I closed my eyes, tried to return to where I was, the buzz of my phone in my hand stopping the act. I looked down at the incoming text.
I thought we’d stay somewhere else this time. Closer to where we had dessert.
So in the city. Near the nightclubs and a gazillion places deals could occur. Maybe I could get my answers without asking the questions. Follow Brett when he disappeared for his “business meeting”. Verify my suspicions myself.
I typed a response, the scent of my relationship’s blood in the water.
I’ve got a lot of work stuff to catch up on, not sure I can get away this weekend.
Yeah, that sounded good. Offhand and casual, with no hint of an evil scheme.
Would you prefer me to come to Quincy?
Shit. That wasn’t the answer I’d wanted. That type of weekend only worked before. Before I knew. Before I suspected. Now, it’d be a disaster. No palm trees or vacation sex to hide my suspicions behind.
My panties were so wet it was embarrassing. I panted against the night air, struggling for silence, the murmurs of the couple that had stepped outside breaking the silence of the night. Was I really being humped in the shadows against the side of a building? Was this beautiful man really running the pad of his fingers back and forth, lower and higher, finding the—oh my god. My head dropped back, and I couldn’t stop the moan that escaped me when my silk-covered clit was brushed by his fingers.
Yes, there would have to be at least one more fuck. I needed that. The long stretch of sexual celibacy ahead demanded that. Would I ever meet another man who would make me feel like this? Who would make my back practically break with the strength of my orgasm? Who would bury his face between my legs with such enthusiasm? Caress my body with such worship? Moan my name with such reverence?
Would you mind if I brought the work with me? Maybe I could fit it in at some point?
I threw the lure and waited for him to grab it.
Of course. I’ll have a few meetings anyway.
I let out a held breath and looked at the files before me. Moved one aside, looked at the next. All files that couldn’t leave this office. Not without jeopardizing my job. I rolled right, pulled open a drawer of my file cabinet. There — reports and reimbursement forms I’d put off for months. They could come. Sit in my suitcase. I could decide in Puerto Vallarta whether to really knock out this busy work... or find out the truth.
I looked at our text history. Tried to figure out if I’d done something wrong. Something felt off. We hadn’t gone a night without speaking in months. Maybe she’d just - like her friend said - had a migraine. Maybe it was nothing.
I reread the texts. She sounded fine, the words were right... it was my nagging sense of unease that was wrong. Maybe I should respond. Cancel this trip and go to Quincy instead. The trip wasn’t more important than her. Than us. She had even replaced Elyse, had grown more crucial than my cause. Maybe I should stop the trips altogether. Settle down and live a normal life with her. But damn, it would be hard. Especially when every trip I saw the faces I rescued. Heard their stories, each one a line to Elyse, an iron in the fight against her death.
For a moment, I compared the two women. Elyse had been auburn, thinner than Riley, taller. But they had the same bright smile, complete with dimples. Same wicked sense of humor. They would have gotten along. They would have been friends. Not that that situation would have ever occurred. Without Elyse, I wouldn’t have been at Atlantis. Wouldn’t have been in the position to approach Riley in the casino. I would have been back home in Fort Lauderdale. Would never have even known this alternative lifestyle. One of blood money and violence, of redemption and fight, of rescue and rehabilitation. Of Riley. And with that final item, the rest faded.
This weekend was a big sale. An annual event where hundreds of women would be bought and sold. I was expected, women were being brought specifically for my purchase. But I could send one of the guys. Didn’t have to physically be there for the exchange. But I should be close. I could fly out with Riley. Make sure the guys got into the house and had it ready for the girls. Make sure they had the cash and protection. And I’d work on Riley and our relationship. Make sure that that was in order. Maybe I’d go to the sale. Maybe I’d let the men handle it. I’d play it by ear.
And next week, once the new girls were safely back in the States, I’d examine my life. Make a decision about Riley and stick with it. Either tell her the truth, or kill this part of my life altogether. Abandon the cause. Abandon Elyse’s memory to save my future.
I typed a final response to her.
I love you.
Once I sent the text, I stared at those words, ones I never thought, after losing Elyse, that I’d say. I never thought, after her death, I’d be able to love, to care, for another individual. Not when I saw what love did. How it exposed a part of your heart for destruction. A part that just lay, vulnerable and exposed, and waited for the pain that would eventually come.
I opened my desk drawer and pulled out the velvet box. Flipped it open and stared at the ring.
I was, with Riley, vulnerable. Open for destruction. But the vulnerability was worth it. I flipped the box shut and returned it to the drawer. The proposal wouldn’t happen this weekend. I didn’t want that precious moment to come on a weekend of work, in a city where so many lives had been destroyed.
We had a hundred more trips ahead of us. Next week, after I made my decision, after I either told her or left the life, then I’d plan the perfect trip. Maybe to Sydney or Paris. A city where I’d never seen a beaten woman, where I’d never touched a collar or set of cuffs, where I had never traded cash for a human life. A fresh city where we would begin the second half of my life.
