The Beasts of Juarez, R.B. Schow [books to read for self improvement .txt] 📗

She could not listen to this, could not hear it, nor could she even begin to understand what was happening to her or what exactly this pervert wanted from her.

“I am going to sell you to the highest bidder, young lady,” he said as if reading her mind. “The man or woman who purchases you will spend a lot of money. When they get you, it is customary to sell your virtue to the ten highest bidders. These men will make you into a woman. After that, they will film you being killed. This is called a snuff film. Copies of the film can be sold over and over again to men and women of distinction, people who understand the value of a secret kept. In other words, I’m going to make you famous.”

Right then she fell to her knees and threw up all over the floor. She expected him to punish her for such an infraction, but instead, he poured a drink of the tequila, lowered it into her face, and said, “You do the honors. Trust me. You’ll like it.”

Sitting up, snot drizzling from her nostrils, her stomach still upset, she took the shot glass with shaky hands. Callie studied the clear liquid for a moment and then she wiped her eyes and tossed it back. She swallowed hard, cringing at the incredible warmth then she let out a long sigh. He was right. The drink went down warm, but the finish was as smooth as it was sweet.

She glanced up, handed him the tiny glass, and watched as he poured another shot. Before enjoying this shot of tequila, however, he stared deeply into her eyes, almost like he was desperate to see the girl she was or all the secrets she kept hidden from him. When she answered his terrifying gaze with a frown, he answered her rebuke by taking a shot. But it wasn’t the tequila he threw back and swallowed with a euphoric sigh. It was her glass of tears. When he was done, when he had sufficiently allowed the taste of her to marinate within him, he chased the drink with a shot of Patrón.

“When you die screaming,” he said with such carnal delight, his voice just as low and unrushed as before, “I will pray that your soul goes to heaven if there is such a place. You do not deserve an eternity with men like me, not after what we’re going to do to you.” When she began to cry again, he leaned down, roughly swiped her tears away, and said, “Save those tears for later, young lady.”

Chapter Fifteen

ATLAS HARGROVE

Atlas didn’t know how many days or nights had passed while he sat in solitary confinement. He was exhausted from being exhausted, his circadian clock was all screwed up having been sleep deprived for God knows how long, and now he was getting just plain aggravated. The meals came and went. He ate them, crapped them out, and then he drank water only to piss in the bucket, go back to working out, sleeping, and eventually to talking to himself. This led to him singing old Lynyrd Skynyrd songs.

He knew the classics by heart—“Sweet Home Alabama,” “Free Bird,” “Simple Man,” and “Tuesday’s Gone.” But he also knew parts of some of the lesser-known tunes. Well, lesser-known in these times. He sang, “The Ballad of Curtis Loew,” “Swamp Music,” and parts of “Call Me The Breeze.”

But then he changed bands and started to sing Credence Clearwater Revival because CCR had some seriously catchy tunes that had long ago been lodged in his mind. For some reason, maybe because he had no other form of stimulus, all of these classics started floating into his mind like a bouquet of balloons some kid let go on a sunny day.

He personally loved “Bad Moon Rising,” “Proud Mary,” and “Susie Q,” but when he got to “Down on the Corner,” he started to get pissed off and something in his brain suffered a spell of glitching. He couldn’t stop singing that song. Even when the guard outside started hitting the metal door with his baton, or whatever, Atlas belted that song out so loud his voice turned gravelly and hoarse, but still, he sang.

Finally, the door opened and a guard said, “If you don’t shut your bitch ass up, the boys and I are going to put you out of our misery.”

Atlas was up in a flash, grabbing the man by the collar even as he backed up and tried to shut the door. His hands were strong, his mind focused on one thing: pull the guard inside the room, beat him to death.

He wrestled the guard inside before other guards could assist. Four elbow strikes to the guard’s mouth and they all heard the sounds of teeth skipping on the cold concrete floor.

Taser darts deployed, sticking in his side, and then he got a taste of lightning. His muscles grabbed hold of his bones, stopping his surge of violence. He toppled over like a plank but the crackling of electricity and the pain didn’t stop. When it finally did stop, he thought he smelled burned flesh but that could also have been his imagination misfiring.

The guards put a beating on him like they’d never done before, yet he was smart. When he could move again, he protected his balls, his fingers, and his teeth. He could deal with bruising, a concussion, or any other number of injuries, but he wanted to keep his teeth, he liked his fingers operational, and no one in their right mind likes getting kicked in the nuts.

When they were done, he rolled over, coughed up so much blood he nearly choked, then said, “Guard.”

No one answered, but he heard movement outside