Where's Molly(6)

I peek into the living room, finding several men laid out over the couch and floor. Five of them. All snoring and surely doped up on drugs, their veins as clogged with chemicals as the dust in the air vents. Their organs are probably floating in an ocean of alcohol, too, pruning in the toxins.

An earthquake would sooner rock them further into whatever depraved la-la land they wandered into than wake them. I wonder, when pedophiles dream of marrying women their age or walking an old person across the street out of the goodness of their hearts, do they call them nightmares? Do they awake in a cold sweat and with a pit of dread in their stomachs?

Surely, they don't consider dreams of cute puppies and rainbows pleasant.

Regardless, they're the least of my concerns as I slink through the darkened living room, stepping over stray limbs and crushed, empty beer cans.

It's the guard standing outside the house who has a trail of sweat leaking down my spine.

He would better serve as a boulder in the Hoover Dam with how ossified the muscles around his bones are. All those people that built it died for nothing when all that dumb fuck needed to do was just fucking stand there.

But if he sticks to the routine he’s followed for the last three months, then he should be holding his dick in the woods somewhere, taking a piss break. Typically, he combines it with a smoke break, using it as an excuse to walk around and relieve himself from standing in the same position for hours on end.

Maybe he wouldn't fare so well in the dam.

Holding my breath, I grab the handle with a trembling, sweaty palm and crack open the door, the rusted hinges screaming.

Wincing, I peek over my shoulder, quickly ensuring the men behind me are still unconscious, then slip out the door.

Only to smack directly into a hard chest.

“Where ya goin’, mama? ”

Hope, elation, freedom… they fizzle out like a damp firecracker. My bottom lip trembles as I lift my gaze.

Rio.

He wasn't supposed to be on duty tonight.

He’s tall, and his light brown skin is covered in tattoos. His hair is buzzed close to his scalp, accentuating a strong jawline and full lips. Admittedly, he’s incredibly enigmatic, and the only man in this house who doesn’t make us recoil in fear.

He's never been interested in any of us.

Francesca brought him in a few months ago, right after his nineteenth birthday, and not long after he arrived from Puerto Rico. She joked she didn't feel so bad hiring a kid when he's old enough to fuck. I don't think that vile woman is capable of shame or guilt, nor does she pretend to be when she calls him into her bedroom at night.

Just like ours, his eyes are haunted. And unlike the other men, he doesn't leer at the girls or smile when we're raped. In fact, he looks downright sick when it happens.

His job is extraction—a fancy, bullshit name for a kidnapper. They provide him with a picture of a pretty young girl, her name, and her location; his only job is to lure her into his car and bring her back. Most of them are sex workers. Easy to get in a car, and very few people go looking for them once they're missing.

However, they've been having issues with him letting targeted girls slip through his fingers. A mistake that would typically get him killed, but every time Rocco threatens to, Francesca stops him.

She's attached, and it's the only reason Rio is still alive.

I open my mouth, but the answer gets clogged in my throat. It feels too tight, like a crowded room with bystanders pressed shoulder to shoulder, preventing me from uttering a word and wrapping a noose around my neck and theirs.

“I got all night. Don't know if you do, though,” he drawls casually, pushing for an answer.

“Out,” I squeak, the lone syllable forcing its way through the crowd.

A stupid thing to say, but what possible excuse could I conjure? Under no circumstances are we allowed out of our rooms after bedtime, let alone out of the house.

I'm fucked. Well and truly fucked.

“Out,” he repeats tonelessly.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and sweat gathers at the base of my spine. I have the urge to vomit all over his boots, nausea swirling in the pit of my stomach.

I try to clear my throat but only end up squeaking out a choked cough. After tossing a nervous glance over my shoulder, and then over Rio's, I meet his penetrating gaze again.

I'm no longer confident the men behind me won't wake up to our voices, and the guard can show up any second. The smart thing to do is offer him whatever he wants in exchange for his silence and to return to my room. Except something keeps me rooted to where I stand.

Hope.

Hope is what keeps me in place.

He let others go. Maybe he'll let me go, too.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper. “I-I'm dying.”

I wasn't planning on saying the last part, but it's the truth.

Every second spent in this place—subjected to these waking nightmares—is one less beat my heart is willing to give.

“We all are, no?” he retorts.

I flick another nervous glance over my shoulder. Surprisingly, he takes a step back, allowing me just enough room to step out of the entrance and softly close the door behind me.

A small mercy, yet it means everything to me in this instance.

The warm June air feels like a suffocating blanket at this moment.

“P-please. I'll do anything. I won't tell anyone about this place. About you.”