57 Cable ties and lost love

**Date = 25 June**
*Never a dull moment.*
**Place = San Francisco (A warehouse)**
*I’d rather not hang out here for too long.*

**POV - Aria**

***WARNING – Graphic content !!!!! Rape - murder !!!***

The room is cold. Not freezer-cold, but the kind that sinks under your skin and settles into your bones like mold — damp, heavy, and wrong.

We are in a storage closet or maybe a utility room. No windows. No lights. Just cracked tiles, an exposed pipe dripping like a metronome for a funeral march, and a rusted, once-blue door with a single slit at the bottom.

It smells like pee, dust, and something that died. The kind of space you can’t scream in without it sounding small. The air is too tight, the light too dull, the walls too white.

I sit on the floor, on top of a very dirty mattress, tied arms wrapped around my knees. I’m sure my mascara flaked, my hair is tangled in what I can only describe as criminal humidity, my toes are freezing through my socks, and my ankles are numb where the cable ties cut into them.

So all and all, I’m not in the best mood.

A scream breaks through the thin walls. Spills into our space like water through a crack in the floor.

Female. Muffled. Raw.

Then the laughter starts.

Men. Three? Maybe four. Their voices blur together. Whooping, cheering, like they are at a bar watching a game. One of them even whistles.

“Make sure you capture this. A nice movie for the boss.”

My blood ice instantly. Not the dramatic kind. The literal kind. My fingertips go numb.

Lee’s head snaps up. His golden eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t say anything.

A second scream, longer this time. Someone is shouting. Defiant, maybe. But then the pitch rises — sharp, panicked, trapped-animal raw.

Followed by something sharp. Not a word. A sound. Guttural. Broken.

The air presses in tighter. The screams cut straight into my spine.

Lee sits next to me on the mattress, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might crack. His cable-tied hands are fists in his lap. His breathing is shallow.

Something cracks. Wood? Metal? Bone? I don’t know.

“Strip, bitch!” There is another sound. A ripping, like fabric tearing.

“Nice tits! Hold her down!”

I swear I hear a zipper. I wish I could cover my ears.

“I’ve never fucked someone famous before.”

The woman wails and howls for help. Help that will never come.

“That’s it, baby. Scream for us.” They have accents. Like cowboys.

It feels like a scene playing on repeat in a hellish loop — a cruel, rhythmic mix of begging and mocking and sounds a person isn’t supposed to make.

“Spread those legs.”

“Fuck. I’m gonna cum.” Laughter. Teasing.

The girl screams again — or someone does. It is hard to tell anymore. There are too many layers to the noise.

Thuds. Grunts. Flesh hitting flesh. A wet sound I can’t name and never want to hear again.

Pain. Panic. Pleasure — the wrong kind.

Lee exhales hard, like he’s been holding it for too long. “They’re not just torturing her,” he says, his voice brittle, splintered glass. “They’re taking turns.”

Lee doesn’t look away from the wall. Doesn’t blink. I don’t want to understand what he means. But I do.

“I want to keep a nipple.”

Something tears. Fabric. Flesh. I don’t know. And I don’t want to guess.

The woman wails so loud I feel it in my teeth.

Someone laughs again. “Let’s see how much she can take before she breaks.”

“I’ll take the ass.”

The cheering gets louder. Rhythmic. As if they are egging each other on. Competing.

The girl’s voice is hoarse now. Her screams drag, lower, sad, sobs choked off by —something.

“Suck it, slut!” I can only imagine what.

Then a new sound. Metallic. Repeated. A slicing noise. The cheering stops. The mood shifts.

“She’s not moving.”

“I’m not done.” A few more thuds. A moan. A zipper.

Then silence. Too much silence. No more screaming. No more laughing.

Just the drip of the pipe. Drip. Drip.

“Gutt her … boss wants the little bastard in this jar.” I feel the bile pushing up my throat. I swallow it back as silently as possible. Don’t want to attract any attention here.

“It looks … weird. Like an alien.” I don’t even want to imagine.

“Now stuff her in the box,” a deep voice hails.

“It’s too small.”

“You know the drill, make her fit.”

And then one final sound. A crunch. The sickening crunch of something soft being crushed, stuffed, shoved.

“I need a shower.”

A lid slams shut. Laughter again. Softer. One of them even hums a jaunty tune as their footsteps walk away.

Lee closes his eyes. “She’s gone.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, try to shut out everything. I want to cry. I want to scream. But mostly I want to throw up.

I sit completely still, tears pouring down my face. No sobbing. Just … leaking. Like my body can’t contain the horror.

“They used her up. Like trash.”