I shut the drawer and rolled forward in the chair. Paused, in my reach for the mouse and picked up the framed photo of Elyse that sat on the desk. Studied the image, one of the two of us at a twenty-first birthday party, her head thrown back in a laugh, my arm around her shoulders. It was my favorite picture of her, one that perfectly captured her spirit.
“I love you,” I murmured, closing my eyes and sending the message upward. “I miss you so fucking much.”
Then I opened the drawer, and gently set the frame inside, next to the black ring box.
“Boss.” The voice made me push the drawer shut, wiping my eye with a brusque hand before turning.
“What’s up?” I met the eyes of Joe, my right hand, both here at Betschart Yachts, and in our underground endeavors.
“We’re all set for this weekend. House is booked, the travel and security is ready. Jana says we’ve got room for eight at the house.”
“Then we’ll get eight.” An unnecessary statement, but the man simply nodded.
“Yes sir.” He hesitated. “Will you be traveling alone, sir?”
“No. I’ll bring Riley. But I’ll be on the black cell. And I’ll most likely attend the party.”
That gave the man pause. “Most likely, sir?” he arched an eyebrow. For Joe, who’d served in four tours of duty before coming to me, it was tantamount to insubordination.
“Yeah. Most likely. If not, you guys can handle it.” I turned back to the computer.
Most likely. Probably. I’d have to wait and see.
2 days before
The entire week was a battle to act normal. It was actually easier than I thought. I just allowed the weak feminine part of myself that swooned over every word the man spoke to run lead in my brain. I let her plan weddings on Pinterest during my lunch break, let her gush over his texts, babble to him about her boring day. Hell, on Wednesday, I even let her bring the tulips back from Anita’s desk, the woman shooting me a pleading look that almost got her them back.
So, I acted the part. And he bought it. And I held my panic and insecurities till late at night, when I’d gorge on peanut butter ice cream and talk Miller’s ear off. Flip through every outfit in my closet and lament what to pack. I was going into an impossible situation, knowing nothing about when and where to
go. I wore the keys on my laptop out, Googling every angle of the Puerto Vallarta drug market I could find. Update: There’s nothing to find online. I was hoping for a giant “We Sell Drugs Here” ad, but got nothing. I did discover that taxis swarm our hotel like locusts, so I was able to cross “surveillance vehicle” off the list.
By Thursday, I had a brand new pair of black jeans and a black turtleneck in my suitcase. Bought a pair of low heels that would both fit into a club and allow me to jog with some degree of efficiency. I know, I practiced. Back and forth on my front porch. I could even jump over Miller’s body in them if I got a running start. I had withdrawn three hundred dollars in cash, which I figured was enough to get me a cabbie for as long as I needed it, along with extra in case I had to follow Brett inside a club.
I remembered the last club experience, when I had lasted about ten minutes before saying “fuck it”. I’d do better this time. I had a reason, it wasn’t like before, when I was being nosy and didn’t really have a dog in the fight.
My final nights in Quincy, it took me hours to fall asleep. I finally succumbed to the comforting thought that, in Puerto Vallarta, I’d finally have some answers, resolution either way. Soon I’d have enough information to make a decision about whether to walk away from this man.
tight (tīt)
(adj.) changing direction abruptly
“a tight turn”
I didn’t have a mirror in my cell, but my self-perusal was encouraging. I didn’t know how many days have passed, but I’d showered four times. Eaten every bit of food that he had brought. The first day, I vomited half of it up, my stomach unused to the large amount of food. After that I did better, eating smaller meals slower.
My bruises had faded but were still there. My side, a pain that had existed for a while, still flared if I moved in the wrong way. But I’d gained some weight, the poke of my hipbones less pronounced, the line of my veins less noticeable on my arms.
This day felt like it was time: day five. I shook with excitement when he entered. Stayed silent during his examination, the drag and poke of his pen over my nudity. Bit back a hundred questions as he nodded silently.
“Good.” He tilted a head to the box, one he had carried in with him, a box I had snuck glances at for the last ten minutes. “New clothes are in the box.” He stepped back and nodded permission at me.
I knelt carefully before the box, opening it slowly, savoring the moment. I passed the test. I was getting new clothes. I’d worn, since the day I arrived, the same three pairs of black scrubs, hand-washed occasionally with my shampoo in the shower. I’d imagined a hundred times what had been in that present that I’d kicked through the bars. Something pretty to wear? There were days, during this servitude, that I would’ve cried over a new outfit. And to think that now, along with freedom, I was getting something new. I bent back the lid and pulled out a few thin plastic packages. A pair of sweatpants, pink. A white long-sleeved T-shirt, the material soft and thin. Socks, still in the package. A cheap pair of tennis shoes, a tag on their laces indicating a size too big for me. I blinked at the small pile, my chest tight, tears welling. New clothes, never been worn. Never been bled on, ripped, or ordered off. I wiped at my eyes and carried the pile to my bed. Turned away from him as I dressed. I wanted to thank him. Was more grateful, right then, than I’d ever been my entire life. Grateful, prior to that moment, was a word misused a thousand times. I finished dressing and turned to kneel before him, clasping my hands together, my eyes down. It was the tenth time I’d assumed the subservient position since the day I cracked. The day I crunched onto his cock and didn’t let go. The day that turned that cell into a battlefield and painted the walls with my stubborn blood.
