The Daddy Treatment Read online

  The Daddy Treatment

  Ava Sinclair

  Copyright © 2018 by Ava Sinclair

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  WHO’S YOUR DADDY?

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Eli

  “Where am I? Tell me!” The woman in the chair screams and strains against her bonds. It’s not unusual for them to fight, but I’ve never seen one fight like this. Even from here, I can see the leather straps digging into her skin as she struggles to wrench herself free. She shakes her head violently as she attempts to dislodge both the blindfold and the sensors attached to her forehead.

  “Quiet, please.” My colleague, Dr. Chance Brockman, has one of those voices that can calm almost anyone. It’s soft, the cadence lending an almost musical quality, like a lullaby. It’s not working on her, though. “Quiet, please,” he repeats. “Calm down, dear. Fighting won’t achieve anything except pulled muscles.”

  She stops struggling, at least for a moment. She turns her head right and left, as if she thinks if she tries hard enough she’ll see through the blindfold. She’s panting through her parted lips.

  “Who are you? I have a right to know!” She grits her teeth. “Tell me!”

  Rather than answer, Dr. Brockman flips a switch that mutes the sound feed coming from the room below us. I can see the woman still struggling, still speaking, but I can’t hear her. My colleague turns his attention to the screens to our left. He leans down, glancing up at me through his spectacles before turning back to the monitors. “Let’s see the extent of the damage, shall we? Then we’ll know what you’ll be working with.”

  Words appear. RETRIEVAL SEQUENCE IN PROGRESS.

  Dr. Brockman is entirely focused on the screen as I look back out the window. The woman has ceased her struggles. She’s not moving, and I know it’s because she’s been shocked into stillness by a sudden flood of memories we’re drawing forth.

  “Not good.” Dr. Brockman is shaking his head. I hear a thin, reedy wail. On the screen an image forms. It’s a low-tiled ceiling, and something circling round and round. A mobile. It’s been wound, but the tinkling lullaby intended to soothe is being drowned out by sounds coming through the thin walls.

  We are seeing and hearing one of the restrained woman’s earliest memories.

  Muffled sounds. A female voice is pleading. A man cursing. The bar on the screen registers anxiety and discomfort. A small hand comes into view. She couldn’t have been more than five months old.

  “Going to push it up to twenty-four months.” Dr. Brockman puts a stylus to a timeline on the screen and drags it a small distance to the right. The scene changes and jolts forward in time to a toddler’s wracking cough. The view is from the floor of a disheveled room. A pair of work boots are approaching with heavy thuds.

  “Up?” The request is accompanied by the sight of small upstretched arms. The boots move past.

  “Maureen, where are my fucking keys?”

  There is a clattering sound. The child has risen from the blanket and toddles over in the direction of the noise. “Up?” A small hand pulls on a floral print skirt. “Mama…”

  “Not now, Sugar.” An adult hand brushes the toddler’s hand away. A graph line underneath the feed indicates that levels of pain are high, the health low. The view jolts again as the child thumps to sitting on the floor.

  “Shut that fucking kid up!” The man’s voice is threatening.

  “I’m sorry!” The female voice is desperately apologetic.

  Now arms lift her, and the emotional pain meter goes down, but only momentarily. “Sugar, you need to hush.” The child is being taken into a small, dark bedroom with a fan in the window. She’s deposited in a crib and looks into the worried face of a young woman who may have once been pretty but now looks tired. Her brown hair is pulled back. Her brow is sweaty. One eye is rimmed in the green of an old bruise.

  “If you keep upsetting Ray, he’s gonna’ toss us out. So hush.” She picks up a bottle from a dresser. Small hands take it. The milk is sour. The toddler gags and puts the bottle down just as the door shuts. She begins to cry. No one responds. A moment later, the wall shakes as something on the other side slams into it. Now the woman is crying. The fright meter goes up. The child goes quiet. A door slams. No one comes to get the baby girl.

  I look back out the window. The woman in the chair is hunched forward, as if trying to curl into herself. She’s shaking. Tears come from under her blindfold.

  “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Eli.” Dr. Brockman scrolls through the memories. “I can’t find one solid happy memory.”

  “Try her teen years.”

  “Be more specific.”

  “Seventeen.”

  The scales measuring confusion, emotional pain, and need are all nearly maxed out. The scene is the parking lot outside a bar, or at least that’s what it looks like. The picture shifts in and out of focus. She’s drunk, but the guy pushing her forward over the tailgate of his pickup isn’t.

  “Am I pretty?” she slurs.

  “Oh yeah, baby. You’re pretty…” The happiness gauge moves up slightly.

  The view jolts as she is pushed forward. At my side, I clench my fist. “Move ahead, Dr. Brockman.”

  I glance back at the girl. Her face is registering a range of emotions. Sadness, frustration. Occasionally she grits her teeth.

  “More of the same. Your girl got around. Eli, are you sure…?”

  My eyes are still on the girl. “Dr. Brockman, if you would continue.”

