BEAST: A Bad Boy Marine Romance (19 page)

A
NNIE HAMILTON
.

I
N MY DRUG-FUELED HAZE
, I took a chance. The words that I thought, that I knew I wouldn’t have the strength to say overpowered my lips as if they had a mind of their own. I hadn’t uttered my name in years. They’d given me a new one—Star—and a new identity—whore. Analía “Annie” Rose Hamilton—San Diego University’s soccer star, Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority girl, and Bob and Linda’s “perfect” daughter—was dead. Star—heroin addict and prostitute—was barely hanging on to life.

I hobbled over to the sink and brushed my teeth, scrubbing the bitter condom taste out of my mouth. My panties remained scrunched up on the floor, so I pulled them on and slumped back onto the cot. The bell would ring any second and I would have to line back up and greet the next group of men, or face a beating. I reached into my stash to get a quick fix.

What the fuck had I been thinking? For five years, I had lived this life, accepted my fate, and fought the urge to escape. I focused on survival, one day at a time, one man after the next. I knew my family was most certainly still looking for me, desperate to find answers as to what had happened to their princess the morning I had disappeared from the resort. I couldn’t face them knowing what I had done to stay alive, who I had become. Would they accept me? Could I accept myself? And I didn’t know if I would be able to live without the friend who had been there for me over the years. And that friend would never fit in at my parents’ country club or with my sorority sisters. The friend that had held my hand through the beatings, the rapes. My only friend: heroin.

And I held a secret. A secret I would die for. The one light left in my life. And the truth behind my secret was yet another reason I doubted I would ever be accepted back into my former life.

The man who had just been in my room, in my mouth, he had been different. Different than the other men who’d haunted my doors, stuck their dicks inside me, penetrated my body and mind.

He’d asked my name—my
real
name. No one had ever done that.

That man was gorgeous—looked like he had just walked off an action movie set. He wasn’t just another American—no, that man had to be Special Forces. What if he was a Navy SEAL? Would he save me? I grew up in San Diego and would always see them training on the beach, running through the surf carrying logs and boats over their heads, when I was having brunch at the Hotel Del Coronado. They were a cult of masculinity: chiseled, wet and sandy. I could tell by his muscular body, his longer dirty, blond hair, and his scruffy beard. His attitude. He didn’t try to make small talk or make me feel better about myself. He approached me like a job. A job he needed to accomplish. He was the kind of man who could save me. The kind who gave me hope that one day I could escape. And he picked me—I usually got chosen by old European businessmen and crooked Caribbean cops. My first thought when I saw him was maybe my parents had finally located me, and had sent someone to extract me. So, I took a chance. Knowing if my pimp found out I had opened my mouth for anything other than sucking cock, he’d kill me. I’d always thought that by age twenty-three, I’d be married to my college sweetheart, living in Encinitas with my dog and starting my career as a teacher. Maybe I’d be on my honeymoon in paradise, instead of turning tricks for tourists in hell.

I’d risked my life by revealing my identity. And he barely listened to me before he bolted.

I tied the rubber tube around my arm then shoved the needle in my least-bruised vein. The warm, smooth fluid spiked through my body, soothing my soul. My pain stopped and I pretended I wasn’t splayed on this filthy cot. Ten, twenty, thirty seconds of the most intense pleasure, warmth, and joy—the only release I had left in my life. I wrapped my arms around my body to contain my euphoria.

The bell rang. I leapt from the cot. Maybe he had returned? His eyes had given me a glimmer, a glint of warmth. I’d broken my own rules—I looked him in the eyes, I showed him my tattoo and my scar. I did my best to please him, imagined when I was servicing him that he was my boyfriend.

The girlfriend experience.

I’d never done that—I don’t even remember what it’s like to be turned on by a man. And I highly doubted I would ever enjoy sex again—even if I somehow managed to escape from this nightmare.

I returned to the line. Two Middle Eastern men stood there, picking out their victims. One pointed at me. Fuck.

