Unorthodox (Sick Love Book 1) Page 2

  At first, I thought my protection detail was because my father loved me, but it didn’t take me too long to figure out he doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

  No, he protected me for reasons like this: my appeal as a ransom. No wonder he always hated me.

  I was a tool to be used against him.

  When I reach the door without gunshots flying through my window, I feel a flicker of hope expand in my chest. Danik has cut his surf time in half since I came here two days ago, so he’s reminded me again and again as he mocked me about fearing for my life.

  Maybe he just didn’t want to believe it. Maybe he thought our father and his problems wouldn’t follow me, like they didn’t follow Danik.

  Either way, it won’t be long before he gets back. And Danik might be a stereotypical stoner-surfer, but he also has a gun in his car and a hot temper when he’s provoked.

  I’d consider someone coming to kidnap his little sister a provocation.

  I hold my breath as I stop at the door, still on my belly, knife in hand, listening. I need to get to my knees to twist the knob, but I don’t want the guy outside my window to have a clear shot at my back, either.

  Every second will have to count.

  I close my eyes tight, think about my mother. What she would have wanted for me.

  Not this, certainly. But she’d at least want me to survive. Make my own path.

  Maybe I just tell myself that to make myself feel better.

  She died when I was seven.

  What the fuck do I really remember about her, aside from the fact she despised my father and defied him at every turn? It got her killed, in the end.

  Thinking of her death—an aneurism, so proclaimed by the doctor on the payroll of London Pharmaceuticals, my father’s legitimate business—makes me start to panic. My stomach churns and a sour taste coats the inside of my mouth.

  I close my eyes and force the memory back.

  I cannot afford to panic.

  I count to three in my head, like I always did when Danik dragged me to the deep end of our pool to jump. I was terrified of heights and horrified at the thought of drowning. Having my toes on the ledge sent me spiraling.

  Counting to three helped.

  And Max Bennett? If he gets his hands on me, I think that might be worse than drowning.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  When I open my eyes, I quickly get to my knees, reaching for the doorknob, holding my breath.

  A floorboard creaks outside of my room.

  I jump back, landing on my ass, the knife still in my trembling hand.

  The door flies open.

  A man stands in the doorway dressed in all black, holding a black handgun, aimed at my head. I can make out steel and sky-blue eyes, dark hair. Nothing else before my own eyes are drawn to the barrel of the gun.

  “Addison.”

  I swallow at the accented word, and I know immediately who this is.

  It wasn’t the man outside my window.

  It’s this one.

  The one holding a gun in my face, his finger on the trigger.

  Max Bennett.

  South African drug lord, notorious sex trafficker, and the man my father sold me off to.

  My mouth goes dry, and my entire body trembles, but I don’t put down the knife.

  “Get up,” Max says, his words sharp and low. “If you don’t, I’ll put this gun in your hand, and we’ll pull the trigger together while we aim it at your fucking brother.”

  “What do you want out of her?”

  I look up from my laptop screen, away from the latest intel sent by my men. The feds are getting bored again, running in circles trying to tamp down on what went wrong in Miami and how they can use it to their advantage.

  What went wrong is sixty-one kilos of coke ended up in the wrong hands, thanks to Christopher London. That’s nearly eight million dollars that should’ve been in my pocket, gone.

  As it is, I no longer give a fuck about the money.

  There’s something better waiting for me.

  I close my computer, lean back in my office chair, my eyes on Ben’s as I answer his question. “Obedience.”

  Ben arches a brow, his hands clenched on the back of the chair across from my desk. He’s young—early twenties. Spends most of his time down in Mexico working for me. But for Addison London, I called him back up to South Carolina. Temporarily.

  “Any lines I shouldn’t cross?” he asks, a hint of a smile tugging on his lips as he straightens, runs a hand through his sandy blond hair.

