Page 67 of Beast

“What’s in the bag?”

I opened it up. “Some food, water, clothes, lotion. I wanted her to dress up for me and smell good. How much for an extra hour? I’m heading back out to sea tonight.”

He rummaged through the bag, and then squinted his eyes. “I give her to you for two hours free, for your watch.”

I didn’t hesitate to hand it over to him.

His face broke out into a smile. He motioned to me and led me down the hallway, to her door. Then he turned and left, probably to lure the next jerk like me inside.

I paused before I opened the door. There was no going back; I needed to know one way or another if the woman behind this door was Annie Hamilton.

4

Star

MY DOOR SQUEAKED. HAD I missed the bell? I was crashing down so hard that the only rings I’d heard were in my mind. Jose would beat me if I missed line up and then he wouldn’t give me any more dope tomorrow. It was still working hours, and I wouldn’t have a break until well past midnight.

I glanced up from my bed, thinking it was one of the younger girls or maybe even Jose.

But it wasn’t Jose. Or another girl. Or another client.

It was that man.

The bearded man from the other night stood at the door: chest erect, shoulders back, confident, strong, and sexy.

Was he here for another round?

Before I could say a word, he shut the door and put his hand over my mouth. His deep blue eyes darted around the walls, probably scanning to see if there was a camera. He wrinkled his face when his glare hovered over the needles in the trashcan. The stench of my dope wafted through my drug den.

My chin dropped. I’m sure he saw me as nothing more than a heroin-addicted whore. I cowered, embarrassed about who I had become.

He turned his attention back to me. Without saying a word, he knelt beside me and grabbed my ankle, tracing his fingers over my tattoo.

He’d noticed. And my parents had actually once said to me I’d regret getting that tattoo one day. Little had they known this American surfboard might possibly save my life.

He sat on the bed and spoke in a low tone. “Annie, my name is Patrick Walsh—I’m a Navy SEAL. Sorry for running out of here the other night.”

Holy fuck! I was right. He was a SEAL. He’d come back to rescue me.

I gasped. Was I still high? Was this a dream?

My body trembled. I wanted to scream, to cry, to kiss him, but I remained frozen.

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

But he did believe me. He’d come back; no one had ever come back for me. Over the years, a few tourists gave me knowing glances, as if they might have recognized me. One fat American businessman spent so much time staring at my tattoo, I’d been convinced he was going to report seeing me, but that had been over two years ago. This other American, who I’d thought was former military, acted so strange I’d been convinced he’d been sent to save me. But I’d never had the courage to utter my name to any client until the other night.

“Why don’t you start by telling me what happened.” He placed his strong hand on my knee, trying to comfort me.

In an alternate reality, I’d be so wet right now. Fucking a fine-ass Navy SEAL had once been my fantasy. Back in San Diego, I would’ve dropped my panties so fast for this man, begged for him to dominate me, screw me senseless.

These days, being touched revolted me, but his hand was different. Rough and blistered, yet firm and calming.

My lips parted and despite his warm skin, chills radiated through my body. For years, my hope had died. No fairytale ending was in store for me.

I tried to speak but I had lost my voice. Before I could tell him my sob story, tears stained my cheeks. I didn’t want to come down from this high, and for once I wasn’t talking about heroin, I was talking about the high of hope.

Could this man be my hero? The one who could finally break me free and give me back the life that was stolen from me?