Chapter 1

Chapter One

brISTOL

T he beeping of a truck backing up wakes me from a dream I've had a million times over, a dream of being home. My face is wet with tears that I must have been crying in my sleep. My mom's hair smelled like coconuts and my dad's cologne was welcoming. I hate those dreams. They always end and I always feel so alone when I wake up. I've spent the past six years inside this excuse for a bedroom in an industrial building somewhere in Mississippi. I was only seventeen when Patrick conned me into getting in the truck with him to help him with his radio. I can't help but beat myself up over being so young and na?ve, and stupid. Who gets in a car with someone to fix their radio? Yeah. I do, evidently. He was driving through my little town and spotted me walking home from my friend Tracie's house. Before then, I'd hardly been outside of Cedarburg, Wisconsin; the town that I spent my life in with my parents and little brother. I miss them so much, and I'd give anything to be with them again. But that doesn't seem like it's in the cards for me.

The only outside contact that comes anywhere near this place is a box delivery truck, once per week. It's a white truck driven by a man and his son. They've seen me, but we've never spoken. I wouldn't dare tell them anything and as far as I knew, they thought I was Patrick's girlfriend or some shit. He did everything from rape me to beat me senseless and I'd been plotting a way out since the moment I set foot in here.

Outside of my door there's a long, narrow hallway that was made up of cement floors and walls. It's a plain industrial grey. Everything in here is that ugly damned color. Directly across the hall from my door is a large door with a silver handle. It leads to the delivery room a few steps lower than the rest of the building, with a large roll-up door that allows that box truck to back inside and drop off whatever it was that Patrick needed for his one-man business.

Patrick is a tall, skinny southerner who had this fake southern charm about him. His hair is almost shoulder length and shaggy and he has the most demonic, crystal blue eyes I've ever seen in my life.

I spent much of my time locked away inside my "bedroom," just big enough for a queen bed and a nightstand. I wasn't allotted these luxuries until my fourth year here. Prior to that, I slept on a blanket on the floor, frequently without a pillow. I did have a closet and when I was exceptionally well-behaved, Patrick would leave shopping bags just inside my door filled with new clothes. Don't ask me what for, it wasn't like I got to leave this place. Because I can assure you, if I ever got out, there would be no getting me back in.

I look at the calendar that hangs above my bed. Monday again. Even in captive, Mondays sucked. Nothing happens around here, and Patrick is here all day. Which usually means two or three trips to my room. Like clockwork, at eight minutes after ten, the doorknob to my room turns and the door flings open. Standing inside the doorway is Patrick, wearing the same sinister grin on his face that is always in place when he comes here for a piece of morning fucking glory.

I cringe internally, knowing if I do so outwardly what the repercussions of that will be. He's already unbuckling his jeans that suppress his hard length. "Roll over, darlin' ," he drawls as he drops his pants to his ankles.

"I'm feeling like an asshole today."

Patrick was an ass man. I'd learned that quick in my first few weeks here. I was a young, inexperienced seventeen-year-old when he'd kidnapped me. I had only had one boyfriend and we'd only had sex once. I hadn't given much thought as to whether I was into ass play, but that was irrelevant. Patrick was , and that was what was important here.

After the first few times of throwing up in the middle of him trying to get off on raping me in the ass, I adjusted and found that it was much less painful if I didn't fight as hard. He was only going to beat me afterward anyway, as if the assault on my puckered hole wasn't enough.

I offered him my best, fake grin and leaned forward, pulling his length into my mouth. He didn't protest. His head lolled back, and he hissed through his teeth as I took him to the back of my throat. There were many days I'd envisioned biting his dick off, but I was afraid of the horrid taste that would be left in my mouth. That, and I wasn't sure I was quick enough to slice through him and efficiently bite it off without him pulling me off him and killing me with his bare hands. So, I did what I had to. I sucked his dick like my life depended on it… because it did. My life… and my asshole.

In the years I'd spent here, after I realized that my chances of getting out were slim to none, I learned a lot about sexually pleasing Patrick. Hell, I was to the point where I now orgasmed from time to time with him. If I closed my eyes hard enough and envisioned someone gorgeous with muscles, dark hair, and light eyes, I could pretend it was them and I'd come.

Patrick liked a good blow job and I liked not having a dick in my ass, so I made sure I was the best at it that I could be. Within three minutes, max, Patrick was releasing his load into my mouth. I swallowed it all, fighting the urge to gag. I wiped my mouth and looked up at him. His large hand cupped my chin, and he smiled down at me.