  I steeple my fingers beneath my chin, holding his gaze as I debate his question. I think about Addison’s silence on the drive here. She was blindfolded, but she kept quiet. Didn’t ask stupid fucking questions. She knows how this goes.

  It wasn’t until she stepped foot into my house that she had to be drugged.

  That’s when she started fighting, the fear shooting adrenaline through her small body, forcing her to act. Valiant effort, but ultimately useless. There’s no escape for her.

  “No broken bones.” I shrug. “No permanent…marks.”

  I see Ben’s blue gaze dart to my hands, then quickly back up, to my face. I clench my hands into fists, put them in my lap as I keep my eyes on his. My father had no qualms about leaving permanent marks. No issues with broken bones. He was content to let me scream. Completely at ease with having his medical team take care of my internal injuries when he and his men were done with me.

  Addison is lucky.

  Ben nods once. “You got it, sir.” He turns to go.

  “Ben,” I call softly, and watch his shoulders tense as he turns back to me, his expression apprehensive. “Her mouth and her hands are the only thing that should have your dick in them.”

  He flicks his brows up, comprehension dawning. “Christopher must’ve really fucked up.”

  I clench my hands into fists, thinking about how much he’s cost me. How much I’ve got to gain now, thanks to his fuck up. “She’ll make up for it.”

  I’m going to run.

  The second day that Ben comes for me is before the sun is up. I hear his footsteps from far down the hall, the subtle shift of my guard by the door.

  Last night, I was exhausted. I was drugged, for a second time. I didn’t know it at first. Didn’t know the food I puked up had been the reason the pine scented floor cleaner hadn’t assaulted my senses like it did when Max first led me in here.

  But now, still groggy and still sore from everything Ben did to me yesterday—I push it from my mind—I can smell it again.

  The scent makes me gag, and for a moment, I’m right back there. I’m right back in that bathtub with Danik and my uncle and... I clamp a hand over my mouth, trying to hold back the bile rising up my throat.

  Don’t think about it.

  There is one window of opportunity and I’m going to miss it.

  I fling my covers off, wincing as my loose tank top rubs against the wounds on my back.

  He beat me.

  Ben beat me with a fucking whip.

  I grit my teeth, the wooden floor cold beneath my feet as I climb out of bed. I snatch the razor from my nightstand. It’s a plastic one that was hidden beneath the cupboards of the bathroom. It won’t do any real damage, but I feel better with it in my hand. I have no practical use for it, thanks to the fucking wax I endured yesterday, but I sliced a small cut into my inner forearm to mark the days I’m here.

  There are no calendars, no clocks. But I won’t lose track.

  I angle the blade, make another quick cut beside the first one, relish in the sting as I grip the plastic handle tight.

  I’m not sure why it was there, and I shudder to think about another girl in this room.

  Is this Max Bennett’s MO? Snatching up the kids of people who have wronged him? Probably so. I know better than most, girls like me are too easily used as pawns.

  And I know what Max does.

  I’d heard of him even before the
whispered conversation I overheard from my father. The one he wasn’t going to share with me.

  The thought washes hot anger over me like a wave, propelling me to act.

  Where will I go? Back to him? I force that thought aside. When I’m free, I’ll figure it out.

  I move quickly, silently.

  And when I hear the click of the lock to my room, I’m in position, tucked away in the closet that faces the door.

  My bathroom door is closed, light on, and because of how he scared the shit out of me yesterday, Ben thinks I’ll still be in there.

  He thinks I’ll be a good girl.

  His footsteps stop just inside my room, and I hold my breath, unable to see anything from the crack of the closet door.

  Then he moves, clomping off toward the bathroom. He stops outside of it, and I wait, trying to hear past my heart thundering in my chest. Trying to steady my shaking hand, the plastic handle of the razor blade clenched tight in it.

  He knocks harshly on the bathroom door. “Hurry up,” he growls, anger laced in those two words.

  I wait, barely breathing, my chest heaving with each silent inhale and shuddering with each shallow exhale.