“What’s … in the jar?” I ask, hoping it’s not what I think. But Lee’s face tells me it’s exactly that.

In the dim glow leaking from under the door, I can just barely make out the tension in his shoulders. Too still. Too quiet.

He’s staring at the far wall like this is just an annoying layover and not a kidnapping. As if nothing happened.

“What did you get us into?” I find my voice.

He groans but doesn’t move. “YOU. FOLLOWED. ME. REMEMBER,” he sneers.

“You acted suspiciously! What was I supposed to do, go back to the room and knit?” I’m fucking scared shitless. These people are monsters.

“One can never have too many scarves.” How can he be this calm?

“I can’t even knit, asshole.” I raise my voice. I want him to show fear. I want him to feel something.

“Well, I was trying to fix things. You were where you were not supposed to be.”

“Oh, sorry, my mistake. I forgot secret meetings with Prada-wearing assassins are a totally normal way to fix things!”

“I had her at gunpoint! Had her!!” I open my mouth, but yeah, I don’t have an answer to that. He did. I screwed up. Badly. And because of me, that man got shot, and we got kidnapped.

But I’m still mad, so I lash out.

“This can’t be fixed, Lee!” I shout. “And you’re not the GIRL here … they’re not going to rape YOU!” Will they? I’m panicking. I don’t want to go through what I just heard.

He glares. Those eyes are really offsetting. “You don’t know shit.” He sounds pissed.

Well, I’m more pissed.

“You’re right! I don’t! Because no one tells me squat! All I do is cry over stem cells and unemotional robots, reapply lipstick, and get kidnapped by fashion-forward villains!”

“I don’t think anybody knows exactly how everything fits together,” he drones. “I suppose that’s why we’re all doing the wrong things for the right reasons, at this stage.”

“Huh?” He can be even more confusing than his roommate at times.

He sighs and tilts his head. “Everyone is doing stupid things to protect the ones they love the most.” His eyes find mine. “You followed me. I wanted to fix things. Jackson’s brooding. Enrique’s keeping his distance from you and Leyla.” I gasp. And swallow some spit down the wrong hole.

I cough it back up. Along with the hope I buried. Can he be right?

“You okay?” His voice cracks.

I sniff and wipe my nose against my sleeve.

“No, Lee, I’m in a rusty warehouse that smells like death and piss, and I think my foundation is oxidizing.”

He looks away like he might laugh, but is too angry to allow it.

Is Enrique really trying to protect me? Does that mean he cares?

I snort. It doesn’t matter. It was all for nothing.

We still got kidnapped. Sitting in a little room somewhere dark and cold, above a warehouse filled with broken pallets and wooden crates, undoubtedly stuffed full of illicit things. If this doesn’t scream low-budget mob movie, I don’t know what does.

I glare at Lee again.

“So what do we do?” I ask hopefully.

He chuckles. “What do you think we should do? Scream? Cry? Blink in Morse code?” He’s sarcastic, the twit. I am serious. I need a plan. My mind and body need a plan to not go into full panic mode.

I give him a look. He rolls his eyes. “We wait for Jackson.”

“That’s your plan?” He shrugs.

“You got a better one?” I don’t. I sit quietly and think. About nothing.

“What’s the deal with the bomb threat?” I try to get my mind going.

“They wanted me to bring Luke. I sent Deimos a message to get the boy to safety, and called in a suspicious suitcase at the school to create chaos.” They wanted Luke. Now they have us. So what’s gonna happen now? My heart starts to race.

He looks impossibly calm for someone tied up with zip ties. Legs stretched, hoodie slightly ripped, and a permanent expression of overconfident arrogance fixed on his face.

“Someone tortured someone. Broke someone. Killed someone,” I croak.

“You forgot about the raped someone part,” he interrupts.

“I didn’t forget … I just left it out cause I’m sure it didn’t happen.”

“Great,” he sighs. “So tortured, broke, and killed, you believe … just not rape?”

“I wonder if it’s one someone or more someones. We should have asked her to be more specific.”

Now I release a deep breath. “So this whole thing — all the things we’re going through — is really about revenge?”

Lee turns his head slowly. “Ding-ding-ding. Give the good girl a prize.” Sometimes I really don’t like his attitude.

He exhales, slow and tight. “Okay. Sorry. Yes. It seems we’re in a nutjob revenge fantasy with a psychotic Barbie and a guy who thinks he’s a mafia leader.”

“Maybe he is,” I snub. He’s not the only one who can throw attitude around. He gives me a flat look.

