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  I spread my feet to brace them against the sides of the boat, leaning forward as we slid down a wave, then felt myself leave the bench and slam back down. God, my tits hurt from the constant bouncing. I'm stacked as hell, and I do mean stacked. I'm not saying my tits are my best asset, because I've got a pretty bangin' ass too, but dem titties? Big, juicy, and bouncy. All natural, of course. Which meant that without the support of a bra, they were flopping all over the damn place with every slam of the boat onto the water. I'd have killed for a bra, or even to have my hands free to keep 'em pinned down.

  All the while, the men were talking about me. I heard two voices, one deep and gravelly, as if he had a cement mixer in his voice box. The other had a smoother voice, but his had a more worrisome tone. Calm and quiet, but even though I couldn't understand a word, I could tell he was talking about me. He leaned close every now and then and muttered in my ear. His fingers pinched my nipples, traced my kneecap and up my thigh.

  I fought to keep still: he still had his gun pressed to the base of my skull.

  Let him touch. Let him say whatever filthy bullshit he was saying. Honestly, the fact that it wasn't English made it easier to ignore. I still knew he was talking shit, though, because shit-talk sounds the same in any language.

  And then he dug his hand between my legs, under the hem of my shirt, and jammed his finger against my opening. Which, considering how negligible the thong was, meant he got a good two knuckles deep into me, by virtue of the little patch of fabric over my pussy slipping aside to let his finger in. I kept still, didn't squeeze my legs shut like I wanted.

  I mean, I could have broken his wrist if I'd wanted to--I knew some basic self-defense moves, and a good bit of groundwork I'd learned from an ex-fuck-buddy who was an MMA fighter. He'd shown me how to do leg locks and wrist-breaks and takedowns and shit like that, all courtesy of his black belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Of course, he and I had practiced naked and always ended up doing the nasty on his apartment floor, but I'd learned the moves. Point is, I could have wrapped my leg around his arm, twisted in place, and snapped it like a twig. But with a gun to my head? Nope. Let him cop a feel.

  But then something odd happened: cement mixer voice guy barked something sharp in whatever language they were speaking, and the hand fell away, but not without what sounded like a petulant curse from Groper McDicknuts. We slid up another wave, crested, slammed back down with a wet splash. By now my shirt was absolutely soaked, probably totally see-through, plastered to my skin.

  I'm not shy, not by any means. I've got no problem with nudity under most circumstances. Feed me tequila at a party, and I'm the girl who might end up flashing the room just for kicks. It drives my more straight-laced best friend Kyrie batshit crazy, because she thinks I should have more--I don't know...decency? Prudishness? Concern for my image? Maybe so, but that's not me. I don't give a shit. Tits are tits; you've seen one pair of boobs, you've seen 'em all.

  But what I don't like is having the choice taken away. If I want to flash a roomful of horny drunk dudes, I will. Because shit, if I do, I'm likely to get a good bang out of it, and that's never a loss. But having the choice to cover up taken away, that pisses me off. Not that I could do anything about it under those circumstances, but I was still pissed off about it.

  At least anger gave me something to focus on besides fear and worry.

  Scary-smooth voice whispered something else to me in his language, which I ignored. And then he spoke in English. "Maybe we stop the boat, yes? Have some fun. Yuri, he follows the orders. Me? I think boss won't know difference if we stop and have a quick fuck of you." Something sharp touched my breastbone, right at the apex of the V of my shirt.

  He had a fucking knife to my skin while we were in a boat in the middle of the fucking ocean? Crazy dumbass. I fought fear, fought the urge to scream, to beg. I didn't want to be cut open. I didn't want to "have a quick fuck of me."

  Cement Mixer said something, again short and sharp, a command.

  The knife slid down between my breasts, dull edge to my skin, sharp edge slicing open my shirt. Down, down. The tip nicked the inside of my thigh, and I flinched as it pricked me, loosing a trickle of blood. My shirt flapped open in the wind now, leaving me bare to the air.

  I kept still. Clenched my teeth, shut my eyes inside the black bag over my head. Bit down on the whimper as salt spray stung the knife-prick on my thigh.

