Blood Slave ( The Nightlife #0)

Blood Slave ( The Nightlife #0) Page 30

At some point in the pain and degradation a woman’s voice filtered in, “Levantate, Esperanza! Tenemos que irnos! Vamos!” Get up Hope! We have to go! Let’s go!

I awoke to a nonstop tirade in Spanish. Someone was cursing, shaking my shoulder. I wanted to sleep, rest, die. I didn’t want to wake up, ever. I wanted to sleep until death could no longer tell the difference, and carried me off to oblivion without pain and suffering.

She wouldn’t let me be. I awoke yelling, “Conchita, let me sleep dammit!”

Chapter 21

Conchita babbled in Spanish, saying ‘oh my God’ over and over interspersed with ‘hurry up’, and ‘let’s go’. The words Arana viene ahorita, vamos! had the most effect on me. Arana was coming, I had to get up. It started to register in my sluggish brain that I’d been untied. My prayers answered.

I read it in her mind. She had called Arana from her cell phone claiming she had a problem with a date. She gave him an address in New Jersey. He would be gone for an hour or two at most, and she had risked much. He’d know she lied. My very stupid, very brave, friend had put her life in jeopardy.

Conchita had a key to his apartment. Since he moved in at the Towers she visited him regularly. He always did prefer the more voluptuous curvy women, and she did his dishes too. He never made a secret of the fact he liked Conchita.

I was so groggy – disoriented. My head pounded, my body had a thousand aches and pains stabbing at me like little knives in all directions. I needed a drink of water so bad. Beneath it all was the ever present craving for the bite. The words of my dream floated to the surface of my mind. Enrique had said, “Querida, I’ll be there soon and all will be as it once was.”

Then it hit me, a need so sharp, so acute, it wiped away all other consideration. Nothing mattered beyond my need for Enrique. I knew with the certainty of walk-on-water religious faith Enrique was here in New York. He left LaGuardia International at this very moment, on his way home. I had to get to him. Above all else I had to get to Enrique now!

My need overrode the pain. My need was stronger than my aching, broken body’s demands for food, water, and rest. I jumped up staggering. Conchita blabbered in a hiss-whisper as if Arana stood in the other room. She helped my shaking hands put on the sweater and jeans I’d worn earlier.

I headed for the door. Enrique awaited me. I couldn’t keep him waiting. I needed him right now! Nothing else mattered. No shoes, no purse, no jacket, no money, I was a complete mess of caked blood and bruises. It didn’t matter. Conchita had enough wits about her to grab my purse that had been discarded in the melee. She followed as I limped–jogged out the door and down the hallway to the elevator.

I could hardly stand to wait for the goddamn elevator to creep its way up to our floor. I pressed the button over and over and over. “Come on, come on, come on mother fucker!”

I bounced on the balls of my feet, ready to bolt, shaking with adrenaline singing through me, an explosion of nervous energy.

One idea burned in my mind blotting out all else. Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go now now now. I clearly saw in my mind’s eye the grid work of streets leading to the Park Avenue penthouse. The most direct route would be the 4/5 Express from 125th Street to 86th Street on the subway. Nothing else could get me there faster. I didn’t have a card – I needed one. Now!

“Give me your MetroCard!”

Conchita flinched away. I must’ve been quite a sight. She actually feared me, thought I’d lost my mind. And she was probably right. I didn’t give a shit what she thought as long as I got that card. I advanced on her.

“Daime tu pinche MetroCard!” I growled like an animal gone feral. She complied, shoving the plastic swipe card in my hand along with my purse.

I’d been so focused on her I failed to notice the thought patterns of the person ascending in the elevator. The door popped open with a click and I turned to find myself face-to-face with Arana. Surprise.

“Aye que cabron!” he exclaimed.

Stupid, stupid Conchita had turned off her cell phone. When he tried to call her, she didn’t answer, and he became suspicious. He had sharp instincts, the main reason he made it this far in life. Had she left her cell on, she could have kept him chasing off in New Jersey for another hour.

It was so unfair. I was so close! Enrique awaited me! I screamed in anguish and launched at him. I had gone off the deep end, a stark raving lunatic. I set on him with desperation and hatred. I clawed, kicked, spit, cussed, screamed, tore at him like an alley cat gone rabid. He couldn’t get a grip on me. I buried my nails in his face, clawing away strips of flesh. He tagged me several times, knocking me down.

I was back up in the blink of an eye, raking at his face and arms viciously. I had him against the wall of the elevator, clawing, biting, screaming. I kneed him in the nuts one-two-three times. I’d gone insane, and I was so strong and fast. He crumpled down to the floor groaning in agony. I dug into his face with my claws. He tried to block me, so I kneed him in the nuts again and again. That mother-fucker was never gonna hurt me again with his little five inch cock, and he definitely wouldn’t ever have children.