Why me? I’d already pretty much aged out. Men always went for the barely legal girls. My face was now weathered; my eyes were hollow. How could any man get turned on by fucking a corpse? I was a shadow of who I once was. My family wouldn’t even recognize me now. I’m sure I’d be an embarrassment to them—what if they didn’t even want me back?

He followed me back to my tiny room, but I could still sense that beautiful man’s presence. At least he had asked my name.

This guy said something to me but I didn’t understand him. My mom was Mexican-American so I grew up speaking Spanish, a skill that definitely helped me blend in with the other girls. Over the years, I’d learned the nasty words in most languages. As my high school French teacher said, you never knew when you’d have an opportunity to practice your foreign language skills. If she only knew.

He took off my clothes and threw me on the bed. I shoved a condom in his face and luckily for me, he didn’t fight it. I lay back on the cot and closed my eyes, praying it would be over soon.

Each pump, each thrust, each moan, made my skin crawl. His rum-spiked breath blew hot on my neck. Finally, he collapsed on top of me, and I didn’t even have the strength to push him off. After a few torturous minutes, he rolled off me, threw the money on the floor and walked out of the room.

This was my life. How many more men could I take? Once my pimp decided he no longer had use for me, I would be history. He would trade me to another brothel, another island. Or kill me.

No hero was going to sweep in and save me. I had to find a way out of here, back to my life, back to the United States. I was running out of time before Star wiped every piece of Annie away forever.

I knelt by the side of my bed and clasped my hands in prayer. I was Catholic but stopped praying years ago, after all my prayers went unanswered and I endured daily beatings, rapes, torture, and drugging. But this time I wasn’t praying to Mary, the Saints, God, or the Holy Spirit, the Trinity. I was praying to the man with the deep blue eyes and shaggy blond hair. I prayed he was the man I thought he was. I prayed he was capable of what I thought he was. I prayed he would believe me. I prayed he would return and bust me out of this hellhole so I could discover if life was worth living again.

I
ROLLED
OUT OF MY rack the next morning and hit the head to take a piss. A hot shower would’ve been nice, but I had something more important to do.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, black, and went over to our computer and typed in the name she had given me. Annie Hamilton.

The screen lit up—articles, news clips, videos, websites. “American Analía ‘Annie’ Rose Hamilton Vanishes on Spring Break.” There was even a wiki: “The Disappearance of Analía Rose Hamilton.”

Could the drug-addicted prostitute from last night really be America’s missing sweetheart? Maybe she was part of some elaborate con job? A light-skinned prostitute could’ve faked the American accent, learned the story, and used it to bilk johns like me out of cash.

I clicked on the first image—the cover of
People Magazine
. “Vanished without a Trace: Annie Hamilton.” Those deep hazel eyes from last night stared back at me.

Fuck.

Those eyes were about the only part of her, which resembled the girl from last night. She was hardened, despondent, and scared. Those pretty eyes were now encased by dark circles, and had only given a dead stare.

I skimmed the first line; five years ago, just as she’d said. And by all accounts, she was still missing.

After five years, surely she was dead. Yet no trace of her body had ever been found. I remembered hearing about her disappearance, but I was deployed in Iraq at the time so I never knew all the details.

I read the first article. Annie and her boyfriend, Chris Porter, had taken a spring break vacation to the Caribbean. They’d partied until around two a.m. in the nightclub at their resort and multiple guests saw them dancing together. By all accounts, they’d both been extremely intoxicated and a few guests recalled that Chris seemed to be jealous when Annie climbed up on stage to dance with a professional ballroom dancer from the resort. At two thirty a.m., her boyfriend’s key card was used to enter their hotel room, and he swore she was with him. Chris stated the last time he saw her was around five a.m. sitting on the balcony of their suite the morning she went missing. He figured she wanted to get fresh air and watch the sunrise, so he went back to sleep. A few other guests claimed they saw her around six a.m. in the elevator with the dancer. Chris passed a lie detector test and repeatedly insisted on his innocence. The dancer was also questioned but there wasn’t any evidence to hold him. Authorities believed she’d committed suicide, or was killed by her boyfriend after a fight. Despite a FBI search The FBI had conducted a thorough search of the resort and the nearby ocean but no trace of her had ever been found.