“A mafia leader, I mean. Maybe he really is a mafia leader,” I fold under his gaze. He snorts in response. “This place looks really mafia-ish, don’t you think?” Another snort. He spends way too much time with Jackson.

I stare at him. “You think they are serious?”

“Well, can’t say what Don is, but she’s wearing heels and a trench coat in a warehouse. She’s deadly serious.”

I hug my knees tighter. “Do you think they’ll really … kill any of us? Or even all of us?”

Lee shrugs. “I’m sure Jackson won’t let that happen.” His expression flickers. Barely. But it was there.

That one second where the fearless act cracked. Where the word ‘Jackson’ hit somewhere too close to home.

Could he really be in love with his roommate?

“Someone just got … eh … butchered,” I hiss, “And you don’t sound worried.”

“I AM WORRIED,” he says. “I just don’t waste time showing it to people who’d enjoy it.”

R-i-g-h-t. Like that’s normal.

I rub my fingertips to get the blood flowing again. I need a distraction.

There is a beat of silence. “You’re in love with your roommate, ain’t you?”

He eyeballs me, unblinking.

“Do you really want to know … right now?” he asks coolly.

I hesitate, then shake my head. “No. I just want to get out of here.”

“Good. Then shut up and let me think.”

Lee turns toward the corner of the room where the air vent buzzes faintly. He is already plotting. Already calculating.

There is a noise outside. Footsteps. We both glare at the closed door, holding our breaths — the thought of what might happen choking my lungs.

“Hey!” a woman yells. “My love.” It sounds like Cindy. The footsteps stop. Right on the other side of the door. I can see the shadows of movement through the gap underneath.

And then — heels.

Click, click, click.

“What the hell is going on?” I use a low, subdued voice.

“I have no idea,” Lee whispers back. “But I swear to God, if I get out of this alive, I’m shaving my head and moving to Peru.”

I almost laugh. Almost.

Then I remember we are still tied up in a warehouse, at the mercy of a revengeful psychopath, and probably one wrong word away from death.

“I told you, I don’t fucking love you,” a man sneers. His voice is slow, like molasses poured over a barrel of gunpowder. Thick with a Texan drawl. He sounds deadly.

“I only love HER. Always.” Every word feels stretched, deliberate — like he is tasting it before spitting it back out.

“Yeah, I know. The little princess.” Cindy doesn’t sound happy. “But she doesn’t want you.”

“She will.” I wonder if he’s going to force her. Make her love him. Like a 365 type of thing.

“I can erase her … make you forget …”

There’s a moment of silence. It is as if the whole crumpled building is holding its breath, processing.

I glare at Lee, our eyes lock, tensely like that moment when you see a snake raising its head, poised to strike.

“If you touch her, you will wish you were dead.” He drags out vowels just long enough to unsettle you, turning simple words into quiet threats. A chill runs down my spine that causes my skin to explode with goosebumps.

My spine locks. My throat dries out, but I can’t swallow. Can’t move.

“I am dead!” she screams back, voice splitting in fury and grief all at once. Her words shatter the air, raw and jagged. “I died when my mother died. I died at that party. I died in that car.” Each confession is hurled like a stone, like she’s trying to smash him with her pain.

But he just sneers. Cruel, careless, the kind of sneer that sucks all warmth out of the room.

“Boo-hoo.” His voice slithers with mockery — like he’s already bored with her misery. “Now … take the girl to the boat. Tie up loose ends,” he orders coldly.

Footsteps fade away.

Lee gives me a meaningful look. “He’s not talking about our shoelaces.”

I nod, heart hammering. The woman’s screams are still ringing in my mind. I’m not sure if I should pray to stay alive or pray for a quick death.

Lee fiddles with his tied hands, struggling to get something from his pants. Then he holds out his phone to me.

“In case we get separated,” he whispers very softly. “Keep it hidden and silent. Don’t make any calls. Don’t text. The boys will track it until the battery dies.” I take it with shaking hands and scramble to push it into my bra. Luckily, I opted for comfort over style this morning, picking a sports one. So the phone sits snugly between my breasts.

“It’s recording. Give it to Jackson.” It sounds as if he believes I’m getting out … he’s not.

Someone mumbles at the door. The handle moves.

Cindy walks in, tossing her hair like it has its own aggressive personality. But her frown is rigid. She looks pissed.

I look at her. Really look at her. I want to remember the bitch who looks like an anorexic runway model and a mental breakdown had a love child. She’s not beautiful, not ugly. Like Lady Gaga — sharp cheekbones, platinum hair straightened with precision, eyes lined in heavy kohl, lips slicked in blood-red gloss like the shoes.