  I’m not looking at the screen. My eyes are on the young woman as my colleague tells me what he’s seeing, and what he’s seeing is the failure, self-medicating, and self-soothing of a woman desperate to blunt the pain that’s the one constant thing in her life.

  “Fast forward to the crime.” I glance back over my shoulder. When Dr. Brockman tells me he has it, I turn back towards the monitors. The hand holding the gun is shaking. So is her voice as she tells the cashier to put up his hands. Through her eyes, I see the soft-eyed Indian man behind the counter tell her he has a family, that she can take what she wants. He pushes a button and the drawer of the cash register pops open. Her anxiety gauge is off the chart. She moves behind the counter. She rushes to keep hold of the gun in her sweaty hand as she puts her faded leather purse on the counter and begins to stuff it with bills while casting worried glances at the cashier, who’s standing silent next to a cigarette display. The fear gauge flashes red. Through her eyes, I see a man walk in. A cop, probably off-duty judging by his casual stride. He instantly springs into action and draws his weapon. In a panic, she drops hers. It discharges. Below me, I see her cry out, wincing as she remembers the unexpected sound of the discharging gun. The bullet barely misses the officer. And then there’s blinding pain as the cashier strikes her from behind. All goes black.

  “I guess next is court. You want to see?”

  “No.” I tell him to turn it off. I h
ave the records. I know what happened. I know she was found guilty. I know she was offered a way to stay out of jail. I know how desperate she was. I know what she signed away. But she doesn’t know. She doesn’t even know where she is.

  She’s about to find out.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time, Eli. Are you sure you don’t want another case?” Dr. Brockman removes his glasses and fixes me with a worried look.

  “Chance, If I didn’t think I could handle her, I’d have passed.” I roll up my sleeves as I talk, baring forearms developed by hours in the gym.

  “I’m insulting your intelligence.” My partner sighs. “I’m just thinking it’ll take more than a doctorate in psychology to crack that little nut.”

  “You’re right.” I start on my other sleeve. “It will take more. But I like a challenge.”

  There’s nothing else to say, really. I leave through the metal door and navigate the circular metal walkway that takes me from the observation room to the staircase. As I descend, I keep my eyes on the woman. She is looking dazed and puzzled, but this kind of disorientation is normal following a memory scan. We dredge up what is buried so we can view it, but instantly revert the subject to her pre-scan state so the painful recollections are once again repressed.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I make my way to where she’s sitting. Having seen her mother in her memory, I now note the similarities. They have the same pert nose, the same heart-shaped face. Her hair is a shade darker, though, and her skin is more olive where her mother’s was pale. I wonder if she got her coloring from her father. There are no memories of him, only the string of men who passed in and out of her mother’s life.

  I remove the electrodes first. She hadn’t detected my approach, probably because she was focusing on coming out of her fog. But she jolts as the tabs are pulled away and begins to fight again. Her head jerks from side to side.

  “Who are you? Where am I?” The same question. The same scared voice. She starts to struggle again.

  “Stop wiggling like that. You can’t get free. Sit still, and I’ll take off your blindfold.”

  She’s staring straight ahead through the cloth, straining forward, her body tense with defiance. But she wants to see more than she wants to fight and doesn’t move.

  “Good girl.” I reach out, slip a finger under the band of the blindfold and pull it free.

  Her eyes are hazel and full of hate. Her chest is heaving under the sleeveless army green top paired with a short brown skirt. She’d been wearing sandals when she was taken. One has fallen off. She looks around then looks at me.

  “Where the fuck am I?”

  I ignore the question. I can feel Dr. Brockman’s gaze on me from above. If this had been any other case, he’d have walked out. But he wants to see if she’s going to prove him right. He wants to see if this first encounter will prove too much for me.

  He should know me better than that, especially since we both served in the same covert military Psychological Warfare Unit before starting this program. He should know that despite my education, I rely more on my sense of command than on case studies.

  “I’m sure you have a lot of questions.” I cross my arms and stare down at her. “Don’t bother. The only questions for now will be asked by me. Any answer you give will be followed by the word ‘sir.’ Understand?”

  She doesn’t immediately reply. She’s pretending to sit still, but I can see the muscles in her lean arms straining. She’s still trying to work her way out of the bonds.

  “That’s the first rule. Repeat it back to me.”

  “Fuck you,” she hisses. “Eat a bag of dicks, asshole.”

  “Fuck and dicks. Can I assume you’re not a virgin given your sexual fixation?”

  “Tell me where I am.”

  “Answer the question. Are you a virgin?”

  “That’s none of your fucking business.”

  “Fine. If you won’t answer me, I’ll check for myself.”

  Of course, I already know the answer. But she doesn’t know that.

  I step behind her, and before she can stop me, I’ve leaned down, my arm tight around her front. I’ve taken her by surprise, and push my hand between her legs. She cries out and reflexively clamps her thighs, but it’s too late. I’ve slipped a finger into the crotch of her panties, through the closed seam of her pussy. She’s damp but not wet as I slip my finger into her.