  The motor cut out, and Cement Mixer repeated his command, and this time he accompanied it with the distinctive sound of pistol slide being pulled back and released. I knew that sound. Yes, I've hooked up with drug dealers too, and gang-bangers. Even an on-duty detective, once, and he pulled the slide on his piece with the same exact motion as the drug dealers. I can see the movement: arm held out straight, piece tilted at an angle, jerk the slide, and let it go.

  Smooth Voice said something, but it was placating and rebellious at the same time. I felt him move slightly, folding the knife maybe, or sheathing it? I wasn't sure. But then he cupped my boob, gripped it with a hard, cruel grip, laughing. I kept still, ground my teeth together and held my breath.

  BLAM!

  I was splattered with wetness, hot and sticky. Something heavy hit the rubber at my feet, and I smelled iron.

  I kept still. Cement Mixer muttered to himself, grumbling it sounded like. I smelled him as he moved past me, cigarettes and salt spray and body odor. I felt the boat rock, heard him grunt with effort, and then the boat was rocked again violently, followed by a splash.

  I heard velcro ripping, and then something heavy and scratchy was tugged over my sack-covered head and jerked down roughly over my torso, crushing my breasts to my chest. He didn't fasten the vest--his bulletproof body armor, I assumed, and didn't untie me to let me put my arms through. But I was covered.

  "Thank you," I said.

  "Shut the fuck up." He said this angrily, greatly irritated, in accented English.

  "Okay, then."

  The motor coughed to life we set out again, up and down, up and down, for long minutes I couldn't count. We had to have traveled more than a mile at least, judging by how much time had passed. I had no way of judging our speed, but it felt like we were traveling pretty damn fast.

  And then I heard a rumble in the distance, the heavy growl of mammoth diesel engines. The tone of the outboard motor lessened and our speed slackened. The diesel clatter increased in volume until it was directly overhead, and then Cement Mixer cut off our motor and I felt us coast and halt with a bump against the large vessel.

  The boat shifted as Cement Mixer--Yuri, I think he was called--as Yuri leaned over to me and snatched the bag off my head.

  Jesus shits, he was fucking ugly. Thick brows, heavy forehead, high cheekbones, fleshy lips, beady eyes, pox scars dotting his face. But he'd stopped the dead guy from raping me, so I owed him one.

  I glanced up, and saw the other boat. It was a fishing boat, high prow, low stern, cockpit just big enough for one or two people, boom arms and nets and lines hung off the sides. There was a rope ladder tossed over the side, and a number of figures milled around on the deck, several carrying machine guns. Or maybe they were assault rifles. I didn't know the difference, and for real, who the hell cared? Not me, that was for damn sure.

  Yuri moved to sit beside me, reaching down to his waist and producing a long, wicked-looking knife. I tensed, but he moved slowly, watching me.

  "I cut you free," he said in his guttural voice. "Do not move."

  I leaned forward and stretched my arms out behind me, tried to open my wrists as far as the zip-ties would allow. There was a momentary tightening of pressure as he pressed in with the knife, and then the plastic parted and my wrists were free. I kept still, knowing my best plan was to cooperate and wait for an opportunity. Mostly naked on a boat in the middle of the Caribbean, hours before dawn, surrounded by men with machine guns? Not the best time to be stubborn lunatic Layla.

  That time would come, but it wasn't now.

  Yuri gestured
with the knife, stabbing the tip at the rope ladder. "Climb up. No bullshit, or you die."

  I put my arms through the openings of the vest and then slid across the bench to the rope ladder, grabbed a rung, and hauled myself up. Can I just take a moment and point out that this maneuver is not as easy as they make it seem on TV? The fishing boat was riding up and down on the waves, and so was the little black rubber boat I was on, and neither were going up or down at the same time. Plus, I was shaky with fear, and had guns pointed at me. Also, I've never climbed a rope ladder before, and they're not easy to use either.

  And I had to pee.

