Tears of Tess (24 page)

Guilt
crushed, pressing me against the floor. By lying to myself, I hurt Brax so
much. A few tears dribbled and I fought the urge to sniff. One thing I knew, if
he still lived, I’d make it a lifelong mission to make it up to him. I’d be the
princess he always wanted, and take care of him, regardless if he couldn’t save
me in Mexico.

Suzette
and Franco started chatting aimlessly about the weather, and I forced myself to
listen, pushing away debilitating thoughts. I couldn’t afford to think about sad
things. I needed to be ready to run. 

Through
the window, hedges and shadowy trees flickered past, rolling hills and farm
land. So quaint and picture perfect, it was hard to believe Q lived amongst
perfect innocence and followed such darkness.

The
twists and turns of the tiny country lanes made nausea swell and I closed my
eyes.

I
didn’t know how long it took, maybe twenty minutes, before the car slowed. Suzette
asked, “Can you pull up on
Rue La Belle
? I won’t be long.”

Franco
grunted in acknowledgement, and after a few turns, we entered a bustling township.
Sounds of chattering voices and traffic thrilled me. So close to being free.

I
dared open my eyes. Pedestrians skirted the car, and cute ancient buildings hovered
in French glory.  

Suzette
climbed out. “
Merci,
Franco
, à plus tard
.” I’ll see you soon.

“I’ll
be back at the car in ten minutes.” His voice rasped. I couldn’t believe my
eyes as Franco locked the door and strode off, swallowed immediately by the
bustling crowd.

I
lay on the floor, sucking greedy breaths in the empty car. I was alone!

Wait
before you run.

My
body shook with the need to flee, but I waited an agonising minute. Slowly, I
unfolded from the floor, reaching to unlock the door. I tried to clamber out
quickly, but my legs cramped and I sprawled in the path of an elderly woman. Pretty
cobblestones bit my ass as I looked up. 

She
frowned, hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder. “
Excusez-moi,”
she
said, inching around, continuing on her way.

I
bounced upright, commanding my limbs to un-atrophy so I could run.

The
busy street looked the epitome of France. Quaint shop signs dangled in front of
wonky buildings with flower baskets and fresh fruit in bushels looking waxy and
delicious in the winter sun. Everything was written in French, and I knew I’d
be lost within a moment. Where the hell was this place? Were we close to Paris?

I
blinked in wonderment. I would never take freedom for granted again. After
being caged for weeks, the breeze on my skin felt foreign; the sun an old
missed friend. My heart flew
. I escaped.

I
didn’t know which way Suzette or Franco went, so kept my eyes trained on the
crowd, dashing fugitively across the road to the green grocer
.

“Bonjour,
ma belle,”
an elderly man said, tilting his head
as I darted past. Rows upon rows of food made my mouth water. Everything was a
burst of sensation, colour—a marvel to my senses.

Being
in a crowd liberated and intoxicated. I never realised how much I needed to be
a part of something. Sure, insecurities of being unwanted stemmed from lack of
parental love, but up till now, I never evaluated how much I thrived at
university. I had friends. Good friends.

My
eyes pricked remembering Fiona, Marion, and Stacey. Women who I’d studied with
and sketched the most far out buildings we could imagine. Tree houses.
Underwater mansions. And yet, they didn’t know me. I never told them what I
wished Brax would do. Even when we shared kinky conversation, I never opened up
and admitted I wanted to be a submissive, just for one night.

My
heart tripped. What would they say if they knew what happened? Would they
understand how disobedient my body had been? How the sexual tension, the
unwanted boiling, crippling need inside made me wet for a man I hated?

It
was so off the realm of normalcy, they’d probably march me straight to the
police for a shrink assessment.

Police.

All
thoughts evaporated. I wasn’t free yet.

I
chose the next building—a cute little one story, with a red chicken on the
front called
Le Coq.
The rooster.

I
paused, hating the thought that Q would hurt Suzette for letting me escape. I
sighed, cursing that I felt loyal to stay, bound by obligation more than ropes
and barcode tattoos. I held my breath, heart winging with terror.

Despite
my fear for Suzette, I pushed open the café door. The little bell above jingled
merrily, reminding I was on my way home. I couldn’t dwell on a breaking friendship
with someone I barely knew. 

Speed
was my friend as I charged to the cashier.

The
soft, pudgy woman behind the counter beamed, “
Bonjour, que puis-je faire
pour vous?”
What can I do for you?

My
mouth became desiccated and I blinked. This was it, no going back. “I’ve been
kidnapped. I need a phone and the police.”

*Heron*

H
er
eyes widened, flying around the establishment as if one of her customers could enlighten
her. Surely, this crazy Aussie chick couldn’t be telling the truth.

My
chest heaved as panic filled. What if she didn’t believe me?

I
looked around, glancing over my shoulder at a spattering of patrons. They
gawked as if I was a chimpanzee escaped from the zoo. The little café would’ve
been homely with its red colour scheme and over saturation of rooster figurines
and posters, but to me it felt hostile. As if any moment, the roosters would
come alive and peck my eyes out for disrupting a leisurely lunch.

I’d
poured my heart out to a stranger and all she could do was stare. 

“Can
I borrow your phone?” My voice wavered; tears threatened. Being so close to
freedom made me jittery.

