“Copy that.” Carnie takes the lead. He burns off into the desert, and the only thing I can see as I charge after him, an unknown woman clinging onto me for dear life, arms growing tighter and tighter as we go faster, is the red flicker of his taillight.

SOPHIA

I’m going to die.

The cool desert air whips through my hair as we burn the night, ruining the intricate style Ramona created so that I’d be pretty when my new owner came to collect me. My heart is in my throat. I press my cheek into the back of this stranger’s back, and I stare out into the abyssal darkness¸ not seeing anything. Not caring. Practicing at stilling the screaming panic in my head.

This can’t be happening.

This can’t be happening. 

This can’t be happening. 

This is happening. 

This is happening, but it will be okay. 

Everything will be okay. 

Eventually, we come to a highway—god knows how these guys knew which direction to head in—though everything is still pitch black. No streetlights. No other cars. Nothing. I loosen my grip around the guy’s waist, not that I don’t feel like I might be tossed out of my seat any second. The seams in the blacktop make regular thrum, thrum, thrum noises as the motorcycle’s wheels travel over them. I think about jumping.

What are the chances of me seriously damaging myself if I throw myself off this bike? What are the chances of me dying? It’s almost as if the guy in front of me guesses what I’m thinking. The motorcycle speeds up, tearing up the open road, the engine roaring in my ears. No chance I can do it now. I’d be road-kill the second my body hits the ground.

I allow myself the luxury of a few tears as we travel on, on, on into the night. There seems to be no end to this journey. It feels like I’m going to be trapped here on the back of this motorcycle forever, forced to hold onto a man who paid a huge amount of money so he can do god knows what to me. So he can own me. That thought makes me feel sick. My head’s still spinning from where Raphael’s men hit me, which doesn’t help.

I can feel the last reserves of my energy draining from me, my body falling limp, as the sun begins to peek over the horizon. We pass a Winnebago at first light, the driver honking his horn at us in greeting. He obviously hasn’t seen another person on the road for a long time, either. As we pass the souped-up vehicle, I catch a glimpse of the guy behind the wheel—he’s grinning, wearing a bucket hat, the kind people only ever wear on vacation, and there’s a small kid in the front seat beside him. They both look so damned happy, flashing their middleclass smiles at us. I wonder if they can see the terror in my eyes as I whip by them in a blur.

Probably not.

The guy with the glasses on the other motorcycle revs his engine, and suddenly the front wheel is off the ground. He’s pulling a wheelie. I can hear him hollering as my guy pulls forward to catch up with him. Underneath my now very lax grip, I can feel his stomach muscles contracting as he…as he laughs. I hate him. It’s wrong that he should be laughing at the stupid, reckless behavior of his friend after he’s basically just kidnapped me. Tertiary kidnapping—that’s what it was. Raphael first, then that Julio guy, and now this one. I’ve been passed from pillar to post like lost property. The worst part of now being bought and paid for by this new guy is that he’s really good looking. There’s no way he would have a problem getting any girl he wanted, which makes me think scary things. Maybe normal women won’t let him do the things that he wants to do. Maybe his sexual proclivities run so dark that he can only act out his fantasies on people who have no choice in the matter. That could be part of it, too—the sense of power he’d feel as he took something precious from someone who didn’t want to give it.

An hour after we hit the highway, the guys pull into a diner at the side of the road—Harry’s Place. My body is aching from sitting on the back of the motorcycle for so long; my back, my butt, my shoulders, my legs—all of me is throbbing or complaining in one way or another. It hurts even more when the guy kills the engine and makes me get off, my limbs protesting at being straightened out after remaining in one position for so long. The guy swings off the motorcycle and kicks out the stand, letting the heavy machine rest.

I quickly look around, wondering if I should run. Now that it’s light and I can see where we are, that doesn’t seem like a good plan. Arid desert stretches on endlessly in every direction, the landscape without life or vegetation. Orange rocks and dirt forever.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.” I snap my head around. The guy I rode with is standing in front of me, hands in his pockets, mouth pulling up at one side. It’s almost a smile, but not a friendly one. He looks amused. “People die out there without trying very hard. That’s why our good friend Julio built his compound out there. No chance anyone’s gonna stumble across him, if you catch my drift.”

I glare at him, wrapping my arms around my body. This dress is not the kind of thing I want to be wearing on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, with the sun really starting to heat up. I have far too much skin on display, especially since half the skirt was hacked away by a really sharp knife.

The guy standing in front of me tips his head to one side. “We’ll find you something a little more appropriate to wear soon.”

He’s wearing a black  T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and worn-out jeans, white sneakers on his feet. Tattoos cover every available inch of his skin from the shoulders down—colorful sleeves that I only allow my eyes to skim over before quickly looking away. I have no idea what a person like him would consider more appropriate attire for me, but I’m not looking forward to finding out. “Where are you taking me?” I demand.

The other guy, joining us, laughs. “Pissy, ain’t she?” He spits on the floor.

“Seems so.”

I want to get smart with them. I want to ask them if being witness to a murder, kidnapped, assaulted, violated, and sold would make them pissy, but I don’t know much about these people yet. They’ve yet to show me who they are. Whether they’re violent people. They look like violent people.

The one I rode with smirks at me. “I’m Rebel. This is Carnie. We’re taking you back to our clubhouse. If you have any further questions, you can direct them straight to Cade.”

“Who’s Cade?”

Rebel—obviously not the name his parents gave him when he was born—points a thumb over his shoulder. “Cade’s the guy sitting in that Humvee behind me. I believe you’ve already met.”

Sure enough, there is a black Humvee parked in the lot, twenty feet away from where we’re standing. I can’t see much through the dark tint on the windows. The car’s massive—looks like something that belongs in an army convoy, not sitting in a diner’s parking lot. The door opens and a broad guy in a black hoody jumps down from the driver’s side. I don’t recognize him at first, but as he gets closer I see more and more of his face. It’s the guy from the side alley, the one who gave Raphael the bullet. The one who told me to say I was a virgin.

His face is expressionless as he arrives next to Rebel. “Went off without a hitch?” he asks.

“Surprisingly. You got everything prepped?”

Cade nods. “The guys have been warned. We should arrive back early evening or so.”

Rebel nods. “Okay. Don’t let her out of your fucking sight, you hear?”

“You know it.” Cade steps closer to me, and that’s it; I’ve been transferred over to yet another person. Rebel climbs back on his motorcycle and he doesn’t look back. He and Carnie burn off into the early morning without even acknowledging me again. I stare after them, wondering what the hell is going to happen next.