"Always a good girl for me, Bristol," he purred, zipping his jeans. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving me alone once again. My body was humming with need, so I decided on a bath. The running water and I have had an affair going for the last ten years. That started when my best friend from high school introduced me to the pleasures of water hitting that sweet spot, the equivalent of having your pussy eaten if you didn't have a man. It was my favorite way to come, hands down.

I know I shouldn't have been turned on by Patrick, but it wasn't him that turned me on, per se. I was more turned on by the fact that I liked dick, a lot, and there was one in my mouth. Patrick was not a small man, and neither was his member. If he weren't holding me hostage, I could've seen finding actual pleasure in having sex with him.

I turned on the water in the bathroom that was adjoined to my room and grabbed a clean towel from the plastic container. Though I was a captive, I had all the things I would need. I had been here long enough that I had worked my way up and was allowed any luxury I asked for, within reason of course. The towels I used were soft, large and top of the line. All my hair products were from salons. I only bathed with the best body scrubs Patrick could find. If you didn't factor in the whole being held against my will issue, you could say my life was pretty good.

The water had heated up and I added some cold to it before easing into the large garden tub Patrick had installed for me two years ago. Before that, I only had a stand-up shower. It felt amazing to sit in a hot bath after four years of only showers. I soaked in the tub every day. It was my escape. The smells of the body scrubs and shampoos and conditioners allowed me to close my eyes and envision a place far better than here. An island resort in the Maldives, soaking in a hot tub outside a bungalow overlooking the beautiful blue water. If I closed my eyes long enough, I'd drift into a state of half-dreaming yet still awake and my mind would takeover and play its own sort of movie out in my head.

As the water ran, I lay flat on my back and slid my lower half under the faucet, spreading my legs and resting them on the wall above. The water splashed in between my legs and my hips moved, adjusting myself so the water would hit the right spot. The best thing about this was it was such a quick orgasm, so I always got two or three. Sometimes four.

The water pressure massaged my clit and like clockwork, my toes curled, and my own hand wrapped around my throat as my head slipped under the water, suppressing any sound that may have tried to escape my mouth. The last thing I wanted was for Patrick to hear me moan and get turned on again, trying for round two and this time my mouth wouldn't be good enough.

I slide back until I'm stretched out in the bathtub again and wipe my face. The water is almost to the top, so I shut it off and lay back, relaxing and basking in the pleasure I've given myself. The water cascades over my breasts, engulfing me in warmth. I begin my bath time routine; wash my hair, condition it, scrub my body, shave everything from my armpits to my ankles.

I finished up in the tub and got out with pruney fingers and toes. I toweled off with a luxe, soft towel. I towel dried my hair and slid into a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt that was two sizes too big. It was perfect, though, because Patrick won't be back for the rest of the day and I'll be able to lounge around and relax.

Hell, I might even be allowed to go into the kitchen area. He didn't lock my door behind him, which meant I could come out. It's not like I could run… there is a long, blacktop road that's two miles long between this place and the main highway. By the time I'd make it to the highway, Patrick would've caught me twice. I'll get out of here one day, but until then, I'll abide by his rules and do what I must do to survive and even live comfortably.

After I finish getting dressed, I plop across my plush, queen-sized bed that sits directly on the floor. The dark red comforter welcomes me, and I curl into it like it's my lover. Patrick had bought a red comforter so that when I'd bleed from his assaults, it wouldn't stain. I grew accustomed to it, though, and have kept it. It's almost a comfort to me.

The slamming of the large metal roll-up door that's directly outside my bedroom startles me, and instantly I'm frigid. I don't know what's coming next. My door swings open and in it stands the box truck driver. His eyes are wide and wild as he stares at me. "Hurry! Grab your things and let's go!"

I'm so confused, but then it dawns on me. Salvation. He's getting me out of here! I grab a bag in the closet and then think better of it. Fuck these items. I'm getting out of here! I'm about to be free! I meet him in the doorway, and he grabs my hand, running in the direction of the loading dock. He opens the door and I see the box truck backed in and the back door lift with his son standing at the driver door, waiting for us.

"Get in. You're safe now." His words don't register, but I get in and go all the way to the back of the truck. He climbs in with me and shuts the roll up door behind him. When the truck starts moving, tears of joy spring from my eyes. "Thank you," I whisper through my tears. I'm free. Finally, free.

The large man sits across from me, the look in his eyes distant. He's quiet, but he wants to ask me something. Maybe a lot of somethings.

"I'm Maurice."

"Bristol," I say, telling him my name.

"Are you the only one?" he asks after a few minutes of silence.

"I think so. I don't remember seeing anyone else."

"How long have you been there?"

"Six years."

"Six? Son of a bitch."