  Pain shoots through my forearm as she bites me, defending herself in the only way she can. I block the pain as I put my mouth to her ear. “Keep it up and I’ll finger fuck that pussy until you come. Don’t think I can’t. We both know you’re a bad girl. It would be so easy.” To prove my point, I rub my thumb across her clit. A shudder runs through her. She’s breathing heavily, but she’s too stubborn to let herself submit her body, to show that kind of weakness. Of course, I already know that.

  “Are you ready to listen?” I speak into her ear. My finger is still lodged inside of her. She’s tight, inside and out. Tight and tense. “Nod if you’re ready to listen. If not, you get to find out what I do next.”

  It’s a barely perceptible nod, but a nod nonetheless. I withdraw my finger and smooth her skirt before releasing my grip. I can feel her eyes follow me as I move to the one wall and retrieve a single straight-back chair and place it across from hers, which is bolted to the floor.

  I take a seat. We are close enough that our knees are almost touching. Her eyes are locked on mine. Her teeth are gritted, biting back words she’s now hesitant to say.

  “I’m going to ask you again. What’s the first rule? I’ll make it easy. When I ask you a question, and you answer it, what word always follows the answer?”

  She has to force the answer. When she does, it’s barely audible and dripping with venom.

  “Sir,” she says.

  “Good. You’re capable of taking directions. So now you get a reward. I’m going to answer one question, provided it’s acceptable.”

  Her brow is furrowing. She believes me when I say she’s getting one question and wants to make it good.

  “I got in a van with a bailiff— a goddamned law enforcement officer—who was supposed to take me to a residential therapy program. The court system knows where I’m supposed to be. So what makes you think you can get away with kidnapping me when the cops are probably looking for me?”

  “Hmm.” I lean back and cross my legs as I study her. “And why would I kidnap a pretty but unremarkable woman? Ransom? Who’d pay it? You don’t have a family. From what I gather, you don’t even have any friends. You’re a felon. A number. So trust me when I say the prison was more than happy to get your signature on the agreement to enter an experimental reform program. Let me guess. You didn’t even read it, did you?”

  Fear flickers in her eyes. Color drains from her face, which is actually more remarkably pretty than I let on. Her body, too. I stand up.

  “You’re where you agreed to go, and I’m going to be working with you. Group therapy? Sharing sessions? You won’t find that here. All you’ll find is strictness, pain, and humiliation. It won’t be the kind you’re used to, but it’s going to get your attention. I’m going to be on you like the wrath of God, little girl, and the only way you’ll get me to ease up is by being obedient.”

  She shakes her head. “This is bullshit.”

  “You think?” I lean over, putting my hands on her forearms. “I think not. I’m going to break you, little girl. And then I’m going to fix you.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Tears glitter in her eyes. Her voice is quavering. Did she shudder, or did I imagine it? “If this is true, then tell me something you should know about me. What’s my name?”

  “Your whole name? Kerry Ann DeVeaux.” I reach up and run a forefinger down her cheek. “But I’m not going to call you that. I’m going to call you Sugar.” This time, the shudder I feel isn’t imagined. No one’s called her Sugar since she was five years old.

  Chapter 2

  Sugar


  I imagine him frog-marched to a waiting police van. I imagine him locked away as I am. I imagine him scared and trapped and confused. I imagine not giving a fuck as I walk away.

  What I can’t imagine is how to get from here to there. I can’t imagine how I can get out of wherever the hell I am.

  The room I’m in is clinical and devoid of character. The walls are blue. There’s a chrome table and chair bolted to the floor and a chrome sleeping platform with a thin white mattress and white blanket. There’s an alcove with a toilet and a sink, both which work from sensors. There are no handles, nothing I can take apart to fashion into a weapon, no beams overhead should I try to use the sheet to hang myself. A ceiling camera is positioned to be conspicuous. I’m being watched.

  I’m sitting on the floor, staring straight ahead as I try to piece together my last memory before I came to. The verdict had just come down. I’d watched about ten women all get the same verdict for various crimes. Some were stoic as they were led away. Others had sobbed. A couple had been dragged off, pleading for mercy, pleading for one last look at their children. No one looked at them, not the members of the tribunal, not even the Public Proponents paid by the state to argue for leniency. When my verdict was announced, I wasn’t surprised. But I was surprised when I was taken not to the waiting bus, but to a room where I was told I could receive a suspended sentence if I agreed to therapy instead.

  Why me? I wondered. Two of the women had sobbed their apologies as they were led away, while I’d just regarded the tribunal with indifference as they announced I’d spend the rest of my life in a state prison camp. If anyone deserved a chance, it was someone who actually gave a shit. And yet here I was, hastily scrawling my name on the screen with the stylus as the female warden informed me signing meant agreeing to the terms of a residential program where I’d be offered a chance at full rehabilitation.