier than his stare because he’s just as aware of me as I am of him. I know he’d be on me in a flash if I jumped up from the sofa and darted toward the door. I look that direction, my eyes moving but an inch. It’s not that far away. I’m closer to the door than I am to his desk, so maybe—

“I know you don’t want to believe me, but the world out there is much worse than the one you’re facing here.”

I drop my eyes, not looking at him. It’s possible he’s still focused on his computer and is just talking, not actually saying this because he caught me looking. I was incredibly careful not to make it obvious.

“I know every instinct in your body is telling you to run, to escape, but you’re safer here.”

Tears burn my eyes because this feels like psychological warfare. I bet he’s getting a thrill out of torturing me. I open my mouth to tell him to just get it over with. Whatever he’s planning has to be better than sitting here wondering what’s going to happen, but then the office door opens.

I look up in relief, but it’s not Angel entering the room but the woman who did our exams. She looks just as uncaring now carrying in a tray of food as she did drawing blood and giving out the birth control shot. I keep my eyes locked on her, noticing how she doesn’t look outwardly scared of Javier, but she also maintains her distance, making sure not to get too close. Does he hurt the staff as well? I wouldn’t put it past him. Some men are just inherently evil, and any man who could pull a woman off the back of a truck and rape her has absolutely no redeeming qualities.

The woman leaves without a word, and I find it odd that I’m irritated he didn’t tell her thank you for bringing him something to eat. I spin my head around to glare at him when the door closes, but the challenging arc of his eyebrow as he looks back at me makes me snap my mouth closed.

“Are you hungry?”

My stomach threatens to gurgle, but I get the feeling it has practically given up even begging at this point. I shake my head.

“It looks like turkey and swiss on rye. Lupe makes the best spicy tomato soup.”

I’m unable to pull my eyes from his hands as he cuts the sandwich in half, lifting one section to his mouth.

When he groans as he chews, I know it’s just another tactic. He’s either purposely trying to make me insane or the half he isn’t eating is poisoned. Or the soup. The soup is probably poisoned.

But then he stirs the soup, sipping a spoonful in his mouth, and my stomach betrays my hunger with a loud growl.

Javier finishes half of the sandwich and a couple spoonfuls of soup before wiping his mouth with a napkin.

I tremble harder when he stands, lifting the tray of food from his desk. I’m shaking because he’s carrying it in my direction.

I can’t even manage to pull my eyes from the tray once it’s on the table in front of me, despite his proximity and my need to prepare myself in case he tries to grab me. It’s like I’m in a trance watching the small bits of seasoning floating in the creamy soup. The sandwich has fresh lettuce and tomato and from the looks of it, spicy brown mustard.

Another round of tears begins as he backs away, and I just can’t bring myself to eat it.

After another hour of just sitting here with Javier typing away on his computer, Angel shows back up to take me back to the basement. I regretted not eating that food every second it was in front of me, but not as much as I do when I get back downstairs only to discover the packaged food I hid under my cot mattress has been removed.