LUST & MONEY

Chapter One: Deep Trouble

The ugly bastard with the scars creeps me out. I'm used to men leering at me; feeling free to stare at me like I'm some kind of object they think they can buy, but this guy ... this guy is different. The other two seem pretty straightforward. They leer at me, but no more than I'd expect. One of them even tries to hide it a little. Cute, if it weren't for his gun. They all have guns; slung around their shoulders as casually as a woman might carry her bag. Something that's been there so long it's just second nature. Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Except it is for me, and I am hyper aware that everything I say or do has the potential to change the direction my life is about to take.

My wrists and ankles hurt. The rope they used to bind them wasn't the type they stock in Ann Summers.

The scary one breaks away from their conversation and approaches me as the other two move around the yacht. He sits beside me, puts his arm along the top of the seat behind my neck and I feel a shiver run down my spine. The scars. They seem to almost open his face when he smiles. He sees my revulsion and breaks into a big grin, and I think I'm going to vomit.

I wait. He says nothing. He fixes me with a stare and loosens his belt. The yacht starts to move and gradually the shoreline starts to shrink into the background and my world becomes darker. Then I understand where the other two went. I can just make out one of them at the wheel and the other is inside; I can see his shadow move about as he dims the lights in the cabins.

"Where are we going?" I try to keep my voice even, but it cracks slightly and I get annoyed with myself. He may look and smell like something from the Walking Dead, but he's still just a man; and I can control men. At least, I can control ones that want to bed a 22-year old when they have a couple of hours to spend ashore while their wives exhaust their credit shopping. Men with plenty of money and a deep desire to escape the monotony of following orders, to feel like a man again.

This situation may need a rethink. These men have money but they'd rather spend it on guns, which means they can take what they want from me whether I choose to give it or not. The animal beside me hasn't moved, except for turning his head to look down my top. He hasn't noticed anything about my surveillance of the area or my awareness of the situation. Too busy looking at my tits.

Maybe there's one of them I can control.

I quit moving against my bindings and sit still, letting the freak's gaze move where it wants on me. Ignoring him, I watch the other two. We're far enough from land now that the only light is the dim glow of lamps from the cabins. The boat stops and I have to push against the floor to steady myself as it rocks on the ocean. A wave catches the boat and throws it so that I lose my footing and for one horrible moment I find my face pressed against the scarred face of my abductor. He grins.

No one has spoken since they dragged me into this hell. If they think they'll make any money from my mother in return for my safety, they've not thought this through. Unless they want to be paid in Prozac. No; something else going on here. Whatever it is, it seems more personal than a random snatch. I can hear the backwash and the occasional smashing sound of the hull against the water. Then voices. The other two are returning to the deck.

I'm about to find out why I'm here.

The two men stand either side of me; making me acutely aware that my back is to the sea. Bound as I am, I can't swim if I go over and I see from their faces that going overboard is a distinct possibility if I don't prove myself useful.

"What's your name?" the one on my left asks. He's dressed in a navy pea coat and woolen hat. The dark knitted scarf around his neck must be 12 feet long and now I'm aware of the cold biting into me, seeking to take hold within my bones. The blood has stopped flowing through my feet: the pins and needles are stabbing into my soles like a crazed torturers needles.

"Charlotte," I lie, keeping any outward sign of pain to myself.

The one on my right moves fast. Before I can draw breath I feel his hand at my neck. Something cold and hard in his hand presses against me and my face is upwards, staring into the eyes of a psychopath, the knife at my throat keeping me rooted to the spot. He's dressed all in denim, with a black turtleneck. The white of his eyes unnerving in the gathering dusk.

"Charlotte what?"

"Charlotte Tandy," I say, giving him my real surname because I'm taken off guard and I don't have time to think. I'm not stupid enough to hesitate while I think of a fake name. Not in these circumstances.

The denim guy leans in to my face and dips the knife, scratching it slowly across my skin so that I can feel the cut as he moves it around to the base of my skull and down my spine. I shiver, but not from cold. Then I am struggling for breath when he turns the knife and yanks it upwards. He's holding my necklace tight against my throat, playing with my air supply. Just when I think I can't breathe any more, he lowers it.

"Nice necklace. Where'd you get it?" he says. The others remain quiet.

"It was a gift. You can have it if you want," I tell him. Maybe this is just a robbery. I have no idea how much the necklace is worth, but I am guessing it's a lot, if it was worth kidnapping me in public to get at.

It takes me by surprise when all three men break into laughter. There's no joy in the sound; just malice.

"Oh, thank you. Thank you so much," says the one in the pea coat. He flashes white teeth at me in the dark and grabs my hair. He yanks my head forwards and my scalp burns like fire as he pulls against my weight. His other hand snakes to my neck and the necklace breaks from me, peeling at my skin.

"Get him on the phone. She doesn't know anything."

I don't know which one is taking charge because I am leaning forward with my elbows on my knees and I am sobbing. Tears fill my eyes; snot is running down my face and coating my lips; I can't see through the mascara that's running down my face; my scalp is on fire; and my hands and feet don't work any more.

"Throw her overboard."