Suicide? Doubtful. She was young, hot, in college and in love. Came from money. I guess she could’ve been depressed, but I figured it was a long shot.

As for the boyfriend? I felt bad for the guy. He was a pretty-boy, wealthy surfer from La Jolla who had probably never worked a day in his life. Tan and blond, he looked like one of those guys who sat on the beach smoking weed, laughing at the BUD/S candidates while they were running around carrying logs over their heads during Hell Week. Came from a good family, played water polo at San Diego University. He seemed normal enough, but how did anyone really know how he treated Annie behind closed doors? Maybe he abused her. If he killed her, then he got away with the perfect crime. If he was innocent, his life was ruined from the suspicion and the guilt he must’ve felt not knowing what had happened to her.

I gazed across the ocean from my porthole. The resort was only a mile away. If she had been killed, surely there would’ve been some evidence—blood, clothes, a body. It didn’t add up.

In the weeks, months, and years, which had followed, there’d been a few sightings of Annie on Aruba and on other neighboring Caribbean islands, but nothing ever panned out. Her family had even reportedly hired a former SEAL to find her, but he turned out to be a fraud.

I fucking hated any motherfucker who lied about being a SEAL. It was easy to figure these assholes out—just ask them their SEAL training class number. Not knowing your SEAL training class number is like not knowing your last name.

I still wasn’t convinced yet that the prostitute was who she said she was. I didn’t want to stake my career on a maybe.

I studied a few more websites. Her parents had created
www.findannie.com
.

There were childhood photos, lists of sightings, news articles, and links to television programs.

There was a letter begging for her return posted from Chris with pictures of the happy couple.

Then a photo caught my eye.

The tattoo on her ankle.

That surfboard with an American flag. So that’s why she made sure I saw it. Just in case I was the man she thought I was.

The words of the Navy SEAL Code, our warrior creed, echoed in my head.

F
uck
.

But tattoos can be faked. I needed more.

I clicked on another picture.

Yup—the scar on her shoulder. She’d shown me that also.

My heart beat rapidly in my chest, my jaw clenched.

I needed to see her face again, look into her eyes. That’s the only way I’d know for certain.

Why hadn’t anyone rescued her? She was an American for Christ’s sake!

But this wasn’t a fucking movie. There weren’t FBI and CIA agents on the ground in Aruba searching for kidnapped Americans, especially since there was no proof she had been abducted. Any sightings of her would first be passed to the local police, who were corrupt as fuck. Her parents could’ve hired one of the many private contractor groups filled with former SEALs who did this shit for a living.

She didn’t need a private contractor group—she now had me. I’d trained my entire adult life for missions like this one.

There was a three hundred thousand dollar reward for her safe return. But I didn’t want any money. Giving Annie her life back would be reward enough. If I saved her, I had to remain anonymous. Any hint of an active duty Navy SEAL going rogue would ruin my career on the Teams.

I glanced back at her pictures. Man, she’d been beautiful. Could’ve been my high school sweetheart. She was half Latina, looked almost like a young Wonder Woman. Her black hair had been shiny; her hazel eyes had been bright. A soccer star, a prom queen, a little girl in pigtails. And I had treated her like she was a piece of trash.

Fucking traffickers. Most Americans were completely oblivious to the sex trade. They thought it only happened in third world countries. But girls were kidnapped off the streets in Middle America, and forced to service assholes like me. I wanted her to be just another piece of ass who I could use and forget, but the pain in her eyes reminded me too much of my own hell.