She
nodded hesitantly, clearly not quite understanding. I spied the phone behind
the counter and snagged it, leaning over a plate of bagels and muffins.

My
hands shook, apprehension tickled my spine. Fingers hovered over the emergency
call buttons, but I couldn’t dial. I needed to hear another voice first.

I
pressed the number I knew by heart and tears burst forth as the call connected.
It rang and rang for an eternity.
Please, pick up. Please, be alive.

The
woman scowled and disappeared into the back of the restaurant, reappearing and dragging
an elderly chef. Both of them wore yellow uniforms with white pinafores, and
the same ‘what the hell’ expression.

I
bounced, waiting for the phone to connect. My time was running out.  

Hi,
you’ve reached Brax Cliffingstone. I’m unable to get to the phone, but you know
the drill. Leave your details, and I’ll get back to you. Or, if it’s life and
death, please contact my girlfriend, Tess, and she’ll help out. Her number: 044-873-4937.
Cheers!

Beep.

Something
snapped in my chest. I hadn’t heard my name in so long. Hearing it in Brax’s
voice robbed my fight, and I shrunk into the tame little girl I’d been before
Mexico, before Q, before I knew what I was capable of.

I
crumbled, sobbing. Brax’s voice resonated around my heart, vibrating with
longing. Why wasn’t he picking up? Was he dead, or just busy? So many questions
and I wouldn’t get answers from a machine.

Sniffing
back tears, I warbled, “Brax, it’s me. I’m—I’m alive. I was sold to a man named
Q. I’m not hurt and I’m on my way home. If you get this message, I’ll be at the
Australian Embassy, hopefully working out passports and things.”

I
sucked in a deep breath. I wanted to tell him so much: how I changed, what I lived
through, but I would never be able to tell him what Q did, as I’d never be able
to hide the sick, messed up desire in my voice. He’d know Q turned me on, even
as I lied that I preferred tameness. I burned that bridge when I showed Brax my
vibrator, asking for more.

Urgency
itched; I had to get off the phone, time tick-tocked away. I could break down
and find myself again once I was home.

“Brax,
if—if I don’t get home, promise me you’ll find a man named Q Mercer in a small
region of France. He has a big house, staff. Tell the police. I love you.”

Tears
streamed anew as I terminated the call, and instantly dialled another number.
The chef, covered in smears of sauce and flour, yanked the phone out of my
grip.

“Hey!”
I glared.

He
shook his head, anger blazing. “You spreading lies. I do not believe—” Eyes
shot past me. The door slammed open, bell clanging with warning.

I
spun in terror.

Oh,
my God. Franco stood in the doorway, eyes bugging out of his head. He froze for
a millisecond before launching into action. Hands flew to his jacket, fumbling
in the inner pocket. What was he looking for? A gun?

I
didn’t mean to find out.

I
ran.

Pushing
past the man and woman, I charged into the kitchen and thanked God for the exit.
The door rocketed open as I slammed it with a shoulder.

The
back street was salvation, and I sprinted with every bit of strength. My sore ankle
yelped as I flew over uneven cobblestones, darting down another alley. I zigged
and zagged, trying to get completely lost, hoping Franco would lose all sense
of direction.

A
grunt and shout obliterated the hope; I ran harder. I couldn’t go back. I
couldn’t. Q would punish me, and I didn’t know how much more my mind could
take. I might never get another chance to escape.

Changing
course, I charged for the main street, exploding from the alley into on-coming
traffic. People scattered as I careened out of control, panting hard, eyes
wild. 

Car
horns blared as I slammed to a halt in the middle of the road. My gaze darted,
trying to find someone,
something
, to save me. I daren’t look behind to
see if Franco was close—my entire body felt hunted. Any moment, a bullet would
tear through my brain, putting me down like the rabid runaway I was.

Battling
useless thoughts, I put all focus into finding a saviour. 

A
car screeched to a halt, missing me by millimetres. My heart catapulted into my
throat as the bumper whispered against my knees.
Shit, am I so willing to
sacrifice death for survival?  

“
Putain
de merde!”
What the hell? The youngish man with browny-red hair opened the
car door, waving an angry hand. “I could’ve killed you!”

I
latched onto his eyes, entreating instincts to say if he could be trusted.
Could he save me? I ran to the driver’s side, and gripped the door with white
fingers. “Please. Take me to the police. I’ve been kidnapped.”

I
looked behind me, expecting to see Franco within grabbing distance. I was an
exposed target, standing in the middle of a blocked road.  

The
guy looked me up and down, nostrils flaring as he ran a nervous hand through
his hair. Brown eyes glazed with confusion, and I suffered a pang of fear. He
wouldn’t help.

I
backed up, bunching muscles to run again.

Just
as I was about to take off, he shouted, “Wait! I take. I take.” He ran around
the front of the car and opened the passenger door.

Hesitation
filled me, looking into the small sedan. Was this a case of jumping out of the
pan and into the fire? 

Who
else do you have to save you?

“Esclave!”

Heart
spurted with terror; I threw myself into the car. “Get in. Get in!” I couldn’t
breathe as Franco fought his way through lingering pedestrians, eyes locked on
me.

The
guy jumped into action and ran to the driver’s seat. He slammed the car into
gear, and we peeled forward with a roar of the engine. Franco slammed the car roof
as we zoomed away, bypassing other cars, and jumping the curb.