Mercy's Angels Box Set (Mercy's Angel #1-3) Page 2

  “Ella, I’m leaving now. Marcus is in the den, could you grab his dinner from the oven? It will be ready in fifteen minutes.” I felt her watching me expectantly; my eyes though never left the page before me.

  "Where are you going?" I finally asked. However disillusioned I was with my mother, I still hated it when she was gone. I hated being alone with Marcus.

  “I’m having dinner with Kate, then a movie after. I will be home late.” I still refused to meet her gaze.

  "After I've fixed Marcus' dinner, could I slip down to the mall?" Mother immediately went for her purse; she had no problem throwing money at me for shopping, hell she encouraged it. It was her favorite past time after all. I didn't spend her money the way she would have preferred me too, though. Jeans, sweaters, and sneakers were the extent of my wardrobe; I didn't own a single dress or skirt. Art supplies were my guilty shopping pleasure. Sketchbooks, canvases, charcoal, sometimes I indulged with paint though charcoal was my favorite medium. As long as I was shopping, my mother was happy.

  “I don’t think that will be a problem, but check with Marcus before you leave. Here,” she handed me a credit card.

  “You remember the PIN?” I nodded. It was a card that accessed money from her personal account. Marcus kept a close watch on their spending’s, but somehow mother still managed to keep a little tucked away to accommodate her outrageous shopping demands and my much more conservative ones. She knew Marcus didn’t like me spending his money unless he absolutely had to, and a small part of me clung to the idea that my mother must love me, she was hiding money for me, surely that culminated to some sort of paternal care? As I reached out to take the card, my sleeve slipped up revealing the ugly scar on my wrist. I knew the moment she spotted it, her lips drawing tight with disappointment. You would think the woman who had nurtured me in her womb, given birth to me, fed me and clothed me would know better. I tugged down the cuff of my sleeve, gripping it tightly over the raised scar.

  "Thank you," I murmured trying desperately to hide the bitterness I felt. No, my mother wouldn't know better because she preferred to live with her head in the sand and her tucked and nicked Victoria's Secret draped ass in the air. No, I wouldn't kill myself. I wouldn't give Marcus that satisfaction.

  "Don't stay out long, you know how Marcus gets," warned mother. I ignored her. If anyone around here truly knew how Marcus got it was me, she didn't have a fucking clue. As she turned toward the door, she glanced back over her shoulder. "It's beautiful Ella, Mr. Flannery will love it." I peeked up through my veil of dark hair. For a split second I thought I saw something in my mother's eyes that I had never noticed before…pride. If it were there, it was gone already, hidden behind a heavily caked mask of makeup and indifference.

  Once the door shut again, I breathed out a sigh of relief, sliding the plastic card into my back pocket. Carefully I placed the sketch down and made for the adjoined bathroom to wash the charcoal from the tips of my fingers. Under the harsh white light of the small room, I studied my reflection in the mirror. Marcus always told me I was a sad excuse for a girl, a worthless whore that only abject, drug-addicted boys would dare fuck and right at this moment I had to admit I felt pitiful. My face was okay, I guess. My dark brown eyes hinted the distant Asian ancestry, a throwback on my daddy's side. My hair was dead straight and parted perfectly down the center in a rich chestnut brown that apparently women paid top dollar for. My cheek bones were high, my nose slight and in proportion, my heart shaped lips full. If it weren't for the sullen expression that had become my permanent trademark look, I might have caught the attention of nice boys. Even though I hadn't used drugs in two years, I still looked like a beaten junkie. My skin was pale, too pale. The marks under my eyes so dark they looked like bruises. A bruise on my cheek had faded to an ugly yellow. A white scar about an inch long from where I hit the kitchen table after one of Marcus's hefty blows marred the skin beside my right eye. I didn't even bother to try and hide it under makeup anymore. I just pulled my hair forward like the protective cloak it had become, hiding my scar, the bruises, and the misery. At least the other scars could be hidden under clothes. I might never wear a strapless dress or bathing suit, but that was a small price to pay for my life. One more week and I would be free. I was so close; the anticipation sent my heart into a tailspin.