  Then I hear him snarl under his breath, the creak of the door as he turns the knob.

  And I move.

  Fast, because the bathroom is small, and it will take about two seconds for him to see I’m not there.

  But he’s not getting his hands on me again.

  I slip out of the closet door and I see the guard outside of my door, rifle in hand.

  He’s facing away from me, posture ramrod straight as I hear Ben stomping around in the bathroom.

  I take one deep breath.

  Then I run.

  The guard doesn’t expect me, and I fly past him, razor still in hand.

  I hear Ben roaring my name a second later as my bare feet skim over the polished floors, the scent of pine making my stomach churn.

  I’m on the first floor, and I see the foyer up ahead, polished wood and dark walls, no light filtering in because the fucking sun hasn’t even started its rise yet.

  There’s no guard at the double door.

  A thread of hope pulls tight in my chest.

  I hear the men charging after me.

  I flip the two locks, hand trembling. And just as I go to open the door, desire warm and unfurling in my body, telling me that all I need to do is get outside, get outside, get outside, the door opens.

  From the outside.

  There’s an electronic beeping as it does, and when I stumble backward, my eyes darting from the door to Ben and the guard with the rifle, I realize I never would’ve made it.

  I never would’ve fucking made it.

  Max Bennett steps through the doorway with a single glance my way before he reaches for a small, flat square panel on the wall. It beeps as his thumb comes over it. An alarm system.

  I could’ve guessed at that, but it’s what I see beyond Max, past the grey fountain out front. Adjacent to the high, iron fence are two guards, bright light from lamp posts showing they have the same rifles as the one outside my door.

  I never would’ve made it.

  My chest deflates, hopelessness like a physical weight dragging me down as I take another step back.

  And another.

  Max closes the door, locks it. He’s dressed in black jogging pants, a black t-shirt stretched tight across his chest, gun on his hip, and I see sweat along his brow.

  He was running.

  Fucking jogging while I was going to be taken down to the basement for more torture.

  I dart my gaze to Ben, a murderous expression in his blue eyes as he stares at me. The guard looks nervous, his own eyes on Max, his mouth open as if he might say something.

  But no one speaks.

  No one but Max. He smiles at me, one dimple flashing in his pale face as he slips his hands into his pockets and says, “Were you going somewhere?”

  I swallow down the lump in my throat. Force myself not to think about Ben. About what he’s going to do to me now. How yesterday, when he forced me to my hands and knees, when he whipped me and hit me and laughed when I cried, how all of that will be like child’s play today.

  But that means I’ve got nothing to lose. I’m already going to be punished for this.

  Might as well make it fucking worth it.

  I grip the razor tighter in my hand, take one more step back. “I want to go home.” My voice doesn’t shake even though it’s all I can do not to crumple into a ball. I risk a glance towards Ben, still find him staring at me like he wants to kill me. “I don’t know what my father did to you, but I want to go home.” I gesture to Ben with the razor but don’t look at him again. “I don’t want to...” I feel pressure building behind my eyes and I hate myself for it. I hate that my father never prepared me for this. I hate that going home will be little better than staying here, and I hate that I’m too weak to kill every man staring at me right now like I’m just a fucking toy.

  “Go ahead,” Max prompts me. “Please, you went to all this trouble.” He nods toward me, his blue-grey eyes gleaming. “Say what you’d like to say.”

  “Don’t let him take me.” I don’t say Ben’s name or point to him, but Max knows. I know he knows.

  “Take you? He’s not taking you anywhere.”

  I bite my lip, my knees trembling, the adrenaline fading me, leaving every bruise and bump and ache lighting up in pain in its wake. “Don’t let him hurt me.” I don’t know why I’m begging Max. I don’t know why I think he’s any better. I know he knows what Ben’s done.

