The first burn seared through her skin as the pain ripped screams from her throat. Still fighting to get free, she was frantic to find she was helpless. Monty, however, was just warming up, taking his time and seeming to enjoy it much more than his disgusting rounds of sex.
Desperately, Charity pleaded with him to stop—begging and crying until her throat was raw and scratchy, and she was barely able to breathe. He only stopped long enough for a string of successive puffs to ratchet up the heat, making each new branding even more intense from the red-hot tip of his cigar.
Two more burns on her hand were just the beginning, and then he added a blade to the mix.
The torture lasted hours, with her night of hell finally ending as he dumped her mutilated body on the side of the road, miles from anywhere.
When she came to in the darkness, Charity dragged herself to her feet and headed numbly toward home, but the details were a little fuzzy. Exhausted and confused, she’d staggered in the direction of the city until a car pulled to a stop beside her.
Scared, she backed away, keeping her head low and letting her hair cover her eyes as she almost refused the ride. Charity wouldn’t look at the driver’s face, or her eyes, but kept her blurred vision fixed on the woman’s clothes. Something about the unicorns on the lady’s scrubs made her feel safe.
Nutjobs can’t possibly like unicorns. Is she a nurse? Will she call the cops?
Hesitant, Charity considered her options, and the driver seemed in no hurry, letting her think it through. Eventually, she relented and got in.
The SUV was comfortably worn in, smelling fresh and sweet from the woman’s perfume or body lotion. Its driver made idle chitchat, but when the first question came out about the hand she held protectively to her chest, Charity’s street-smart instincts kicked into high gear.
Deny.
“I’m fine,” she said softly, more than once, following it with a thank-you to avoid suspicion.
She noticed the soft twang in the woman’s words, its familiar cadence soothing her for a moment before her guard went back up. Kentucky.
A sad smile warmed her face as she thought of her grandmother. Memories of Meemaw were filled with sunny days and laughter, fanciful stories, and butter cookies with sugar crystals sprinkled on top. Gone now, she was buried in a makeshift grave at the foot of a hill Charity would never find again in a million years.
Would her mother know where it was? And let’s be honest, finding her mother would take a hell of a lot longer. She hadn’t seen her mom since she was thirteen.
Overwhelmed by her own sorrow, she shuddered out a breath, missing her grandmother, but no tears fell. She was all cried out.
“Where can I take you?” the woman asked.
Stalling, Charity realized she didn’t want to go home, but where could she go? “You can drop me off near Saint Joseph’s. If that’s not too far out of your way.”
Only then did she notice how raw and quiet her voice was. But the woman didn’t ask again, so she didn’t repeat it, opting to reserve her strength—holding herself together long enough to last a car ride.
Asking to be dropped off almost a mile from her run-down week-to-week motel was crazy, but Charity felt like she had to. She held in the gasps that came with every painful step of the walk there. But if Monty was waiting, she didn’t want anything to happen to her helpful unicorn.
Climbing the flight of stairs to her apartment nearly killed her, the pain causing her to wonder if a rib had cracked when he flung her from the car. But at last, she was home.
From the hole of a space she called the bathroom, the decrepit mirror reflected back her face. Monty left it completely untouched, yet had ensured his mark was everywhere else.
Struggling to see any glimpse of herself behind her swollen red eyes, Charity couldn’t find a trace of the woman she’d been just a few hours ago. Maybe her face being spared was something to be grateful for, but the sight of herself just pissed her off.
It was typical Monty. Leaving her face for later gave her a warning of what would happen if she made trouble. That is, if he let her live at all.
But it was all she wanted to do. Make trouble. And make that motherfucker pay.
Her clenched fists released as fear forced her hand to the mirror. She opened it, relieved to find amongst the orange and white bottles the one she needed now before she made a hasty decision.
Swaying with pain and exhaustion, she stared at the bottle of Klonopin in her hand, thinking. Her overdose was three years ago. It had seemed accidental to the medical staff who had pumped her stomach. She wasn’t suicidal. At least, that was what she’d told herself. And them.
But what happens the next time Monty comes by? Wants to touch me? Fuck me? He’ll kill me if I refuse.
Charity’s gaze traveled down her body. She couldn’t bear to see how bad she was hurt beneath her clothes, and that was reminder enough.
He’ll probably kill me anyway.
Emptying the container into her palm, she enjoyed a small swirl of satisfaction that lifted her rage as she scanned the pills in her hand.
What if I make trouble for that bastard, then beat him to the punch? Do I have enough to do it before he can get to me? How many did I take the last time?
Nodding silently to herself, she dumped the pills back in the bottle. All but two, that is. Tossing them in her mouth, she cupped a handful of water from the tap to chase them down, then headed to collapse, letting herself sink into the illusion of a safe bed and a good night’s sleep.
4
Charity
The bliss of oversleeping was soon overshadowed by fresh memories of the night before. Charity writhed through getting out of bed. Moving any part of her body hurt, and a hot shower made it worse, adding harsh stings to the ache of each cut and burn.
After a breakfast cocktail of painkillers and antidepressants, she headed straight to the heart of Manhattan and the towering obelisk that housed Drake Global Industries.
Of course, security wouldn’t let a beat-up, crazy lady through, so this morning, Charity made sure she looked anything but. Her face was fine. Concealer and some makeup brightened her exhaustion and tamed her puffy eyes.
Her thick blond hair didn’t need much to look elegant and neat. Twisting it into a bun at the nape of her neck was good enough. She could pass for a well-dressed woman with important private business with the head of security. No problem.
Again, those two words flickered through her mind, causing her to wince as she pushed through the clear glass doors.
Sure, women like her didn’t exactly grace the halls of Manhattan skyscrapers—at least, not usually in the early light of day—but Charity could play the part. Black tights covered the welts on her legs. Her short skirt was plain black and more professional than the denim ones she owned. A flowy blouse at least made her look like she was fit to bring someone coffee, and a leopard-print scarf covered the scrapes and bruises on her neck.
Maybe a nobody like her would never have the power or influence to make a motherfucking asshole like Monty pay, but she could at least let someone know what he was up to.
That much I can do before . . .
The little bottle stayed nestled in her purse as she mentally counted the pills she’d seen in her hand yesterday. Subtracting two from this morning’s count, she blew out a relieved exhale. That should be plenty.