Jordan's Shadow Read online

  My body shook from the uncontrollable crying and before I could catch my breath four sets of hands ripped away the only barrier I had, shredding the fabric like it were a simple piece of paper.

  “Fuck me, she’s perfection,” Christian grumbled through his blatant aroused state. I could feel his erection through his slacks rubbing against my thigh.

  It took everything I had to keep my eyes shut, which heightened my sense of sound. I heard the leather of a belt being unbuckled and the sounds of a zipper being dragged down, immediately followed by the swish of pants dropping to the floor. The dip of the bed between my legs made me well aware that Armen was positioning himself to take me.

  This was the moment I realized I had one last chance to fight. Fear overwhelmed my entire being; I began to writhe frantically against the ties that bound me, thrashing wildly against the bed in the desperation that one of my flailing limbs would connect with one of these monsters, but as quickly as I began to fight, the tighter the restraints got, exhausting me, draining what little strength I had left.

  “Please, stop Armen. I won’t say anything. I swear it,” I plead one last time.

  After a few seconds in what I believed was the darkest pit of hell, I finally felt my body shut down. I welcomed the darkness that had been threatening to overcome me. I was aware of everything, yet nothing at the same time. How was that even possible?

  Chapter One

  Jordan

  I woke again from another vivid nightmare. Tonight, it was Armen. I seem to dream in the order of which my attackers took away my life. I can still smell the alcohol and cigar stench of my step-father’s breath as if he were hovering over me right now, pounding into me with his unwelcomed dick while his business associates watched in the shadows, eagerly awaiting their turn.

  Like every nightmare, I wake with my body drenched in sweat and my heart pounding against the confining cages of my chest from fighting off the attacker in my dream. I know I won’t win. I never do. That wasn’t my reality, but I still try to change it.

  “Fuck,” I huff out exhausted. All I want is one night of peace, but that doesn’t come without the assistance of mind-altering solutions. The springs of my second-hand bed squeal from the slightest of movements while I reach for the pills that are sitting atop of my splintered nightstand. Easily popping the caps on each of the three bottles, I toss a few pills into my mouth and wash them down with the remanence of vodka that still remained in my hard water-spotted glass.

  How do you forget the morbid details of your past? You don’t. You just keep reliving it, over, and over. I’ve gone to free therapy groups, but they didn’t help. If anything, they made me feel dirtier than I already felt. Now my body and mind depend on meds and alcohol to function. The combination of the two mixed together numbs me for a little while, which is as close to forgetting as I can get.

  So, here I lay, afraid to fall asleep again, but know I will once the pills kick in. I grab my journal from the top drawer of my nightstand and begin to scribble across the blank page. I find that writing helps me in some small way. Tonight, I write a poem.

  From the journal of Jordan

  Four monsters crippling me from deep within, suffocating my life while fulfilling their sins. I can’t move or breathe when the nightmares fill my head, all I ever wish for is to be dead.

  So many vivid thoughts of just ending it all, giving myself peace from the darkness that falls booze, pills, and a razor blade in hand, I submerge myself into the warmth of my tub, feeling myself drown in what feels like quicksand

  One last chance to fight the horrors of my past, one last chance to shine in the shadows my demons have cast. The question is always what should I do? Will I make the right decision and follow through?

  My overpowering weakness makes me slice down my vein from wrist to mid-forearm as deep as I can go before blood begins to drain and my heart begins to slow. One last glance down at what I have done, the red hued water only confirms that my demons have won.

  ~J

  Many things have gone horribly wrong in my life since being raped seven years ago. I was threatened with my life if I ever breathed a word of what happened to me. Although there was a deep desire to die after that night, I wouldn’t give any of those bastards further satisfaction by taking my own life.

  After an hour of standing in scalding hot water furiously trying to wash away the remnants of each monster that defiled my body, I didn’t know what I was going to do next, because let’s face it, who plans for something like this to happen? I had locked and barricaded myself in my room, but even doing that, I no longer felt safe in my own home.