  But I can’t help but ask him again. “Please just...” I close my eyes, take a deep breath. “Please just let me stay in my room.” I meet Max’s gaze again and find nothing staring back. Nothing but a detached sort of coldness.

  Just like my father, he is completely unaffected by my pleas.

  Even still, I hold my breath as he glances at the floor, as if he’s actually considering my request.

  But then he looks to Ben. And all he says is, “Do not ever let this happen again, or you’ll pay for it.”

  And Ben takes that as permission as he comes toward me, menace in his eyes.

  I take another step back, holding up the razor. “No!” I scream at Ben as Max watches. “Don’t touch me. Don’t fucking touch—”

  Ben slams his hand over my mouth, grabs my hair with his other hand, and drags me away from the door, toward the stairs that lead to the basement. I fight him, kicking and screaming beneath his hand as I jerk in his arms. But Ben is huge, broader than Max and far bigger than me.

  Still, I keep fighting. I keep trying to scream. But when we get to the door that leads to the stairs of the basement, his hand on my mouth goes to my throat, pinching around both sides, stealing the breath from me. When he opens the door, I hear Max call out, “I’ll see you tonight, Addison,” before Ben shoves me.

  I’m free falling, then everything explodes into pain. Pain, and darkness.

  That night, I’m drugged again.

  And Max is good to his word.

  He comes. And he’s gentle. His whispered words aren’t, but his hands skim my back softly. He applies something that’s cool, then warm and tingly against the parts of my flesh that aren’t open wounds. He caresses me, and he kisses the side of my face, and through the haze of the drugs, I almost forget he did this. Just as much as Ben, he did this.

  But then he whispers against my ear, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, love. If you do as you’re told, you won’t get hurt. I can promise you that.”

  And I remember Ben is his doing. Every ache and bruise on my body is his doing. And when he rubs my back until I fall asleep—not hard to do with whatever is coursing through my system—I try to remember that as gentle as his hands are tonight, he’s got my blood on them all the same.

  The secret to breaking a girl has nothing to do with violence. It has its place, of course, but violence breeds resentment. Resentment makes
for disobedience, and disobedience…well, disobedience cannot be tolerated.

  Not in my line of work.

  Addison London thrives on disobedience.

  But violence wasn’t the answer to fix that flaw.

  My secret wasn’t hitting her, not that I wouldn’t. Hitting women was never a thing I was taught not to do. In fact, the opposite is true. It wasn’t until I moved to the States with my brother—both of us taken by my mother, who was hit more than a few times in my presence, once so hard a tooth flew from her mouth—that I learned people don’t like to hit women.

  Or rather, they like to say they don’t like to hit women.

  Then they do it in secret. Sometimes right after church. I once observed a man straight off the heels of Sunday mass hit his mistress with a closed fist and a rosary wrapped around his knuckles.

  In America, things aren’t civilized. They’re just disguised.

  When I led Addison to her room a week ago after her mind had been dulled enough to follow instructions, showing her the adjoining bathroom, television, and closet with enough clothes to get her through the next few weeks, I was in disguise then too.

  I wasn’t overly friendly, because I never am. But I didn’t touch her. Or yell at her. Or say a single harsh word to her.

  Even when the drugs wore off and she screamed at me. Even when she cried. Even when she lunged for me and I wanted nothing more than to beat her senseless.

  I didn’t lift a finger.

  No.

  My secret?

  I let Ben do all of the dirty work.

  Ben is a slave trainer.

  I’ve never exactly trained a sex slave in my life, but I’ve used my fair share of them. I lost my virginity to one when I was twelve, and my father held a gun to the girl’s head until I was able to get an erection. Prior to that, I hurt them when my father forced me to, or I watched my brother pay the price.

  But despite my dealings with slaves, I never found much joy in the training. It’s thankless work, breaking a slave in, male or female. They talk back, bite, hit, scream and spit on you.

  It’s like training a dog.

  I’d much rather sell the obedient product than be the one getting them to behave.