We were headed back to the states tonight. What the fuck was I going to do? Tell my men? Ask my command? It wasn’t that easy. Everyone thinks Navy SEALs are above the law, that we can do whatever we please without any consequences. Like the ridiculous story about one of our snipers who shot and killed two civilian men and wasn’t even brought in for police questioning. Bullshit. There’s protocol, and busting into brothels was way out of our jurisdiction. I’d have to talk to my commanding officer. He’d send me to Captain’s Mast for going to a brothel. Any authorized rescue attempt would have to be cleared with the FBI and CIA. There would be an investigation to see if she was who she said she was. They might set up a sting operation. And the crooked cops in Aruba could tip off her pimp. If her pimp had any inkling of what was going on, he’d probably kill her without a second thought.

I wasn’t going to let that happen.

Were all those prostitutes trafficked? Prostitution was legal here, and I deluded myself to think that at least the women were there willingly. And I couldn’t save everyone in the place. It would cause an international incident; most of them were probably from Eastern Europe or Central and South America. But I’d be damned if I let Annie, or any other American trapped there, spend one more day than they had to in that hellhole. Other men didn’t get why I hadn’t shed a tear when I found out my ex-fiancée had cheated on me. But the national anthem? “The Star Spangled Banner” had me bawling like someone shot my dog. I’d watched my buddies die protecting our country’s freedoms. And I’d lay down my own life before I let some traffickers steal Annie’s.

She was twenty-three now, two years younger than me. She’d spent her entire adult life in a foreign country as a sex slave. I couldn’t even fathom her miserable existence.

E
nough men had used
her and then abandoned her. I wasn’t going to be one of them.

Vic made his way through the tangled maze of hungover SEALs in our sleeping quarters. “Want to get lunch?”

If I flaked on them two days in a row, they’d know I was up to something. “I can’t. I’m going to get a massage.”

Kyle’s head popped up in his rack. “As long as it includes a happy ending, I’m in.”

These men were my best friends—I didn’t want to lie to them. We’d saved each other’s lives more times than I cared to remember.

“No can do, I’m already late. I’ll be back in a bit and we’ll go have a drink before our ship leaves.” I slipped a watch on my wrist and left the ship.

I had to see Annie before they shuffled her to another brothel and I lost the opportunity forever. Tattoos and scars could be faked. I needed to be one hundred percent certain the girl with the hollow eyes really was Annie.

Would the pimp get suspicious if I came back two days in a row? I doubted it. If she had survived five years, she must’ve gained their trust. They probably thought she was so strung out that she wanted dope more than she wanted her old life back. That’s how these lowlifes worked—strip these girls of their identities and leave them with nothing left to fight for.

But she’d told me her name. She trusted me. And I’d walked away from her.

Some hero.

The streets seemed less bright today. I’d actually looked forward to my Team’s mission in the Caribbean waters. Aruba was a better destination than Afghanistan as far as I was concerned. But now I’d rather be roasting in the mountains than investigating the underbelly of paradise.

I stopped by a tourist shop. Purchased some water, snacks, lotion, and a dress for Annie. Also bought her a small necklace, which I placed in my pocket.

The same pimp found me on the street. “Hey, hey. You had good time? Welcome back, my friend.”

I hated the way these vipers called me friend. Did he even know that Annie was a kidnapped American? Often these girls were traded to other pimps, so he might not know her true identity if she kept her cover. Even though he had a gun, I could take this fool in a second, even unarmed. Were there more armed men watching this place? Without my men and my weapons, I couldn’t take any chance of smuggling Annie out.

I followed him back to the brothel. He was about to ring the bell but I stopped him. “I want the same girl I had last night.”

“Star? Sure, sure. How about two girls? I give you a good price.”

I shook my head. “Nope, one will do. ‘Star’ did a good job.”

“What’s in the bag?”

I opened it up. “Some food, water, clothes, lotion. I wanted her to dress up for me and smell good. How much for an extra hour? I’m heading back out to sea tonight.”

He rummaged through the bag, and then squinted his eyes. “I give her to you for two hours free, for your watch.”

I didn’t hesitate to hand it over to him.

His face broke out into a smile. He motioned to me and led me down the hallway, to her door. Then he turned and left, probably to lure the next jerk like me inside.

I paused before I opened the door. There was no going back; I needed to know one way or another if the woman behind this door was Annie Hamilton.