It was his turn to puke on himself. I put every ounce of strength I had into a wicked barrage of knees in his nuts, alternating with rakes to his face. He seemed a helpless child beneath me. Where was the powerful rapist-torturer who made my life hell for two days? On the floor puking and crying as I fucked his whole world up.

I tore into his face and eyes with a vengeance born of madness. I sat on top of him, straddling his torso as I clawed his face off mercilessly. My nails broke off in his face. I kept on going, tearing his eyes to shreds, screaming all the while.

He squealed and grunted, flailing at me, but there was no containing my madness. I had him down, beat, blinded, defeated. I owned his ass.

Conchita had disappeared somewhere back in the hallway. Good for her. I continued to rake on his face till the elevator door clicked open on the ground floor. The click sound was my gunshot to start the hundred yard dash. I was up and out the door shoving past the Latinos waiting for the elevator. They fell out the way as I blasted through them. Those who saw me coming shied away.

I had one thought. Enrique now now now! I had to get to Enrique! He was waiting for me at home! I left Arana behind. I had no more time to devote to his destruction. Not my priority.

I ran. I ran like an Olympic gold medalist from Hellenic Greece, barefoot and determined to get to my destination at all costs. I ran like I have never run before. I never knew it was possible to run so damn fast. I was free – unobstructed. My need drove me like a whip at my back. I ran flat out, strength and adrenaline coursing through me as I flew to the 125th Street subway station.

I hit the subway and ran down the stairs. Somehow I’d retained Conchita’s MetroCard in my pants pocket, but my purse was gone. My adrenaline-saturated hands shook as I tried to align the swipe card with the terminal. I cursed in three languages as I swiped the damn card over and over. My gore-covered hands left blood smears all over the swipe terminal after having swiped the card six times. It let me through.

Inside the subway tram I was still going full blast, but nowhere to go. Adrenaline and need permeated every cell in my body. My bloodied hands clenched and shook, my whole body jittered, vibrated with the undeniable need to go, go, go, now, now, now.

I babbled on and on about Enrique. People stared, whispered, pointed. They looked at me with disgust and fear as I paced up and down the tram cars. I went from one car to the next to hit the end, then turned around and paced back the other way, only to repeat the process again at the other end. I didn’t give a shit what people thought or said. I looked at the face in the reflection of the windows. Hope was gone. She’d been replaced with a bloody, bruised, madwoman with insane eyes. The madwoman chanted over and over, “Enrique’s home, Enrique’s home.”

Children shied away from me to hide in their mother’s embrace. Parents gave me wary, hostile looks as I paced and chanted my little ditty over and over. From their perspective I was the walking dead, something out of a zombie movie.

At the 86th Street station I exited the tram running flat out, shoving past everyone, careening off the walls, skidding around the corners. I hit the stairs descending two or three at a time, knocking people out of the way screaming, “Enrique’s home! Enrique’s home!”

A NYPD officer must’ve seen me coming through the crowd exiting the subway onto the street. He was ready for me by the time I reached him. The fool tried to grab me. We both ended up in a tumble on the sidewalk. He didn’t want to let go. I’m sure I broke a couple toes and fingers in the fall, but I was oblivious to everything but my need. As we rolled around, the cop ended up on top trying to hold me down and call for backup on a shoulder-mounted radio mic. When his hand went to the mic releasing his grip, I nailed him in the face. His head snapped back and I exploded off the ground throwing him to the side like a blowup doll. He tumbled into a group of bystanders and I was up and off, unstoppable. A gold-medal Olympic runner couldn’t keep up with me.

I sprinted the mile to the Clementine building where Enrique awaited my arrival. It took me all of a few seconds to get there. I never knew I could run so damn fast. I barreled into the parking garage right past the security gatehouse, vaulted the yellow and black striped security bar and made a beeline for the residents-only elevator.

“6627, 6627, 6627, 6627.” I chanted as I punched in the passcode on the elevator three times. My bloody busted up fingers, slick and unsteady, couldn’t get the code right until the third attempt. Third times a charm.

The security guard from the gatehouse finally caught up to me as the elevator door opened. He was huffing and puffing so bad he could barely speak. “Stop! ... Stop! ... Right … There!”

I couldn’t let him stop me. I was sooo close. Enrique awaited me at the top of the elevator. I executed a text-book perfect step-behind side-kick straight to his face as he jogged right into it. I retracted my leg just in time for the elevator door to close, sending me straight up to the penthouse. My cardio kickboxing instructor Jean Paul would’ve been proud to witness my flawless form and the wicked speed and power behind my kick. It’s amazing the things we are capable of in extreme situations.