  So yeah, it was a difficult operation, getting a good grip on the rope ladder, getting a foot on the ladder and not losing my balance. If I fell, I'd probably end up in the water under the boat, which sounded like even less fun than I was having already. But I managed it, and climbed up, up, up, swung a leg over onto the deck, and straightened to face a group of men so hardened, rough-looking, and heavily armed that I almost peed myself. Seriously, each one had a machine gun on his shoulder and most had a pistol too. Several had lit cigarettes hanging from the corners of their mouths.

  They all just stared at me like I was a fish that had sprouted arms and legs and decided to forgo the net and just climb aboard for the slaughter.

  One of the men snarled something I couldn't understand, and Yuri--climbing up behind me--answered with a shrug and few quiet words. The first speaker gestured at me, and Yuri waved out at the water, pointed at me. Explaining what happened with the other guy, I guessed.

  The first speaker, a tall man with a black beard and a red bandana tied over his skull like an actual pirate, stalked over to me and ripped the bulletproof vest off me, and then smirked as he realized I was essentially naked underneath. My shirt was cut open from top to bottom, leaving my front bare for their leisurely perusal. Feigning calm I didn't feel, I slipped my arms out of the arm-holes and rotated the shirt, stuffed my arms back through so I was at least a little less naked in front of a bunch of hard-as-fuck criminals.

  They'd all gotten a gander at my goods, so they were all probably hoping Bandana would take the remnants of my shirt away.

  Bandana held the vest and stared down at me, dark eyes narrowed. "Make no trouble, and I will not let the men molest you. Cause problems, and I will not be so strict with them, you understand me?"

  "What are you going to do with me?" I asked.

  "Take you to the boss."

  "Am I going to be killed?"

  Bandana shrugged. "Probably, but not until he has made his use of you."

  "Do I get clothes?"

  "No. Shut up with the questions." He gestured at Yuri and then to the deck hands, barking an order in their language.

  Yuri grabbed me by the arm and hauled me toward the cabin, then pointed at a ladder leading below the deck. I climbed down, and Yuri followed, jerked open a thick steel door, and shoved me through.

  The room was tiny, barely wide enough to let me stretch out my arms in any direction. It was cold, dark, featureless, and stank of fish. There was nothing in it at all, not even a prison cot.

  And I had to pee.

  Super.

  Kidnapping is fun!

  10

  SAO PAULO

  You really don't know boredom until you've spent countless hours in a featureless ten-by-ten room in the dark, without so much as a fucking bed to sit on. Did I mention it stank like fish? Well, it did. It stank very, very badly of fish. It sure as shit wasn't me stinking like that, because I keep my snatch clean. I mean, you can't let a guy go down on you if you don't keep your shit so fresh and so clean-clean.

  But I digress.

  I'M FUCKING BORED.

  That was my mantra for so long I lost the capacity to think of anything else. There wasn't room to pace, except for maybe a step in either direction. It was pitch black. It was cold. The boat didn't toss me around too badly, but once in while the boat would angle up, sending me sliding backward, and then it would pitch down, sending me forward...over and over and over. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing to brace myself with or against. I tried sitting in each of the four corners, but a pitch or a roll of the boat and I'd be sliding all over the place anyway.

  I was hungry. Thirsty.

  Tired.

  And bored.

  Did I mention bored?

  I'm an active girl. I'm busy from six in the morning to past midnight most days--or I used to be. I'd worked two jobs and gone to school full time, plus I usually found time to swim for an hour every day between classes, and between shifts on the weekends. That was my dirty little secret, that hour of swimming every day. I scheduled my life around it, to be totally honest. I ate horribly, regularly pigging out on bacon cheeseburgers and milkshakes and pizza and boozing it up as often as I could. But, to keep myself from ballooning into a walrus, I swam. Hard. Every day for an hour, I'd do laps at the local pool, back and forth, as hard and fast as I could without stopping. I'd change my stroke every four laps: crawl, breast, back, butterfly. Fuck, those four butterfly laps were a bitch. But they kept me relatively fit. I mean, I'd never be a size four, much less a zero, but I had a pretty firm body for a woman with my build. Genetics did not bless me with anything approaching skinny, which is fine. I'm built like a brick shithouse, and an hour of swimming every day meant great muscle tone, low BMI, and provided a hell of a cardio workout. I just wasn't skinny.