  When I finally mustered the courage to flee the house, I drove around aimlessly before deciding to go to Max. I knew I was gambling with my life when I made that decision because I had already made up my mind that I was going to confide the horrid nightmare of that evening.

  Max’s demeanor changed instantly. He sat there glaring at me, judging me like I was the monster; no, like I was a dirty whore. The accusations fell quickly from his lips. He accused me of wanting the men. Insinuating that was my intention all along, and the reason I didn’t invite him to stay the night. I was a foolish teenager to believe that Max loved me, because if he did, he would have comforted me instead of insisting I leave and to never speak to him again. With his father running for mayor he didn’t want his family’s name dragged through the mud if word ever got out about what had happened to me. In his eyes it wasn’t rape, it was welcomed sex.

  I left Max’s house crying and broken hearted with absolutely no idea of what my next move would be. I didn’t have any more family and I sure as hell wasn’t going to go to a friend’s house since my friends were Max’s too, so I returned to my house. Things couldn’t get any worse than they already were. Whatever was waiting when I returned, I would take it. Maybe this time one of the men would get off on asphyxiation and would actually kill me. Right now, that was my only hope.

  A sense of relief washed over me when I saw that the demons hadn’t returned; not even Armen. Something aligned in the stars for me so I ran inside grabbing everything I could possibly fit into my tiny Mercedes SL63 AMG roadster and left, never once looking in the rearview mirror.

  After running away, I quickly sold my car to the first person who didn’t want any papers or names, bought an older Honda Accord, and found work as a barista for a small boutique coffee shop towards Studio City, California. My employment with the coffee shop lasted a little over a year. I went to great lengths to keep to myself, not making any friends, but remained polite to the few regulars that tried to make small talk. The job paid enough for my prescription medicine, newly developed alcohol addiction, plus the small roof over my head. I am what therapists call a functional addict. People don’t seem to notice that I’m always high on pills; at least I hoped they didn’t.

  On a chilled November day, after I handed Ms. Jones, a regular at the coffee shop, her venti triple shot Americana, she slid me her business card. It was heavier than any business card I have ever seen and all it had was “Ms. Jones” on the front with a phone number on the back. She winked and said call me.

  This brings me to where I am now; several years later, working as an escort. When Ms. Jones propositioned me with this “career” change I had explained, as cryptic as I could, that my past could make it difficult to perform the duties of an escort. After a few long discussions and her very persuasive “sales” pitch, Ms. Jones finally convinced me that she would never put me in a position where I was uncomfortable and assured me that I would have control over my clientele.

  I know what you’re thinking; why would she choose a profession like this one? Oh, the bitter taste of irony, but the answer is simple; I have a drug addiction that helps me forget my previous life, especially mixed with alcohol. I also learned a long time ago that I have to do whatever it takes in order to support my habits while keeping a roof over my head. My rationalization to my new found “job” was that my being an escort keeps
me from walking the streets like the common prostitute to feed my wicked addictions. I have been fortunate that not every client is looking to get laid. Actually, I only have three clients that I have sex with on a regular basis. To sum it up, I get paid decent money to entertain wealthy men.

  Oddly enough, the men that only use me for the dinner date service makes me feel like my pathetic excuse of a mother; eye candy; an accessory needed to prove status, because apparently if you’re a bit overweight, or slightly unattractive in our close-minded society, a multi-millionaire or billionaire status isn’t shit unless you have a young, hot piece of ass attached to your arm. How much more fucked up can this world possibly get?

  When I first began working for Ms. Jones she had asked on a few occasions if I would be interested in going into pornography, but deep down in my twisted mind I feared that the men who raped me would watch one of these movies, and then come looking for me.