"Yeah, I was barely seventeen when he kidnapped me. Lucky me, he was in Wisconsin for business and snagged me." My cheeks redden. I've never had to tell anyone my story because, well, I've only spoken to Patrick for the last six years.

"That sick fuck! I knew it. I fucking knew it. I'm sorry I didn't catch on sooner, or I'd have gotten you out a long time ago."

"Where are you taking me?" I ask, wary of his answer. If I just got kidnapped again, I may just kill myself.

"Somewhere safe. Do you have family?"

"Yeah. Parents and a little brother."

"Do you know their number? "

"No." I hang my head. I was never good at numbers because I put them in my cell phone, and it was easier to access them in there than memorize them. Tears free fall without my permission at the thought of how stupid I was.

"Hey, it's okay. It's all going to be okay. We're going to get you back to your family, okay?"

He's sitting across from me. He wants to comfort me but doesn't. He probably thinks I'm all kinds of fucked up, and I mean, who knows… maybe I am.

I nod and sit with my knees pulled to my chest. The ride is long, and I don't pay attention to how many twists and turns we take before the sound of the truck lulls me to sleep.

A large hand shakes me gently awake, causing me to jolt and pull back. Maurice is looking down at me cautiously, as if he's shaking a hornet's nest, unsure of how I'm going to react. I compose myself the best I can and sit up, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

"Where are we?" I ask.

"We just got to our clubhouse. You've been out for a hot minute, but I figured I'd let you sleep as much as you could, considering where you just came from."

"Clubhouse? Are you in some sort of organization?" The only clubhouse I've ever heard of is one for the Boy Scouts and that can't possibly be what he means, can it?

He chuckles. "Yeah. Something like that."

Maurice's son rolls up the back door of the truck. To my surprise, it's dark outside. Damn, I really must have slept for a while. My neck feels it, too. The back of this truck isn't the most comfortable spot.

Maurice steps down and offers me a hand. I take it and hop down from the back of the truck, my bare feet landing on gravel making me wince. I didn't even think to put shoes on before I left, but I didn't think of much. There isn't anything there that was worth the time to grab.

I look around, taking in my surroundings. We're inside a privacy fence with a black gate entrance. There's a dark red brick house in which I assume is the clubhouse Maurice referred to. There are motorcycles lining the carport and now my interest is piqued. What is this place?

"Follow me." Maurice leads the way to the back door. I follow behind him quietly, and uncomfortably. I'm not at all looking forward to this and the churning in my stomach only reassures me of that. Oh, God I think I might be sick. I swallow back the bile threatening at the back of my throat and take a deep, centering breath. It's okay. I got this. It's just people. No big deal. They don't know me or where I came from or what's been done to me.

The back door opens, and I take one more deep breath before stepping inside behind Maurice. The house smells of food, divine delicious food. My mouth waters at the scent that wafts through the air making my stomach growl. Patrick hasn't fed me anything worth eating in a long time. We enter in the kitchen, which explains that delightful smell.

The kitchen is nice, but poorly decorated. There are a few barstools on the right just inside the backdoor set up at the counter that runs longways through the kitchen. Two men stand in the center of the kitchen, both with leather vests that label them as Tattered Saints, a torn American flag in three separate pieces is the center part with a reaper peeking through and Mississippi beneath it. The tallest one turns around, and deep green eyes stop the world from moving around me. Dark black hair and a dark black chin strap adorn his face and the most perfect crooked smile I've ever seen tugs at the corners of his lips. He has a dimple on one side of his mouth and a faint scar beneath his left eye that's thin and about two inches long. He's talking to the other man when his eyes land on Maurice, his son, and myself.

He doesn't react quite the way I did upon seeing him. He does look slightly confused at first but recovers from it quickly. The man next to him notices that he stopped talking and looks over to see what caught his attention.

"Hey, guys." Maurice greets them but the somberness in his tone has the two of them eyeing me suspiciously. Great. I try to center my breathing, but the anxiety is building inside my chest and it's starting to get a little harder to breathe. I take a few short, sharp breaths, sucking air into my lungs and pretty boy looks at me with panic written all over his face and that's it. I lose it. I'm hyperventilating, trying to catch my breath. I reach for the counter, the chair, something, any thing. Maurice's hand catches my arm and steadies me.

"You alright, girl?" he asks, his questioning eyes searching mine.

I swallow hard, fake a smile, and nod, still feeling a little unsteady. "I'm good."

Maurice simply nods and waits a beat before letting go of my arm.

"Guys, this is Bristol. Bristol, this is Slim and Sebastian."

Slim is the tall man, which means pretty boy must be Sebastian. Even his name is sexy.

"We got a roast cooking if you're hungry, brother," Slim says, looking at Maurice.

