“Do you want out of the life? The organization I work for operates a shelter for girls wanting to leave the life. Do you want to leave?” he asked her again.
“Of course I want to leave. But Bledsoe will find me and kill me. I can’t leave. And I’m almost nineteen; places like that don’t take girls over eighteen who are supposed to be able to take care of themselves.”
“We don’t care about your age – you still need out. And as for saying ‘I can’t,’ well, yes you can, if you want.” By now Krystal was pretty sure it was a trick. “You can have a clean bed and clean clothes, and a good breakfast in the morning. Whaddya say?”
Yeah, he was going to take her to a building somewhere, and he and four of his friends were going to rape her; she was pretty sure of it. But for reasons she didn’t understand, she answered, “Yes. I want to go.”
“Well, okay then. Let’s go.”
Once they’d reached the shelter, the man stopped the car. “By the way, I’m Wayne. What’s your name?”
“It’s Krystal.” Not one john had ever asked her what her name was.
“Krystal. That’s a pretty name. Well, this is the place. Let’s go inside, okay?” He came around, opened the door for her, and helped her out of the car.
Stepping inside, Krystal was instantly excited. The building was clean and well-lit, and she could smell some kind of food cooking. That was when she realized she was hungry. Thinking back over the last two days, she couldn’t remember when she’d eaten.
“Let’s get you some clean clothes, let you shower, and we’ll get you something to eat. But I need to know; are you injured in any way? We have a doctor here who can look at you,” Wayne offered.
“Uh, yeah, I hurt. You know – down there.” All of a sudden, Krystal felt shy.
“Then come on and let me show you to the shower, get you some clothes, and we’ll get Dr. Kurt to look you over, okay? He’s a nice guy; you’ll like him.” Wayne led her down the hall, got her some underwear and a bra, plus sweat pants and a tee-shirt, all from a room full of clothing, and, after finding her some athletic shoes, he showed her to the shower. Once she’d finished and dressed, he led her down the hall to an examining room.
Within a few minutes, a man walked in, tall and nice-looking, and stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Dr. Kurt. You’re Krystal?”
“Yeah,” she said, her eyes wary.
“Okay, well, I’m going to let you undress and I’ll do the exam. It’ll only take a minute. Let me know when you’re ready.” Kurt walked out and closed the door behind him.
In fifteen minutes, it was all over, and Kurt pronounced her bruised but otherwise uninjured. She’d thought that as soon as he had her on the table he would probably rape her, but he was very gentle and professional, even using a drape so she wouldn’t be quite so embarrassed. She’d never been examined by a doctor before, and it felt strange for a man to look at her undressed and not abuse her.
Wayne let her choose what she liked of the food in the kitchen, then warmed it in a microwave, and she sat down at one of the dining tables with him to eat a chicken drumstick and some mashed potatoes. They tasted so good that she thought she’d died and gone to heaven.
“We have some things to talk with you about, but that can wait until morning,” Wayne told her. “But basically, you need to come up with a new name for yourself. And if you don’t want to go home to your parents, we’ll have to move you to another state to keep your pimp from being able to find you. Be thinking about what you’d like to be called and where you need to go, and we’ll all talk in the morning.” Krystal didn’t know who “we’ll all” was, but she was willing to find out.
As she snuggled down in the clean sheets on the small bed they’d given her, she thought about the things Wayne had said. She didn’t want to go back home. And she knew what name she’d like to be called: Kelly.
November 2004
“I’m sorry, Miss Markham, but even with your so-called contract, you have no legal claim to anything.” The attorney she’d hired wasn’t good for anything except taking her money.
Gary had been good to her, but he’d been in his sixties when they’d gotten together, and then he’d up and had a fatal heart attack. His kids hated her, and why not? They were older than she was. They saw her as an opportunistic gold digger. She’d loved Gary, they’d had a lifestyle that had suited them both, and it had been good while it lasted. But now that he was gone, she was left with nothing.
