My Valentine

Chapter 2

When I woke, the world was a blur of pain and stench. My cheek throbbed where Spin had struck me, and the air was thick with the sour reek of mildew and neglect. I was in a tiny, filthy room, its walls stained with grime, a rusted toilet squatting in the corner like an insult. The single bed sagged under a threadbare blanket, and the only light came from a flickering bulb that buzzed like a dying insect. I curled into myself, my body aching, my mind reeling from Eric’s betrayal. He’d sold me—traded me like a pawn to clear his debt to the Aspires. And now I was here, trapped in this hellhole, waiting for whatever came next.

The door slammed open with a bang that made my heart lurch. Spin strode in, his scar twisting as an evil smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. He carried a tray of what looked like food—gray, congealed slop—and dropped it on the bed. I shrank back, my pulse racing. He grabbed my hair, yanking so hard I thought I’d pass out again, his grip like a vice. “Eat your food,” he growled, his voice dripping with malice, a devilish edge that chilled my bones. I forced down the slop, gagging on its metallic taste, knowing refusal would mean another beating.

For weeks, I was a prisoner in that smelly cage. Every few days, the door would creak open, and strange men would file in—hard-faced, scary-looking types with eyes that stripped me bare. They’d circle me, sizing me up like livestock, their voices low and crude. “Too skinny,” one would mutter. “Not my type,” another would sneer. I wasn’t their preference, and I thanked whatever luck I had left for that. But relief came at a cost. Each rejection earned me a fist, a kick, a slap—punishment for not being what they wanted. My body became a canvas of bruises, hidden under the same long sleeves I’d worn to cover Eric’s marks. I stopped counting the days, stopped hoping. All I could do was survive.

Then, one day, everything shattered. A loud bang echoed outside, followed by the sharp crack of gunshots. I froze, my heart hammering, and dove beside the bed, covering my ears as if that could block out the chaos. The door burst open with another deafening crash, and Spin rushed in, his face wild, his 421MI gun gleaming in the dim light. He pointed it at my head, his finger twitching on the trigger. My eyes watered, my life flashing before me—Kentucky’s dust, Tommy’s broken body, Eric’s belt, this room. I thought, This is it. This is where my pathetic life ends. I wasn’t religious, but in that moment, I prayed for a second chance, a whisper of hope in a world that had never given me any.

A husky voice cut through the haze. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Spin.”

Spin spun around and dropped to his knees, shaking like a leaf. I’d never seen him scared—never thought a man like him could be. A figure stepped into the room, and a brim of light from the hallway caught his face, making him look like a Greek god from some romantic movie I’d never had the chance to watch. He was tall, impossibly so, with a cold, unreadable poker face that betrayed no emotion. His features were sharp—a pointed nose at the perfect angle, sunken eyes that seemed to smile without warmth, medium lips a perfect beige-pink. His tan suit hugged every angle of his body, tailored to perfection, and his posture was flawless, commanding the room without a word. In all my life, even on what I thought was my deathbed, I’d never seen a man so handsome. I couldn’t stop staring, my fear momentarily drowned by awe.

Spin’s voice snapped me back. “Please, don’t kill me,” he whimpered, but before he could say another word, a deafening shot rang out. I squeezed my eyes shut, my ears ringing. When I opened them, Spin was sprawled on the floor, a hole in his head, blood pooling around him like spilled ink. The man in the tan suit turned his gaze to me, and my legs trembled under the weight of it. “Get her out of here,” he commanded to someone on his right, his voice flat, devoid of feeling. I thought they’d kill me too, and I collapsed to my knees, sobbing, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “Please, don’t! Eric sold me to clear his debt, I didn’t do anything, I—”

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said, his face still a mask. Then he turned and walked out, his broad back disappearing through the doorway. Someone—a man with kinder eyes—helped me up, guiding me out of the room. For the first time in over a month, I stepped outside, the air sharp and cold against my skin. As we passed the lifeless bodies of Spin’s men, sprawled across the floor, I realized the nightmare was over. The man who’d helped me handed me a wad of cash, a map, and a cheap mobile phone. “This’ll help you,” he said softly. In the distance, I saw the man in the tan suit slide into a Rolls-Royce, its sleek lines gleaming under the streetlights. Someone called him “V,” and then he was gone.

Now, at twenty-four, I’m back behind this bar, wiping down the counter, the smell of stale beer and regret as familiar as my own heartbeat. I serve men who look like Eric, like Spin, like my father, but none of them are V. That money, that map, that phone—they gave me a start, a chance to keep running. The bruises have faded, but the scars—the ones you can’t see—still ache. Every night, as I scrub this counter, I think of that moment, that man, that second chance. I’m not done yet. I’m still here, still fighting, still Valerie.