I don’t know where she came from, why she is so obsessed with expensive shoes, or how she got the long scar on the side of her neck.

All I know is she has a gun. And issues. And opinions.

“Well. Ain’t love just great?” There’s a unique kind of fear that comes from realizing your life is now in the hands of three crazies — someone who’s already written your eulogy, a witty little man who likes to play with death, and a psychotic man who’s on the edge. Add to the mix the devil on a mission tracking a phone, and you’re way past any Steven Spielberg movie plot.

“What do you want?” I demand.

She smiles sweetly at me. “Nothing from you, honey.” She examines her manicure. “You got lucky when your boyfriend started playing house with that pregnant bimbo. Poor bitch.” Her repetitive vocal pitch trails on with a complete lack of variation in tone, and a fury that is equal parts heartbreaking and terrifying.

“I mean, seriously,” she snaps, whipping her head around. “What is it with men falling for the wrong girls?”

I don’t know what’s worse — being tied up in a dingy warehouse that smells like rust and moldy rage or listening while your captor monologues about her broken heart like a rejected church girl in six-inch heels.

Cindy paces the cracked wooden floor like she owns it. Death in every step. Heels like weapons. Eyes wild enough to make me want to hide under the nearest rock and live there permanently.

I exchange a look with Lee, who is currently muttering under his breath in what I assume is sarcasm for dummies.

My arms are falling asleep, my bladder is whispering death threats, and the person I hate most is pacing in four-figure shoes, ranting about unrequited love.

Cindy doesn’t wait for an answer.

“You know,” she continues softly, “She’s not even that pretty.”

“Who?” Lee asks, “The princess?” Cindy turns her dead brown eyes to him.

“She’s not royalty,” she snaps, eyes blazing, waving her gun like she is hosting a TED Talk for jealous dumped Bond girls. “She’s just a spoiled brat who gets away with everything because she’s her daddy’s only living kid and men think she’s made of fairy dust and broken sob stories.”

Lee raises an eyebrow. “I bet she has perfect cheekbones, though.” I elbow him. Or try to. It looks more like a sad shoulder shrug with intent.

The woman makes a sound that’s rather hard to describe.

Lee chuckles. “You sound like a coyote getting castrated.” Okay … maybe it’s not hard to describe. Not that I know what a being-castrated-coyote sounds like. I wonder if Lee even knows. I fear to ask.

“Shut up,” I hiss, “She’s got a gun.”

“And a bad attitude,” he whispers back. You just can’t win. But I must admit, the boy has balls. Huge, thick-skinned balls of steel.

Cindy’s voice cracks like a whip. “She’s a fantasy. A silk-wrapped, porcelain-faced fantasy he can’t let go of.” She breathes. “I mean … he fucking looks at her photo like she’s the only reason the world keeps spinning, damn bitch.” Her voice trembles in that I-might-murder-a-princess kind of way.

“Meanwhile, I’m the one who gets the jobs done. I’m the one who’s here for him. Helping him with his revenge. Loving him.”

Cindy circles us like a shark. “He carries her stupid necklace in his pocket, like some tragic souvenir of his undying love,” Cindy says, voice suddenly low, eyes glittering. That’s almost romantic. In a creepy way.

Lee mutters under his breath, “This karma-dump is so above our pay grade.” I almost choke trying to swallow my laughter. Damn him.

“Why are you telling us this?” I ask quickly, hoping she didn’t hear my strangled snigger. “We don’t even know these people. We barely know you.”

Cindy squats in front of us, the scent of perfume and rage coiling around her like smoke. “Because love ruins everyone. You should know that. You also lost your man.”

“You think I don’t see the way you flinch every time someone says Amanda’s name like you’re swallowing bleach with a smile?”

Okay. Low blow. Cue the internal meltdown.

She stands up straight and snaps the gun to Lee’s temple. “But you … does your man fancy some other broad?”

“My man?” Lee sounds surprised.

“Yeah, don’t act dumb. Jackson.” She wiggles the gun.

“I guess he fancies plenty … a real man whore that one.” I roll my eyes. Is he trying to get killed?

“So you won’t tell me who he loves?” the woman smiles.

“Have you read his file?” Lee pouts. “He loves no one.”

“Okay … maybe he loves himself a little too much, but —” he adds, but Cindy chips in.

“Well, T-Bone thinks he sees only you …”

Lee’s breath hitches. But he recovers fast, lifting his chin with that usual sarcasm-laced defiance. “I’m very seeable. It’s part of my charm.”

Cindy leans in, eyes sharp. “You think it’s funny? You think he would risk everything for you? That he’d burn down the world for someone who doesn’t even want it?”