Kelly called her friend who was a headhunter and asked for a favor – find her a job, and make it somewhere other than Nashville. She just wanted out of that town. He found her a job in the insurance industry in Louisville, so she started packing. Most people would’ve called a family member or friend to tell them about the move, but Kelly didn’t have anyone to tell. No one knew where she was, and no one cared where she was going, because no one gave a damn about her, hadn’t for a long, long time. The only person who’d seemed to care about her other than Gary was a lady she’d met through a program for alcoholics at a church in New Jersey, but they’d lost touch after she’d moved to Nashville and moved in with Gary.
It had taken her years to start over, then she’d spent eight years with Gary. He’d been a fabulous Dom; she’d never wanted for anything, he’d taken good care of her, and she’d been as devoted as a sub could be. She’d never told him about her past. If he’d asked her to marry him, she would’ve told him, but he hadn’t, so she kept it all to herself. She’d just start over in Louisville. This time she had a leg up; she had a good work history, a nice pair of boobs that Gary had paid for, and some jewelry he’d given her that she could hock. She’d make it in Louisville. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be a damn sight easier than the world she’d grown up in.
PEYTON
July 2006
“I have more, I have more! Don’t knock me down!” Peyton was laughing as the children crowded around him, yelling and jumping. His body armor made it harder to get to the pocket of his shirt, but he dug around and found two more packs of gum. “Here! Let me get it open and everybody can have a piece!” He broke open both packs and passed sticks around. As they took a stick, they ran away to play. In two minutes, every stick of gum was gone. I’ll have to ask the folks to send more, Peyton thought.
“Stokes! We’re not babysitters!” Sergeant Colson yelled at him from across the road. People were everywhere, walking, running, riding bikes. Kandahar was busy in the mornings, the markets open and locals scrambling back and forth, trying to get good deals on the few goods available before they were all gone. The war had severely limited supplies of everything, and if you couldn’t get it early, you probably wouldn’t get it at all.
“Sorry, sarge!” Peyton yelled back, but he’d never stop doing that kind of thing. Children always flocked around him and everyone seemed to like him. The blond, blue-eyed soldier couldn’t look more unlike the people around him, five feet and eight inches with a bodybuilder physique and a sweet, boy-next-door charm. Even though it was obvious he wasn’t a native of the country, he loved the people of Afghanistan and hated the way the Taliban had hijacked their country. His parents had always taught him to remember how he’d feel in any situation and then try to empathize with whoever was in that situation. There wasn’t enough gum in the world to make those kids feel better. Many had lost their parents; a good number of them had wounds of some type.
He checked his weapon; matter of fact, he checked it every five minutes. He’d heard Vietnam vets talk about the Viet Cong, and the Taliban operated in much the same way. Every person he passed on the street was a potential enemy, and you could never be too careful.
A knot of young women stood at the side of the road, speaking rapidly and making lots of hand gestures. When Peyton got close, they moved a little to the side, and he brushed past them. As he did, a man brushed against him from the other side and, a split second later, Peyton heard a thud behind him. He turned to look.
The IED was only ten feet from
him.
Yelling at the top of his lungs, he dove into the cluster of young women, sending them face down in the dirt, and before they could even fall all the way to the ground, Peyton heard the pop. It didn’t sound at all like he thought it would; later, as he thought back, he’d remember that it was an unusual sound, not big, just piercing. A burning sensation hit him like a tsunami, and he screamed over and over and couldn’t stop screaming. He heard Sergeant Colson yelling something, saw others from his unit running and pointing, heard them shouting, but everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, and then it all started getting fuzzy.
About thirty hours later, Peyton woke in a hospital. He’d been flown out almost immediately after the bomb blast, and he hurt all over, at least the back half of his body. It was impossible for him to see what was going on because he was face down on a bed, his face in a donut-shaped cushion lower than his body, almost like the massage tables he’d seen at the salon back home where he’d always gotten his hair cut.