  Again, I digress.

  What was I thinking about?

  Oh yeah, being busy. I never had down time. If I wasn't working, or at school, I was studying, drinking, or fucking.

  And yes, fucking counts as a workout too, especially if you do it right.

  So to go from that to sitting around on Roth's boat all day long, not doing dick? That was a hard adjustment. Fortunately, Roth made sure there was a killer gym on that Caribbean cruise liner he called a "yacht", which I took regular advantage of. No pool, but plenty of exercise equipment, including a rowing machine. I avoid any exercise that involves excessive jostling: I just bounce too much. Running in particular is a special hell for me, so I avoid that. Stair steppers, treadmills, even exercise bikes are things I stay away from. I'll lift weights, row, swim, anything with low or zero impact. No bouncing means no lower back problems from hauling the girls around. No bullshit.

  God, I was so bored I was thinking about exercise? What the fuck?

  Eventually the door scraped open, blinding me with sudden light. I cowered in the corner and hissed, shielding my eyes as a silhouetted figure leaned in, set a tray on the floor, and backed out, closing the door once again.

  I smelled food.

  My stomach went crazy, growling like crazy as I scrambled across the floor toward the tray. I smelled garlic, meat, onions...a gyro, maybe? I did my best blind-person impression, touching everything carefully in an attempt to figure out what was in front of me. Definitely a gyro, plus a bag of chips, and a can of something cold. Really? Was this a prison, or a shopping mall food court? Not that I was complaining. I cracked open the can and sipped at it, tasting cola of some kind. Diet; blech. I normally stayed away from diet soda because the stupid aspartame gave me headaches and diet cola was generally worse for you than regular soda. But beggars can't be choosers, and I was very definitely in a beggar sort of scenario, so I drank the diet. The gyro, now...that shit was delicious. Roasted lamb cut thin, cucumber sauce, some crunchy red onions, tomatoes. I devoured that thing so fast I barely tasted it. The chips were kettle cooked, too.

  A much better meal than I had been expecting as a kidnappee. I was honestly expecting to either not get anything at all, or moldy bread and smelly water. The fucking gyro basket tasted like it was from Athens Coney Island.

  Turns out stuffing yourself that fast after not eating for who knows how long isn't the greatest idea. Talk about sitting heavy in my stomach. It sat like a goddamned gut-bomb.

  Also, I still had to pee.

  *

  After banging on the door for wha
t felt like an hour straight, it jerked open, revealing a very pissed off Yuri.

  "What the fuck you want?" he growled.

  "I have to pee."

  He gestured at the floor. "So pee."

  I scowled at him. "Really, Yuri? I know I'm a prisoner but come on. Let me use a toilet. We're on a fucking boat, where the hell am I going to go?"

  He stared at me in silence. "Fine." He jerked his head and I followed him around the corner and along a low, narrow corridor to a tiny bathroom. "Door open."

  I shrugged, shucked my thong and lifted my shirt, staring at him as I pissed. "You want to watch, then watch. I don't give a shit. I'm warning you, though, it's gonna be a long one. Like, you might need a book."

  The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly, and he grunted in irritation. He didn't want to like me, but he did. Hell, he couldn't help it; I'm a funny gal. But he shut the door, so I decided to take care of some other business while I had the opportunity. Gut-bombs away!

  And as a bonus, I saw a blue Papermate ballpoint pen on the floor in the corner under the sink, long forgotten. The pen is mightier than the sword, right? I mean, I've seen pens used as weapons on TV a bunch of times. Better than nothing.

  Where to hide it, though?

  It wasn't exactly like I had any pockets, so you figure it out.

  And, yes, I rinsed it off first.

  You want to talk about uncomfortable? Jesus. I've now got mad respect for those crazy druggie bitches who smuggle bags of coke up their shit, that's for sure.

  I walked funny on the way back to my cell, but Yuri didn't notice. Or if he did, he didn't think anything of it.