  With my hands now clean I grabbed my favorite camo jacket and house keys from the dresser. With a deep resounding sigh, I left my room. The house was quiet; it was always quiet. Not like our old home, before Marcus. That house was small and noisy. The floor boards creaked, the doors groaned, the faucets spluttered, and I loved it. Marcus' home was enormous, perfectly orderly and perfectly silent. In the kitchen, I quickly pulled the chicken mignon out of the oven and dished a plate for Marcus. Pouring a glass of his favorite red I made sure the table was neat and presentable before heading for his den. At the closed door I stood a moment, the low dulcet tones of an Italian operetta seeped through the heavy oak. My mind was screaming at me to leave. Just turn and walk away, screw waiting to be eighteen, I was close enough. But he had found me so easily last time. I shuddered at the memory of what had awaited me on my return. One more week, I'd made it this far. Shoulders back and head held high, I knocked.

  "Come in." No hesitation, his voice calm and confident as always. I pushed open the door. The room was subdued, the lights low. Hideous pictures of women in compromising positions decorated the walls. I hated them. Photographic art my ass, Marcus was a sadistic prick. The room stunk of cigars, and it almost made me want to gag. The man himself sat at his desk, his fingers steepled under his chin. His perfect dark hair was cut as stylish as a model from GQ magazine, his suit jacket thrown over the back of a chair. As always his nondescript hazel eyes were cold and calculating as they leisurely examined my body. When Marcus first started dating my mother, for a split second I had considered him handsome, for an older man. Not anymore. I don’t think I had ever met or seen a more revolting human being.

  "Dinner is ready, chicken mignon." I quickly cut to the chase. Marcus frowned, clearly disturbed by something. Shit, what had I done now? He nodded in the direction of something over my shoulder. I glanced around. Fuck. Tom Brennan sat in the leather chase at the back of the room. He was still in his police uniform drinking a tall neck, so I assumed he was not on duty. He was a tall, lean man with a nose too big for his narrow face. He reminded me of a bird and not the pretty colorful kind. More like an ugly vulture. He made my skin crawl. Police should make you feel safe. Tom scared me almost as much as Marcus did.

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize you had company,” I tucked my head down submissively and apologized. Marcus’ grin was as cold and calculating as his cunning eyes.

  “Tom was just leaving.” Tom stood and nodded to Marcus, moving towards the door.

  "I'll call you first thing," he murmured to Marcus, who replied with a nod. Tom grinned at me, a sneaky vindictive grin.

  “Good night Ella,” he crooned in a voice laced with arrogance.

  “Tom,” I whispered, knowing very well if I ignored him Marcus would make me pay. Tom disappeared out the door.

  “I won’t keep you then.” I said more than ready to leave the confines of Marcus’ dark, gloomy office. Marcus seemed to consider this for a moment before shaking his head.

  "Not yet, I think I would like refreshments in here first." His eyes settled on my chest, and I tried my best to ignore his ogling. What the hell did he mean by that?

  "Do you want your dinner served in here?" I took a step backward ready to go fetch his meal and get the fuck away from him.

  “No.” Demanded Marcus in the voice I knew too well. It was calm and controlled and I knew it meant business. It was his you’re-in-for-it-now voice. I glanced nervously at the door, so close I could easily make it before he got to me, but then what? Marcus stood casually and rounded his desk, his movements slow and calculated, like a stalking cat.

  “Would you like me to bring your wine in here?” I tried again, ho
ping he would decide that was a great idea so I could put some distance between us. How I didn’t falter over the words was a miracle. My heart was ready to burst from my skin. I didn’t like the direction things were headed. Marcus shook his head slowly.

  "I'm not hungry for chicken mignon Ella, nor am I thirsty." Oh god, the lustful gaze in his stare told me exactly what he was hungry for. Marcus walked right by me, and I heard the door close, the quiet click of the lock. I could barely breathe, my palms slippery with sweat and somehow I remained perfectly still as I began to think of a way out of here. I hadn't survived the last four years from being stupid. There was nowhere to run, no point in screaming as no one would hear, and I have no doubt Marcus wouldn't let me get close to the phone. Then I felt his hot breath on my neck.