He managed to get his forearms on the table and pushed himself up so he could see. There were other people – soldiers, he assumed – in other beds all over the big room. A nurse looked up, saw him looking around, and made her way over to him. She had to be military, because she looked at the chart on the wall beside his bed and said, “Stokes, lie back down. You need your rest.”
“What happened?” Peyton asked, his voice groggy and hoarse.
“IED. You probably don’t remember. You’re going to be okay. You were lucky; they say it mostly propelled itself up into the air, but it still blew. It sent shrapnel all over your back and gave you quite the concussion, so you need your rest.” She pushed on his shoulder, and he was so weak he couldn’t fight her. “I’m going to ask the doctor to give you some more pain medication.”
In less than ten minutes, Peyton saw someone sitting on the floor, looking up at him through the hole in the face cushion. “Hi, Stokes!” a voice said, and a face popped into his field of vision. “I’m Dr. Klein. I’m taking care of you. Are you in any pain?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Peyton managed, confused and suddenly tired.
“Good. I gave you a little more painkiller. You’ll sleep for awhile.” The physician smiled. “Before you’re back out, do you have any questions?”
“Yeah, how bad . . .”
“Well, the concussion, not so bad. Your back, pretty good, actually, surprisingly so. We’ll be able to roll you over tomorrow. But your leg, not so good.”
“What do you mean?” Peyton didn’t understand. “I can feel my legs, so they can’t be that bad, right? I mean, the left one hurts, especially my foot, but not too bad.”
“That’s phantom pain, Stokes. Your left leg below the knee is gone.”
February 2010
Another rejection letter. Peyton slammed the mailbox door shut and limped back into the house. It was the day he had early classes, so he was hurrying to go when he opened the envelope.
“Did you get anything?” his mother asked, excitement filling her voice.
“Yeah.” Peyton threw the letter on the table. “I’ve gotta go. Class in forty minutes. I’ll see you guys this evening.” He had to go back to physical therapy; his prosthetic just wouldn’t stop rubbing his stump, and someone was going to have to help him. Even though they lived only four blocks from campus, he couldn’t even walk that distance. Trying to get a job in law enforcement was ridiculous; one look at him in an interview and they’d turn him down cold.
He’d gotten through University of Louisville’s criminal justice program in record time. Of course, he’d done it by taking twenty-one hours every semester, but his parents had insisted that he live with them, and he had the money he’d saved while he’d been in the service, so he didn’t have to work. Now it was time to find a job in his field, and that just didn’t seem to be happening. And forget women – none of them wanted an unemployed amputee, so he didn’t even bother to ask. Feeling especially low, he parked the car in the student lot and struggled painfully to walk the half block to class.
As soon as he walked in the door, Professor Augustino stopped him. “Peyton, see me after class, please.” Oh, god, wonder what I’ve done wrong, Peyton thought. It was too close to graduation to screw anything up.
After class, he hung back. When the room was empty, Professor Augustino motioned for Peyton to follow him to his office. Once inside, he closed the door and pointed at a chair for Peyton.
“Gotten any positives?” the professor asked him.
“Not a single one – another rejection this morning.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I got a call from a guy here in Louisville, an attorney, who’s looking to put together a security team to hire out to his clients who need shadowing, protection, whatever. I know it’s not what you had in mind, but it’s a job, and it would give you experience until you can, well, you know.” Professor Augustino smiled at him and tried to look hopeful.
“I’m not kidding myself anymore.” A gloomy look passed over Peyton’s face. “No police department is going to hire me. And I’m still having trouble with my prosthetic. I don’t know what to do at this point.”
“So do you think you might be interested in working with this guy? If you are, I’ll give you his contact information.”
“Yeah, sure, why not? I don’t have any other prospects. Might as well.” Oh, great – a life of following cheating housewives around. He took the contact information and put it in his binder.