Lee doesn’t answer. But I can see Jackson burning down the world. I really can.

“They don’t deserve love. None of them do. Love doesn’t belong to liars and killers. It belongs to the ones who survive.”

Lee exhales, soft and slow. “Holy shit. You should start a podcast.”

“Shut. Up.” Her voice cracks.

Lee swallows. Fear and pain flicker in those sandy eyes.

“Do your friends know your secret?” She gives it another go.

Lee just boldly stares back at her. What secret? That he’s gay? Or in love with Jackson?

“Okay,” Lee mutters. “Might want to pull it back before you pop a blood vessel.”

I look at Lee. Lee looks at the ground.

And I suddenly realize — he’s not smirking anymore.

“You know,” she says softly, “most people think love is brave. I’m starting to think it’s stupid. It brings only pain. Gets you in trouble. Makes you do stupid things. Makes you suffer.”

She stops. Swallows. Then spats, “How far would you go for Jackson, hmm?”

Lee pouts. I blink.

“I’m so tired of love being for the wrong people.”

Silence.

Only the constant drip of water. Somewhere, a pipe hisses, like it is trying to fill in the gap left by our stunned brains.

I gape at her.

Lee says, carefully, “That doesn’t give you the right to destroy them.”

Cindy blinks. “Doesn’t it?” She eyeballs Lee with a pained look.

“Aren’t you doing the same? Bleeding. Lying. Hiding. Killing. Suffering. For love. For Jackson. For your family?”

Lee sits up straighter. Face wiped of any emotion. I’m just lost.

“So why is it a crime when I want to burn the people who killed mine?”

Lee doesn’t respond. He can’t. Neither can I.

Because even with all her craziness, Cindy has just hit a nerve.

Her voice drops to a whisper. “We’re all doing what’s right for ourselves … our loved ones. Our families.”

She steps back.

“I had a life once. I fell in love once. My body was not broken once. I had a family once,” she says. “Now I have nothing.”

“Yeah, life can be a real bitch,” Lee mutters. “Maybe you should sabotage it by taking yours.”

She stares at the blue door for a bit, as if getting her thoughts together. For a moment, I’m sure she’s considering it. But like I said before … luck’s never been on my side.

“Enrique had a choice.” Cindy looks at me. “He ignored it, so we chose for him. He’s on his way to collect what was once his person.” My heart stops. And somersaults. Twice.

Did they do something to Uncle John? Or the girl … was it Mel? I swear my heart stopped for real.

“Jackson’s next.” The gun points at Lee’s temple again. His jaw twitches for a second. He narrows his eyes.

“So what’s the plan, then? Torture his pet? Send a toe in the mail? Post a vague tweet and hope he breaks down emotionally?”

Jackson has a pet? I am sick of being the clueless girl in the horror movie! Why don’t they tell me stuff? Am I that unimportant?

Cindy chuckles. “Oh, darling. I told you before, he’s getting a choice. They all are.” She drops her gun hand to her side. My heart flips back and starts beating again.

Lee’s mouth opens — then closes again.

Cindy leans closer, eyes lit up like a match has been struck behind them.

“He’s just another devil wrapped in tattoos and childhood issues. So I’m going to destroy every last thing he loves. Like he did with me. And my friend.” I gasp. Because if they really plan to break the devil … I have a pretty good idea where they’d aim first …

Lee.

“We’re going to break him,” she whispers. “Piece by piece. Until there’s nothing left but regret and blood. And he will beg us to kill him.”

“Unfortunately, we need you to do that.” She pouts.

“And after him, the rest will follow. Each of them will pray for death.” She plucks out a knife.

The room pulses with silence.

She cuts the cable ties around his ankles. Then she grabs Lee’s arm. “Get up.” He does, and she pulls him to the door.

“Hey, girlfriend,” Lee says, glaring at me in all seriousness. “Seems I’m off to hell and high water. Tell Jackson I believe in him. And to look in my right skate.” Cindy snorts, and they disappear into the shadows. Heels echoing like a countdown.

I am too scared to breathe. Which means, obviously, I start laughing. A weird hiccup-snort escapes me like my lungs had gone rogue. And then I cackle like a whore on crack.

And I think I just peed a little.

A brute walks in and stares at me. “Are you laughing?”

“No!” I lie, cheeks flaming. “That was — um — a trauma response. Nervous system. Chemicals. Biology.”

He tilts his head like he’s deciding whether or not to shoot me based on how annoying I sound. He throws me a bottle of water.

“Drink up.”

The door slams behind him.

I grab the bottle and down it in long gulps.