  To say that I have gone through great lengths to hide my past life is an understatement. I buried my true identity as soon as I was legally able to. A year after I ran away I finished high school by testing for my G.E.D. I then legally changed my name to Jordan Smith, disguised my lush golden blonde locks to a deep mocha brown, and my once ocean blue eyes now match my new hair thanks to colored contacts. I didn’t want to be found—ever. I was no longer the same girl Lezleigh Jean Fillmore had been. That care-free girl died years ago and now struggles daily with her tainted past in effort to live for today.

  Taking a deep breath, I finish readying myself for one of my longtime clients who I refer to as “The Shadow”. I don’t know his name and I’ve never seen his face since I’m required to be blindfolded when I’m with him. His driver, Monte, looks like he should be a linebacker, but the fact that he’s a bodyguard, or whatever his actual position is, fits well too. Monte stands well over six feet tall, has a large intimidating build, but he is always polite when he is sent to retrieve me for his boss. Today, the custom-tailored navy blue, pinstriped suit accessorized by a pink and gray plaid tie definitely shows that his boss takes care of him and prefers his employees to be dressed to the nines at all times.

  It doesn’t escape me that The Shadow has more money than he knows what to do with. Whenever a meeting is scheduled, Monte arrives with boxes for me. Enclosed is always a designer outfit that he wants me to wear, along with lingerie, shoes, and matching purse or clutch. Everything combined costs more than most people make in months, including myself. My small closet is jam-packed with Prada, Gucci, Dior, Louboutin, amongst other famous designers. You would think I was the one with money when clearly my mediocre, four hundred square foot apartment screams “hell no”.

  “Miss Smith, Boss would like you to know that you will be flying to meet him this evening,” Monte’s deep voice booms from my too small living room where he sits patiently waiting for me on my slightly used love seat that looks like it’s straining to hold up his massive body. God, I hope it doesn’t give way. That would be embarrassing.

  “Thank you, Monte. I will be sure to take my Dramamine,” I answer back.

  The first time The Shadow had me flown to meet him I got so sick on the flight that I was useless to him. The funny thing was that he wasn’t even angry; he took care of me like I was something more to him than a piece of ass. He was going to pay me but I felt too guilty about taking the money since I didn’t do anything to earn it. During that trip, I quickly learned that I am never to refuse his money and gifts, or I will never be called back.

  I grab the bottle of Dramamine from my medicine cabinet that is lined with narcotics and other drugs of choice, popping two into my mouth, and swallowing them down with a fine glass of merlot that The Shadow had Monte bring for me. I take one last look in the mirror, pleased with the sight before me. The strapless, form fitting, black Christian Dior dress hugs my curves perfectly, making my slender frame look more voluptuous. He paired the dress with red Jimmy Choo stilettos and matching Jimmy Choo clutch. I opted to wear my hair down, pinned to the left side where the subtle waves trickle over my shoulder. My eye make-up is smoky gray, which I don’t know why I bother since, as I stated earlier, I am always blindfolded. For my final touch to complete the look I am going for, I have decided to dress my lips to match my new shoes and purse. I look classically elegant like Vivian with Hannah’s features haunting me. You would never guess I was on my way to be paid for sex. I grab my OxyContin, Valium, and anxiety medicine just in case. I usually never take a client on the anniversary of the day LJ died, but it was him; The Shadow, requesting my presence.

  “You look beautiful as always, Miss Smith,” Monte nods his approval in my direction when I exit my bedroom. “Boss will be very pleased with his latest purchases.”

  “The man has great taste, Monte. I can’t deny that,” I retort, downing the last bit of wine in my glass before placing it in my sink, then allowing Monte to escort me to the limo.

  Once I’m seated comfortably in the stretch limousine, Monte leans forward, handing me my blindfold along with another glass of merlot. The blindfold is black satin and velvet with the word “Precious” elegantly scrawled across the front. One can assume the lettering is actual diamonds in which I allow my imagination to think that I’m worth diamonds and not some cheap rhinestone.

  “Monte, we’ve been doing this every month for what, three years now?”

  “That sounds like a correct assessment, Miss Smith,” he answers.

