TAKE ME AWAY
The Broken Wings
© Honey Maxwell 2015
This is a work of fiction and is intended for mature audiences only. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book is the property of Honey Maxwell.
I held my hands out, entirely in the care of my stranger. He grabbed my tied wrists, holding me close to him as I blindly shuffled towards my captivity.
“Stair” he said gruffly – standing in front of me, letting me rest my hands on his bare back. “And another. Then a corner, then stairs.”
His oily skin sent a shiver through me, his warmth radiating as I felt a cool blast of air coming from the basement. Although blindfolded, I could smell where I was headed – the basement smelled dark, it smelled dirty, it smelled like somewhere that any sensible girl wouldn't want to be.
It smelled like somewhere that only a couple of hours earlier, a girl like me wouldn't want to be. That was before – that was before I decided to leave my life behind. That was before I decided to join the Broken Wings.
We hadn't even planned to stop here. I was on a road trip, a short vacation with my fiancee. Clive is a nice guy, he had always taken care of me, given me what I wanted. There's just one problem... he bores me to tears.
We pulled into the parking lot of the Thirsty Lizard, a dingy looking bar on route 66 – about an hour away from the Grand Canyon.
“This looks like a good place to get a burger and a beer, right?” I said, jumping out of our rental car. We'd been driving for hours, the fresh air on my legs was a welcome relief.
“I don't know” Clive said nervously, taking his glasses off and wiping them with his t-shirt. “And no beer for me, I'm driving of course.”
“Of course” I muttered, very aware that Clive would never do anything remotely close to challenging the law. On the ride here he had held his hands at a quarter to two on the steering wheel, always going 5 miles per hour under the speed limit. Before we left the hotel in Phoenix he insisted on our having a nutritious breakfast, and he checked the tire pressure and oil levels in the car before driving.
I shouldn't complain – I owe my life to Clive. Before I met him I was constantly in trouble, a fixture at the police station. I was addicted to meth, attached to bad people, I'd steal, beg, borrow. At my lowest point I gave out blowjobs to strangers who picked me up off the streets in exchange for $10 – enough to get my next fix. I was only 19 years old, and I looked like I was in my forties. Within a year I had gone from promising student, on her way to a good education and a job in the family firm – to deaths door. My parents had long since given up on me by the time that Clive rescued me – they had seen the damage that addiction can do with my brother. In his case they turned a blind eye to his stealing, they held him when he cried, they put him in rehab and they flew to New Mexico to pick him up when he escaped. They held his hand right up until the day that he overdosed – they had run out of love by the time I first didn't come home for the night.
Clive was the only person to open his car door to me without holding his cock in his hand. He volunteered for a local church and had made it his mission to save the fallen, to help where he could. I had walked up to his car thinking that he was just another john, a $10 bill with a cock attached – not knowing that this car belonged to a man who would pick me up, clean my mind, and free my body from drugs.
I had struggled, at first – but soon came to feel at home in his warm embrace. He protected me from the cold, he soothed my demons. Over time he fell in love with me, and I fell in love with the idea of a new life. Safe, warm, clean.
And boring. I don't want the drugs back, they can go to hell and stay there. But I miss the life, I miss the danger – I miss the thrill of life on the run. I care
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