  "If you want to hit me just get it over with," I growled with the barest trace of defiance in my voice. He chuckled, and the sound made my skin crawl.

  "Oh Ella, tonight is about so much more than a beating, and I'm going to take my time. Your mother won't be home for hours." My body grew tense as his words began to take shape and understanding dawned, my focus sharply narrowed in on survival. My eyes darted around the room and settled on the large mahogany desk. Top drawer, left side, he never locked it. The gun sat loaded and ready. I knew it was there; I had found it months ago while sneaking through his office looking for the picture of daddy that he had callously taken away from me. It had been there only a week ago when I decided to check again. Please let it still be there. I would kill the fucker before letting him touch me this way. Marcus' hands crept around my waist, and I trembled under his slimy touch. Slowly his hands rose to my breasts and just as they were about to touch me I pushed hard and broke free. Spinning around I faced the nauseating immoral stare of Marcus.

  "I know you're no virgin Ella. You've been the town whore long enough to have some experience, but tonight, I'm finally going to give you what you need, a real man. No boys in this room Ella, only a man." He thought for a moment. "Maybe I should call Tom back, have you ever had two at once Ella?" He smiled, and anger quickly surged through my body. Motherfucker! All the torment and shit he had put me through over the years and to top it off he was going to rape me, and he was going to ask Tom to join in? Hell no. Determination filled my veins with strength and courage.

  "Fuck that, if you touch me I’ll tell mom. She might turn a blind eye to the beatings but I’m sure she doesn’t want to share you." It's been a long time since I had spoken to Marcus this way. For too long I had been controlled, subjugated, but not anymore. Marcus' eyes widened with shock, and I nearly laughed. What did he truly expect? That I bend over his desk and present myself on a platter? His fist connected with my face before I even realized it was coming. I fell to the floor and felt the blood leaking from my nose down my mouth and chin.

  "Perhaps we will put that filthy mouth to some good use finally," he sneered. I had to get back on my feet, prone as I was on the ground I would be unable to defend myself. With shaky legs, I stood and turned to face him. Top drawer, left side, top drawer, left side, it was my new mantra.

  "If you try to put your dick near my mouth I will bite the fucker off," I growled. Smack. This time I flew back across the desk, hitting the timber so hard it took my breath away. How I stayed conscious, I have no idea. Splayed across the desk on my stomach I felt large hands fumbling at my clothing, pulling with determination at my jeans.

  “Nooooooooooooo!” I screamed kicking and scrambling to get away from him. My fingers groped for the drawer, just a little further. I felt the cold air on my naked skin as Marcus finally pulled my panties away. His smooth, large hands gripped me with force. When I heard his zipper, I thought I might throw up. With all that I could muster, I kicked hard connecting with what I thought was his thigh. The curse words he muttered confirmed that it had hurt. Finding the slight leverage I needed, I was able to reach my hand over the edge of the desk and pull the drawer open just enough. Marcus gripped my hips again, pulling me back towards him. The cold metal under my fingertips was the sweetest touch I had ever felt. Gripping the weapon, I kicked once more.

  "Fucking bitch," he grunted, and I smiled. That one apparently hurt. Marcus released his grip on me for a moment and I was able to roll over.

  The shock on his face was priceless as I held the gun up in front of us, my eyes no doubt filled with maniacal fury.

  “Get the fuck away from me,” I gasped. My face throbbed, but I could easily ignore the pain, my life depended on it, adrenaline surged through my veins. This is what fight or flight felt like, exhilarating! Probably more so because Marcus was about to experience how much of a bitch karma could be…and if anyone was going to deliver that karma, it was going to be me!

  "It isn't loaded you stupid bitch," Marcus growled. It was a week ago, and if he was telling the truth I had no doubt he would be all over me by now. I clicked off the safety and caressed the trigger. Marcus sneered at me backing away, not even attempting to pull up his pants to hide his large dick that was quickly losing its interest in me.

  “You don’t get to touch me anymore Marcus.” I kept the gun steady, pointed directly at his chest. The day I found a loaded weapon in the house I had Googled everything I needed to know about guns. Turn the safety off, place your finger on the trigger and aim for the chest, big area, hard to miss, plenty of vital organs. Marcus snickered.