Maurice looks at me as if to ask if I'm hungry.

"Food sounds perfect," I say, hoping I don't sound like an idiot. I hardly remember what it was like to socialize or interact with another human being, much less actually having to participate in simple things like conversation and dinner.

Maurice beams at me. "Thanks, Slim. Where's Joey? Got a few things I need to run by him."

"He went home earlier. Loretta needed some help with some function she has going on this weekend, and he had been here all day working on getting the house cleaned up for the run next week."

"Shit. Okay. I'll shoot him a text and see if he can talk. Need him to do some digging."

Sebastian raises a brow at him. "For your friend here?"

"Yeah. I'll bring it to the table tomorrow. Till then, let's eat."

Sebastian looks like he wants to comment but doesn't say anything. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders and exits the room.

Maurice fixes a plate of food from the stove and urges me to do the same, handing me a bowl. He doesn't have to tell me twice. I pile roast, rice, and gravy into a bowl and sit down next to Maurice to scarf it down.

We eat in silence; everyone having left the room aside from me and Maurice. When I've eaten everything on my plate, I set it in the sink and begin washing it to put it in the dish drain.

"Hey, what do you think is the best way for me to find my family?" I ask.

"Probably social media. Do you remember your parents or your brother having a Facebook page?"

"Yeah, my mom and dad both had one!"

"Here. See if you can search them," he says, handing me his cell phone. Facebook is already loaded on the screen, and I quickly type in Mayra Tullier. Mom's page is the third one down. Her main picture is the same as I remember. I read the name thoroughly and the words hardly register. Remembering Mayra Tullier is how her name appears and as that sinks in, I scroll viciously through her timeline.

I can't seem to grasp the concept as I go through all the posts that are before my eyes. Tons of friends and family have posted on her page. ‘RIP Mayra. We miss you.' ‘Can't believe it's been six years. We're still searching for Bristol. #BringBristolHome #JusticeForTulliers.'

I scroll through so many posts and old photos of our family until I'm sobbing.

"Whoa, what's wrong?" Maurice asks.

"They're dead! They're all dead! My whole family! They were murdered the day I was abducted." I barely get the words out before sobs wrack my body so hard that it's difficult to focus on anything. The immensity of the pain that is shattering my heart is too much. It's unbearable.

No amount of pain that I've experienced in the company of Patrick can compare to the shards that my heart is torn into right this minute. He killed my family. Took their lives. And I've been fucking him for the last six years. I've been complacent and done everything he's asked. And for what? For who? I have no one. Nothing! I have nothing left. He took everything from me!

A wail sounds from my throat, and everything becomes a blur. Someone's arms circle around me, trying to console me. My eyes are squeezed shut. I don't have the will to open them. Whoever is holding me takes my arms and wraps them around their neck then scoops me up in their arms. I don't care at this point what happens to me. Sobs shake me still, images of my family replaying over and over in my mind. I'm carried around then placed in a cold, soft, comfy place. A blanket that smells of laundry detergent is placed over me. I lie there, breathing in this scent and crying every bit of sadness that I have in me out .

I cry so hard for so long that I eventually cry myself to sleep. I'm succumbed to a dreamless slumber for hours before I finally awake. When my eyes open and my brain begins to wake up, I sit up in a hurry, trying to figure out where I am. I go through the last things I remember and the hole inside my chest opens back up with a vengeance. Trying not to burst into tears again, I scan my surroundings. I'm in a small room, only large enough for a full-size bed and chest of drawers with a small pathway barely wide enough for one person to pass through at a time. There's a closet at the foot of the bed that doesn't fully open, blocked partially by the footboard of the bed.

There's a small window next to the bed with a window unit in it. No wonder it was so cold in here. Despite the circumstances, I slept well. This was the first night in six years that I didn't dream, and I'm not sure how to feel about that. I want to go out of this room, to go and see Maurice and to find out more about what happened and maybe even go home to let everyone know that I'm alive. So many thoughts and emotions pass through my mind at once and it's overwhelming. I have to remind myself to breathe. That it's okay, that it's all going to be okay now that I'm away from Patrick.

I am in a house full of strangers, though. The thought mortifies me. Terrifies me. This feeling, the one I have that I don't know how to define, it's deafening. I don't understand how I can feel deafening, but that's the best way I can explain it. I fight the panic that tries to engulf me and take slow, deep breaths.

"Breathe, Bristol. Breathe," I whisper to myself.

After a few minutes of calming myself down and preparing to walk out of this room and greet these strangers, to thank them for taking care of me when I lost my mind and senses, I force myself out of the bed. It's time to face the people that saved my life.