The Sect Read online

  Contents

  THE SECT

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  A PERSONAL NOTE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  EPILOGUE

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2014 by Courtney Lane

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

  First Publication: December 2014

  For more works by this author, visit: www.redcherrypunch.com

  Edited by: Kristen Switzer

  Altered Image Courtesy of: Shutterstock Inc.

  DEDICATION

  To my “Soul Sisters”: The conception of this story wouldn’t have been possible without the three of you. Thank you for the inspiration, the challenge, and trusting me to run with the story.

  To the Mavens of Mischief: Thank you so much for being a sounding board and encouraging me to keep my finger off the deletion key. Your encouragement allowed me to continue with the story and make it my own. I hope you’re all pleased. I love you all!

  To my literary surgeons Emma and AnnMarie: I anxiously anticipate and treasure your written words about my books. I’m very lucky to have two people who understand my work down to the letter. Thank you.

  To Jettie: Thank you for taking me under your wing and making so many things possible for me. I’m forever indebted to you.

  To the readers who supported me through all my shenanigans: I love you all so much and I very much appreciate every one of you.

  ON A VERY PERSONAL NOTE:

  I’m not going to include a Preface as I normally would, because this story was written under very special circumstances. I never set out to be a “dark” author, it just so happened that I’ve been writing dark stories since I was very young. Many years ago I read my first dark erotic novel titled: “The Sleeping Beauty Trilogy”. The book definitely opened my eyes and inspired me to stop holding back when I created a story. Back in March of 2014, I searched around to find out where dark erotica stood. I noticed quite a few captive and captor stories. I purposely strayed away from the theme, because I felt it was very popular and the narratives usually included themes that were triggers for me.

  Fast forward to August. I was given an incredible opportunity to write outside of my comfort zone that I couldn’t decline. I’m constantly pushing my boundaries and challenging myself; the project gave me a chance to do that. The project didn’t work out, and I was left with a sixty-thousand word-count story that I had agonized for months over. I was going to delete it, because of the theme, when the incredible women on my street team encouraged me to keep going. My biggest concern was that the story stood as unique; it’s the one aspect I strive for in all of my stories. I hope I accomplished that with this book.

  I’m not going to do the usual warning here (it’s largely ignored anyway). What I will say is this: My mother has a very open (and dark) mind. She has and will always be my biggest supporter. I never would’ve thought to publish my work at all if it wasn't for her. She’s read almost all of my stories (some published, some not). When I finished this story, I immediately called her and told her this was the one book she couldn’t read.

  Please know your limitations. I am not a literary sadist. If you know you have issues with reading about very dark and depraved themes, this is not the book for you. If you believe some things should be left sacred or untold, this is definitely not the book for you. If you want every question to have simple and easy to find answers, I may not be the author for you.

  This is not a romance. It is barely a love story. This is a complete work of fiction and as such it is not indicative of my beliefs, nor should the things contained in the story serve as a manual, or as inspirational literature for any of the topics contained within.

  NO SMALL act of kindness goes unremembered. It was a small facet of wisdom my father passed onto me that I always followed. I never fathomed that someday his advice would be the key to my survival.

  Franklin Square Park in Washington D.C., it used to be a place I frequented during my lunch breaks when I was still a part of the world. During that time, I often kept the company of a homeless vet named Jeff. I never spent time with any of my coworkers outside of work. Instead, I preferred Jeff’s company. After purchasing lunch for the both of us, we’d sit by the fountain. Sometimes, our moments were filled with silence. Other times, Jeff would tell me about the life he once had. He shared with me his wisdom and uncovered the secrets of a different side of the world—a side my affluent upbringing never allowed me to experience.

  In a way, I envied his freedom. He was detached from anything and everything, a wanderer with no responsibilities and no living relatives to tether him to another life.

  I never thought that someday he would become my protector.

  I ran away from a nightmare and walked into homelessness. It was a world within a world, where the men outnumbered the women, and women were easy prey. I learned pretty quickly that all of my teachings from The Manners Institute in D.C.—or my skills learned during my time as a debutante—wouldn’t help me in this moment of my life.

  I hid my gender through layers of clothes. Tucking my mid-back length dark brown mane underneath hoodies and beanies when necessary. On the hotter days, I used an old ace wrap bandage to bind my c-cup breasts. I never spoke, and I never looked anyone in the eye. Speaking would’ve revealed my femininity and made me an easy target for assault. If anyone became curious, I enacted my defense mechanism and pretended I was mentally unwell by screaming at the top of my lungs. My voice, once a twelve-octave range instrument that won many competitions, was a weakness in this side of the world. Since the day after I began living on the street, I hadn’t spoken a word to anyone.