  "You going to run again, Ella? Remember what happened last time you tried to leave me?" I fumbled with my jeans, pulling them back up over my hips.

  "I'm leaving, and you won't find me this time Marcus. If you try to follow me I will fucking shoot you, I'd rather go to jail than deal with this shit." Marcus stood back, leaving the path to the door clear and I carefully moved to it, gun still steady, eyes watchful and clear. There were no tears for Marcus, not when he beat me, not when he cut me and not now when he tried to rape me. I knew it pissed him off that he couldn't bring me to cry.

  “When I find you, I am going to fuck you, then cut your damn throat and watch you die,” sneered Marcus.

  “You won’t find me,” I breathed heavily, pushing away the pain in my throbbing head.

  "There is nowhere you can hide Ella. I have too many connections, I can find a fucking needle in a haystack if I so wish. I'll even give you a half hour head start. Just enough time to eat my dinner and drink a glass of wine." He smiled that charming smile that fooled everyone except me. I flipped the lock on the door never taking my eyes off Marcus, gun still pointed at his chest as I moved out of the den. Slamming the door shut I turned and ran down the hall, into the foyer, and out the front door. I ran so hard I thought I might throw up and when I finally did I wiped the bile from my mouth and ran some more.

  Reaching the mall I tossed the gun in a garbage can, I really didn’t need the complication of getting caught with it, then I ran for the nearest bathroom. I had this all planned. At home in the back of my wardrobe was a packed bag and the little money I had managed to stash with it. Thank god for my mother's credit card, I would easily pick up what I needed in the mall. The only thing I would miss were my sketches of daddy, hidden in the bottom of my bag where Marcus could not find them. As soon as I was safe I would pick up a sketch book and some charcoal, and I would draw myself a new picture. I would never forget my daddy, a man who could cut his own arm off before hurting me.

  My nose had stopped bleeding, but my eyes had already begun to swell and blacken. I washed up as best I could, zipping up my jacket to hide the blood on my shirt. I turned into the first department store I walked by and bought a backpack, some spare clothing and a bottle of water. There were plenty of stares, I ignored them all, letting my hair hang forward as usual in an attempt to hide my battles. After purchasing the items using mother's credit card I ran to the nearest teller and withdrew one thousand dollars. As I tossed the card in a nearby bin, my eye caught the art supply store, and my heart ached. Later, there was no time for dreams now. For the time being my life was all about survival. Without lo
oking back, I left the mall. I had originally planned to take a bus and head to California. I had always wanted to see the ocean, but right now I just wanted out of this fucking town. I needed to move quickly and put as much distance between myself and Marcus as I could.

  At the bus depot, the lady behind the desk eyed me suspiciously. She had sharp eyes, the kind that didn't miss a thing. She finally asked if I needed a doctor. When I said no, she asked if I needed the police. Oh shit, my heart almost stopped beating. The perceptive woman with strawberry blonde hair in a wiry curl, light brown eyes and a voluptuous body squeezed into a far too tight dress watched me curiously for a moment while I shuffled nervously on my feet.

  “I just need to get out of here, please. Anywhere! Just as long as it’s far from here.” The woman breathed out a deep sigh.

  “You running from the man who did that?" She nodded at my face. I glanced away and tried to bury the tears that threatened to escape. As soon as my gaze returned to those kind, sympathetic eyes I couldn't stop them. A tear escaped, followed by another, then another. In four years, I hadn't shed a tear over the pain Marcus had inflicted on me. Now while this woman looked at me with eyes full of understanding and concern, now my fucking tears came. My throat was so choked up with emotion I couldn’t even speak, so I just nodded.

  “I guess you don’t want him to know where you’re going?" I nodded again. "I've got a sixteen-year-old daughter. If something like this happened to her, I would hope someone would help her out too." I just stared at the woman, unable to speak, unable to do anything but look just as I felt, beaten, physically and emotionally. "Nicky! I'm taking my break. Be back in twenty!" She called out, grabbing her bag and stepping around the counter.