  “I’ve never asked questions before but I’m curious about one thing, and I know I shouldn’t be because, well because of what I do for a living. I just—,” I’m rambling and quickly notice Monte is losing his patience with my fidgety mumblings. That is one characteristic flaw in him; his patience runs thin.

  “Get to the question, please.” Although he said please, his demand was delivered curtly.

  Scared to continue but even more scared if I don’t, I finally spit out the question that has often plagued my mind. “Does your boss have others, well, you know, like me?”

  Fuck! I should have just made something else up. What was I thinking? Ha! I wasn’t, that’s the fucking problem. Monte’s eyes haven’t left my face and I think for sure he is going to instruct the driver to turn around and take me home. Me and my stupid mouth and poor choice of words has probably cost me my highest paying customer. Just great.

  “Miss Smith, you know I’m not at liberty to discuss my employer but I like you, when you’re not rambling. So, to answer your question, no, Boss only has you.”

  Something inside me is happy with Monte’s answer. I don’t know if his boss is married or some sort of highly publicized figure, and that being the reason I’m blindfolded in his presence, but I don’t care. The time spent with The Shadow is what helps me keep going each month. It’s an added bonus if I’m summoned twice in one month which is on rare occasions. The rest of the ride to the airport was spent in silence; the same held true for the flight as well.

  Once the plane has landed in a private airport, Monte and I then transfer over to a blacked-out SUV. After I get my seatbelt hooked I carefully place my blindfold over my eyes just as I’ve done each time before. The flight was relatively short but the drive seems longer than the normal fifteen to twenty minutes it usually took to get to him. Since I have never been to this location I couldn’t even tell you where I was, but if you asked me if I cared where I was I could honestly answer no, because I will soon be with the man who can play my body like a finely tuned instrument he’s practiced for years. The anticipation alone has wetness coating my lacey thong causing me to shift slightly in my seat.

  The SUV rolls to a stop. All I hear are the vehicle’s doors opening and closing. Voices are muffled outside the window. It’s only a few moments before I hear the door to my right open and a large hand that I know belongs to Monte is guiding me out of the SUV.

  “Watch your step, Miss Smith. The ground beneath your feet is loose gravel. If you prefer, I can carry you to a more stable surface being as you’re we
aring six inch heels,” he offers.

  “If your boss is pressed for time, then I think you should carry me,” I suggest in response.

  Without warning I’m swooped up and cradled to Monte’s chest.

  “He’s not in a rush, Miss Smith, but frankly, you will take too long to cross the driveway,” Monte whispers close to my ear. I hear the gravel crackling beneath his heavy footfall with each step he takes. I try to conceal the smile that wants to break past my lips knowing damn well I was carried due to the lack of his patience.

  My body jostles slightly when I feel Monte ascending stairs. I counted ten steps altogether before hearing a door open, then close. It sounds heavy, solid. Monte’s shoes make a tapping sound while he makes his way further into whatever space we have entered. He slowly sets me down onto a plush cushion to what must belong to either a couch or chair.

  “Miss Smith, when you hear me leave, count to thirty, stand and turn to your left. Boss will be with you shortly,” Monte instructs before walking away.

  I do as I was told. I count to thirty after I hear a door close, stand and turn to my left. I didn’t hear him approach, but I felt his presence before a single word was spoken.

  “Stunning as ever, Miss Smith,” his deep, sexy voice has my body reacting in a way I shouldn’t allow. Goose bumps instantly freckle my skin from his warm breath brushing over the sensitive area at the crook of my neck. He hasn’t touched me yet but I know he will soon. My body anticipates that heated moment of when he can’t help but place his hands on me.

  Although I have yet to see the man who holds my attention this very moment, I can tell you for certain that The Shadow is just about six feet tall. I came to this conclusion based on the fact that I am five foot six and when you add another five to six inches with my stilettos, I can feel his sweet breath brush my lips when greeting me.