  Many think the homeless live on the streets because they don’t have a choice. I did. I chose this life over the one I led. The nightmare. The pain. The memories.

  A park bench or the ground of an alley served as my bed. The soft knit pack containing my belongings was my pillow. The sky was my ceiling. Discarded or abandoned food became my source of sustenance.

  I set my gaze to the pending sunset, peaking over the tops of the trees. A cool October breeze rustled through the fallen leaves decorating the park and flittered around my face. Smiling at the simple pleasure, I realized it was time to leave. We had to keep moving during the day to circumvent harassment by the cops or pedestrians.

  Standing away from the bench in a ready stance, I prepared to awaken Jeff.

  Waking him was the equivalent of dismantling a bomb. He had severe PTSD, and at times, disturbing him in his sleep meant asking for an injury. I learned that the hard way when I woke him during one of his night terrors. The scars on my
torso, done from a razor blade taped to an old toothbrush, served as a reminder. I didn’t know exactly what had happened to me until I woke up in the hospital.

  I used to be horrible with pain, having a very low threshold with it. Eventually, I had to learn to hone the sensation and feel something else. Physical pain became a moderate nuisance as my brain shut down and focused on something else—something that cured what ailed.

  As I shoved Jeff’s shoulder and immediately ran backward, he jolted off the bench. His fists and arms flew through the air, fighting with the invisible. His eyes were wild as he searched around, collecting his bearings. When he saw me, he stroked his dingy grey beard that blanketed his neck and extended past his collarbone. His narrow brown eyes, underneath unruly brows, began to dim. “What, mute? I had five minutes.”

  Mute was what he called me. Real names weren’t allowed; especially for those of us who had family members who were actively seeking us out. Camaraderie amongst the people of the street was a rare find. If the price were right, anyone who you thought might’ve been a friend would’ve sold you out. Just as I was sure Jeff’s name wasn’t really Jeff, my trust only extended as far as my arm’s reach. My belief was one that differed vastly from Jeff’s credence.

  I pointed to the sky, indicating to him that it was time to move on.

  “Right, right,” he mumbled. He folded up his ratty fleece plaid blanket and placed it inside his cart full of various items.

  When I stood on the outside, I’d always thought the carts the homeless pushed around were full of junk. As it turned out, the oddest things served dual purposes and the key to surviving the elements. Plastic grocery bags protected us and our makeshift shelters from inclement weather. They also protected our feet when the soles of our shoes had worn thin.

  I was a relative newbie to the streets, having only been living in this area of D.C. for a few months. Jeff’s invaluable advice and protection kept me safe. Shelters were a no-go. They often filled up fast and carried too many rules. They also didn’t have enough security to prevent sexual assault or theft.

  Due to the fierce way I disguised my femininity, to most bystanders, I looked like Jeff’s grandson. Upon closer inspection, they could see the feminine features of my face; my full lips, my bronze skin, almond shaped light brown eyes, and heart-shaped face. Screaming and behaving as though I was unstable were my backup defenses.

  As we strolled past the fountain and headed toward the main road, streams of cars passed us by on K Street. I took in the storefronts, some closed, some were on the brink of opening. The owners and patrons cast disdainful looks our way, warning us against using their facilities to bathe or pander.

  On the corner of K and 14th Street, a Bentley pulled into the access alley. I stopped walking, calling Jeff’s eye. I had a reason to worry. I’d seen the car many times before in the same area. He was a stranger to me, but he often came around. He usually carried stacks of posters containing my image and affixed them to lampposts and store windows throughout the city. Every week, he’d come around, and every week I’d take the posters down and save them for kindling on colder nights.

  This time he wasn’t alone.

  Dressed in an oxblood red suit, her black hair falling in perfect waves down her shoulders, my mother stepped out of the back of the vehicle. I immediately ducked into the nearest alley, wondering what she was doing here.

  Jeff broke out of his daze, his eyes darting to mine. “Eh?”

  I shook my head with a viscous motion and nodded up the street.

  He waved his hand at me, dismissing my fear with a nonchalant attitude that irritated me. “Let them find you. Why do you want to live like this, when you have that?” He pointed to my mother. “That is one mighty fine woman.” He glanced back at me. “What happened to you there? Miss the pretty gene?” He laughed, amused with himself.

  His joke was asinine, because I was the spitting image of my mother, having shared very few features with my father.

  My eyes widened, pleading with him to help me. I couldn’t go back to her or that life. I couldn’t go back to the reminder of my deferred and destroyed dreams, or the remnants of a tragedy—the agony over what could’ve been.

  Jeff ambled down the sidewalk with his cart. I kept my back to the brick exterior wall of the building, discreetly peeking around the bend, and hoped Jeff wouldn’t betray me.

