Depraved by Bryan Smith Page A

front entrance. He leaned close against her, and his breath was warm against her ear as they pushed through the door into the building.
    “Welcome to your new home, sweetheart.”
    Megan was taken aback at how quaintly rustic the building was. Two small holding cells faced an open work area containing two metal desks and three tall filing cabinets. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead. There were no computers in sight. An office was visible through an open door. She saw a man’s booted feet propped on a wooden desk. She heard a man’s voice emanating from the office and had the impression she was hearing one end of a phone conversation. Something about a holiday feast coming up this weekend. Strange. There were no major national holidays happening this weekend. Had to be some local thing. And she guessed the man in the office was the sheriff. She doubted there’d be any help from him.
    Hal unlocked one of the cells and pushed her inside. He followed her in to remove the handcuffs. Then he turned her around and eyed her up and down, taking his time with it, gaze lingering at the swell of her hips and the thrust of her breasts. He licked his lips and grabbed his crotch, made an adjustment.
    “Take your clothes off, bitch.”
    Megan’s whole body trembled. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She’d known this was coming, but now that the moment was actually here, it was more than she could bear.
    “Please…don’t do this…” She backed away from him, moving until she felt her legs touch the metal frame of the small cot set against the back wall. “I’m begging you. Please…”
    Hal grinned. “Oh, good. You’re begging already. I always get off on that.” He gripped his zipper tab and began to slide it down. “I told you to take your clothes off. It’s gonna go a lot harder for you if you make me say it again.”
    Megan’s fingers fumbled with the snap of her jeans. She had to do as he said. She knew he was right. He would make it worse for her. Worse than she could imagine. She forced her fingers to be still and at last was able to pop open the snap.
    “Hold on now.” This was a new voice, male, deeper than Hal’s, rumbling with authority. “What’s happening here?”
    The other man stepped into the cell, moved past Hal to get a better look at Megan. He did a quick appraisal and uttered a low whistle.“Lord, look at her.”
    Hal nodded.“Yeah. I’d like to do a bit more than look, boss, if you get my drift.”
    This man was the sheriff. Megan knew it without having to be told, but it was confirmed a moment later when he introduced himself as Sheriff Rich DeMars. DeMars was tall and stocky, maybe an inch or two over six feet, with a big gut that was out of proportion to the rest of him. A big beer drinker, she guessed. A string tie was knotted at the collar of his starched white shirt. A large, shiny badge was pinned to the shirt’s pocket. A Stetson hat sat atop his head. Basically, he looked like every northern person’s ultimate nightmare image of a small-town Southern sheriff. The only thing missing to complete the picture was a fat, smoldering stogie dangling from a corner of his mouth. Didn’t all corruptgood old boys smoke cigars? She knew it was a notion gleaned from a lifetime of watching old TV shows and bad movies and therefore unconnected to anything like reality. She also knew these were some pretty inane things to be thinking in a situation as dire as this one. But she couldn’t help it. Her sanity was a fragile thing now, her thoughts careening from delirious absurdities to the bleakest moments of despair and back again.
    DeMars shot Hal a smirk.“Maybe later, boy. And maybe not. I’m thinking we could get top dollar for this little number at the Sin Den.”
    Megan swallowed hard, found her voice. “What is the Sin Den?”
    DeMars smiled at her. “Strip joint. Local family owns it. Big place way out in the woods. You could do a lot worse than be a dancer-whore for the