“Have a seat, Mr. Stokes. Mind if I call you Peyton?” The tall, blond, muscular attorney pointed to the sofa in his office, and Peyton had a seat.
“No sir, feel free.” Pretty nice digs, he thought. Steve McCoy’s office was big and very tastefully decorated, with what looked like extremely expensive art scattered about here and there. “So, I understand you’re just trying to get this off the ground?”
“Yeah. I have clients who are wealthy and they need protection sometimes; not all of my clients, but a few. They sometimes have, how can I say this delicately, questionable business practices, and they make enemies. That’s where we come in.”
Spectacular – career criminals and mafia moguls. No wonder he has a nice-looking office, Peyton thought. And it wasn’t just the office; it was obvious to Peyton that McCoy knew he was a good-looking man and felt he was somewhat superior to most of the people around him. This was an interesting-looking situation, and Peyton decided maybe this would be a good place to get his feet wet; well, foot wet.
“So, I hear you have a slight difficulty.” McCoy looked at Peyton with a steady eye.
“I have a below-the-knee prosthetic, left leg.” Peyton walked to the side of McCoy’s desk to show him. “I’m having a little trouble with it, but it’ll get worked out, I’m sure. I’ve just got to work with my physical therapist and the orthotist, and it’ll be fine.”
“Well, frankly, I hope so, because I think you’d be great in the field. Until you can get that ironed out, I’ll put you in the office, helping me get everything up and running. There’s a future here for you, if you want it, maybe as a supervisor for the other mercenaries!” McCoy laughed.
“I’d be interested in helping out, especially with startup. I’d really like to help hire the other workers, you know, interviewing and things like that.”
“Good! You know, I like you, Stokes. You seem like an honest guy, and I need that with some of the people I deal with. Plus you were career military and you’re not a kid.” McCoy extended his hand. Peyton took it and shook it firmly. “So, when can you start?”
JOSÉ
February 2010
“The crowd’s getting rowdy, my man. Time to get out there and do your thing.” Jorge slapped José on the shoulder as the younger man rose. José could hear the crowd, stomping their feet and screaming. He’d both looked forward to and dreaded this night, and it was finally here.
José pulled his waist-length, jet black hair back, and Jorge braided it to kee
p it out of the way. He twisted his long goatee into a corkscrew and looked in the mirror. The cut above his right eye was healing nicely; he sure hoped it didn’t get reopened.
They took the last walk down the hallway and when the doors opened, José was floored. There had to be five thousand people there, all for the hottest ticket in cage fighting: José Flores versus Devon White. The federation had been promoting it for months and they’d done a good job – every seat was filled. It might not have been the biggest, most prestigious federation, but the fights he won paid the bills.
The spotlight hit him, and José’s whole demeanor changed. What had been an average guy walking down an average hallway suddenly turned into a raging lion, muscles swelling and tingling. He loved the adrenalin rush he got from the crowd, the music, the cage cuties, all of it.
And then there was the cage.
When the fighters walked in and that gate slammed shut, José always felt more alive than anywhere else. It meant that all the work, all the training, and all the frustration and pain he’d lived with all his life had come down to that one slice of time, and he made the most of it. But tonight would be different.
Two of the men Devon White had fought had died. The guy was enormous, a foot taller than José and tough as a Sherman tank. And he’d made it clear: He wanted to fight José Flores, the only fighter on the circuit that he’d been told might actually kick his ass. In White’s mind, this was a night to make sure everyone knew how tough he was. There would be no smack-talking, no dancing around, just fighting and fighting hard. He wanted to take out Flores in the first five minutes, had to, to make sure everyone knew he was the champ.
When José saw the huge guy, something in his gut turned. This would be the defining moment in his life. If he won this fight, he’d finally know that he’d shown all those assholes who’d beaten him, lied to him, cheated him, and generally treated him like shit, that he was one tough motherfucker and not somebody to be messed with. And he was fucking sick and tired of being messed with.