  “Hey there. What can I do you for?” Jeff spoke to my mother with such a blithe tone it was almost plastic. On a normal basis, the man was severely ornery.

  My mother’s warm, light amber complexion greyed slightly as she studied the man before her. She nervously flicked one side of her hair over her shoulder. Her blood red lips curled in disgust. The man beside her held up a poster containing my picture and my name. “Keaton Mara, DOB 1991. Missing Since: July 26, 2015.” Underneath the words was an obscene amount for the reward money. She’d upped the original offering. The offer currently stood at two million.

  “Oh, yeah,” Jeff drawled. “Keaton? I’ve seen her before.”

  “I know,” my mother stated, her voice clipped. “That’s why we’re here. I’ve had a few people search for her in this area who have said they’ve seen her. I know”—she looked around, but thankfully, her search didn’t land in my direction—“she’s here somewhere.” The catch in her throat was audible; it nearly persuaded me into breaking down.

  “She used to stay around here,” Jeff told her, “but she moved onto to…Mt. Vernon Square, I think.”

  “Thank you for your time.” My mother nodded and began to leave.

  “Hey…uh…don’t I get something for that?”

  My mother and the man ignored Jeff, having shut their doors and headed on their way.

  I waited until they were out of sight before I approached Jeff.

  “You owe me for that one, Keaton,” he snarled.

  Sighing, I rolled my eyes. I knew exactly what that payback entailed, and it was something I hated doing.

  JEFF AND I cased our favorite location for finding white-collar yuppies who were too preoccupied with their phones and tablets to notice someone with nimble fingers had stolen their wallets. On the brink of giving up, Jeff hit me hard on the shoulder and nodded to a blond man with his cell phone close to his ear. Jeff’s touch was never gentle. He defended himself, stating that if he treated me like a “fragile flower” others would become suspicious of my gender.

  I shook my head, because something about the situation didn’t feel right, neither did the man. Deep in my gut, I knew he wouldn’t have been the best mark.

  Obviously not in the mood to be patient, Jeff shoved me forward.

  Since I didn’t want to ruffle the feathers of a man who—on many occasions—kept me from being physically assaulted, I complied. I approached the stranger from behind as he walked down the street. Keeping my distance, I remained invisible. With his shirt tucked into his slacks, the imprint of his wallet was easily found. I picked up my pace and deftly dug in, slipping his wallet out of his back pocket while crashing against his body. He turned around to scowl at me. I held up my hands in an apology just after shoving his wallet into the pouch of my hoodie. I expected the usual. The cursing or curt looks, but instead, he clamped his hand around my wrist and muttered three words that made me panic. “You’re under arrest.”

  The adrenaline kicked in and turned on my survival mode. I stomped on his foot, hard enough to make him loosen his grip on my hand, and ran back to Jeff, but Jeff…no longer stood where I left him. I made a quick right down the alley on the heels of the undercover cop screaming at me to stop.

  I never used to be much for athleticism; my mother would never allow it. She thought her only daughter should do pageants and simply accomplish what she thought was enough, an education. Sports equated to injuries and scars. She’d often brush my hair in the mirror and remind me that youth and beauty didn’t last forever; I shouldn’t squander what she gave me. So many things changed once my home became the city streets. Now,
escaping and evading became very familiar concepts.

  I made a sharp right; a strong pair of arms grabbed me and pulled me into the vestibule of a financial building. My first reaction was to scream, kick, and cry until I took in the man who held me, Jeff.

  His dark brown eyes were trained to the window, remaining that way as I searched his face. His unbefitting calm demeanor threw me off. I thought—or assumed—he’d be just as terrified as I was.

  When the undercover cop ran right by us, I finally exhaled the breath I’d been holding. Then…came the anger. I stomped my foot, fuming, wanting to shout at Jeff for purposely setting me up.

  “Ah, hell.” He dismissively waved at my face and took a few steps back. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t know the mark was a cop.” He fingered the dirty toothpick in his mouth, crossing one arm in front of his chest. “You ever run track? You’ve got some speed on you, mute.”

  Rolling my eyes, I retrieved the wallet from the pouch of my hoodie. Finding it empty, I left the billfold open and showed it Jeff.

  He grabbed it from me, wiping the exterior down with the hem of his shirt. Wrapping his grungy plaid shirt around his hand, he removed the credentials, allowing it to all drop to the floor. He pocketed the empty wallet, placing it inside the back pocket of his tattered jeans.

  Shrugging while leaving my hands up in the air, I urged him to tell me what we should do next. With the way he glowered at me, it was clear he expected us to rummage through the nearest garbage dumpster.