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The tattooed man nodded and grinned, stepping into the trailer. “You want the cash, I want the cunt. What can I say? I’m always horny,” Branson said with a grin.
“How much?” my father called from the couch.
Branson smirked at my father. “Same as always. A hundred. That’s all you get. Don’t get stingy, now.”
Dad grunted and waved a hand. “Shit. Fine. Whatever.” He continued watching TV while I shivered on the floor, staring at my ratty old coloring book. The crayons were mismatched and worn down to nubs.
Maybe if I ignored him, he’d go away.
“Pay up first,” Mom said.
Branson slapped a small stack of twenties into her hand. Mom counted it and then gestured down the hall. “Take her to the back room. Try to keep it quiet this time.”
“Fuck off,” Branson snapped. “I paid for her. I’ll do what I want.”
Mom shrugged and sat next to Dad before lifting the glass meth pipe to her lips and flicking a lighter to life. I almost vomited on the floor when Branson grabbed me by the arm and lifted me. He had a bag in his other hand and shook it at me as we walked down the hall.
“I brought you something nice, Dahlia. Something grand. I want you to wear it. Then you’ll make me feel good. You want to make me feel good, don’t you?”
My lungs wouldn’t work. I knew what was coming. This man came at least once a week. He brought dresses. Made me put them on before he ripped them and tore them from my body. After that, he’d put his thing in my mouth, and then he’d do other things. The dirty thing. The bad thing I tried not to think about.
He led me to the back room and shut the door. He tossed the bag on the bed and gestured to it. “Go ahead, sweetie. You get dressed. Mister Branson will get ready.”
I cried as I pulled the dark red dress from the bag. As I slowly took off my pants, the sound of a zipper being pulled sent an icy shot of fear down my spine. When I turned back, he was naked. My eyes locked on the skeleton man tattooed on his arm. The one where the lady was doing the thing he was going to make me do soon.
The vomit in my throat came up. I leaned over, puking all over the floor, gagging and gasping, and then threw up again. All of my lunch hit the floor with a splatter. Wiping at my mouth, I looked again at the man in the other room. Branson Lander. My blood ran cold.
Chapter 7
My gaze glued to the man in the next room. He kept jerking his arms, trying to pull himself free of the zip ties that held him to the chair. His muscles flexed and bunched into knots as he groaned and bucked at the bindings, muttering curses under his breath. His voice was rough from years of drinking and smoking, the words slurred. That was what set off the goose flesh on my arms, and brought a new wave of nausea. The tattoo could be faked but that voice?
“Good girl. Yeah, you know what Branson likes.”
Scrunching my eyes shut, I internally screamed and tried to fill my mind with a shout that would drown out the memories and nightmares. When the chime went off, I finally opened them again. Without thinking, I grabbed the middle bracelet and slapped it on my arm. Some magnetic lock snapped in place and powered on.
“Thank you, Dahlia,” Sam said. “Please enter the playroom.”
Even though it wasn’t labeled, instinct told me he meant the room Branson was in. I took a single step back, eyes still locked on my old tormentor. There was nothing I wanted less than to go in that room. For a moment, I considered telling Sam that I’d stay and be his prisoner forever as long as I didn’t have to go in there.
Unable to stay still, I paced back and forth in front of the door a few times. Every few seconds, I glanced through the window and shivered at the sight of him. What was I going to do?
Bong. The chime sounded again, but I stayed frozen. A second later, the device on my arm buzzed sharply. I jumped and hissed in pain as I read a message on the little screen: Last Chance. Panic flooded my system, so much my teeth chattered as I forced myself to walk toward the doorway that connected the two rooms.
I opened the door and stepped onto the grate that made up the floor. The faint scent of pine hit me. Cleaning products. Grated floor. Oh, my God.
This close to Branson, my fear jumped to complete terror. Only the dread of what Sam might do to me kept me from collapsing into a puddle on the floor, bawling in horror. It had only been a zap but the memory of what Elise had done to Liam flashed through my mind. The zap was only a minimal beginning.
The creak of the grate must have been audible to Branson. He stopped struggling against his bonds and froze. His hooded head angled toward me.
“Who’s there? Who are you? Why the fuck am I here?” He growled the questions, and I clenched to keep myself from pissing my pants.
Sam erupted from speakers in the room. “Welcome. The man before you is Branson Lander. Age fifty-one. I believe you know him very well.”
“Fuck you!” Branson yelled. “When I get out of here, I’ll beat the fuck outta you.”
Unfazed, Sam went on. “Please verbalize what this man did to you as a child.”
“What?” The word was barely a whisper. My eyes were wide with surprise. He wanted me to talk?