“Look at me, Kitten.”
I lifted my chin and looked into his eyes. Cold eyes. I learned, long ago, the danger that lay in those eyes, the eyes of a psychopath, one who has no trace of human compassion in his veins.
“I am going to give you one final gift before you leave. Are you listening to me, Kitten?”
Kitten. I hid the wince and nodded. I was listening. I was hanging onto every freaking word. Somewhere, in the threads of those clothes, in the open hang of the gate, there was a catch. One that he would tell me. He wouldn’t miss the opportunity for reaction recordkeeping.
“You, right now, are the perfect slave. You are listening, you are responding, you are clean and subservient. You are a slave that will be rewarded, time and time again, for your good behavior. You will lead a happy, healthy life in that role.” In his swallow, his preparation for the next sentence, I tried to understand. Where he was going, what he was saying. I couldn’t figure it out, couldn’t connect the dots. “If you revert to the girl you were a week ago, the fighter — you will live a short life of pain and unhappiness. I believe, in that pretty head of yours, that you are a smart woman. Use that intelligence and choose the right path.” He smiled and I searched his eyes, a new tightness in my chest, one that had nothing to fucking do with new pink sweatpants.
“What are you saying? I thought you were letting me go?”
“Oh, I am. I’m done with you Kitten, just as I said. I’m going to let you go to a new home. One with a more experienced Master than I. But you’re not listening, Kitten.” He reached forward, gripping my chin and holding it in place. It was an empty action, my eyes were already stuck on him. “I’m letting you pick your home. Your behavior tomorrow night will determine your place. You see, there are two types of women who will be sold. Those trained, and those untrained. The untrained women are whored out, sold to prostitution rings or purchased by sadists looking for entertainment. The trained women are treasured, put up in stables nicer than my home and spoiled rotten. I’ll be buying a trained girl, one who will actually be helpful in my research. I know that you can play the part, Kitten. Be the good little slave long enough to get a good home. Then, who knows? Maybe you’ll be smart enough to stay that way. Maybe seeing both worlds will give you the push to submit that I never could.”
I am ashamed to say, with his hand hard on my chin, that I cried. Right there, big crocodile tears pouring down my cheeks, I blubbered like a weak child. Begged him to let me go. Promised him that I would never tell anyone, that I would pay him anything. I cried and gripped his forearms and reached for the buckle of his pants. Offered up my body, my thoughts, everything in exchange for freedom.
I twisted away when I felt the prick of the needle. A familiar feeling... like the night that he took me. This time, instead of falling into his arms, I fell back, onto the cardboard box, his face hovering above me before my world went black.
I was negotiating with all of the wrong things. He didn’t want anything more to do with me. He wanted a new slave.
It’s easy, with Brett, to forget. About the two drug mules who disappeared, about the false identity, about my suspicions. It’s easy to forget when his smile made my heart swoon. When he wrapped his arms around me and I couldn’t help but laugh. I should have stayed in Quincy. I didn’t realize that my resolve had no chance in his presence.
He hung an arm around my shoulders as we walked from the plane. I glanced around the airport, at the lines of planes hitched to the concrete, the lot’s lights illuminating the row against the black night sky. Tuesday, I had enlisted Jena. Didn’t give her details, just told her Brett’s real name and had her sit down with me, show me the sites she uses when she snoops. The woman can’t parallel park, but she’s lethal in investigation when given the proper tools. I didn’t want to give her the proper tools, didn’t want to share my suspicions with the largest mouth in Gadsden County. So she snooped, I watched, and within fifteen minutes, the Internet revealed that Betschart Yachts owned two planes. One, the Navajo Chieftain that we’d always used. The other? A Citation jet, one that could seat twelve and make the jaunt from Quincy to Puerto Vallarta in forty-five minutes. Our flight had taken almost two hours.
“So... maybe he’s cheap. It’s cheaper to fly the Chieftain, right?”
 
; Jena slow-blinked at me in response across the kitchen table.
“Or...” I muttered defiantly, “maybe he just prefers it.”
She shrugged. “Sure. Except...” she spun the laptop towards me and tapped one acrylic nail on the top of the screen. “Here’s the last six months’ worth of flights that the Citation’s taken.”
“How’d you find this?” I scooted closer.
“FAA flight plans are public record. Notice anything interesting?”
I somehow heard the pop of her gum over the loud thud of my heart. I sat back, turning this information over in my head. “Yeah. It’s gone to all of the same places we went.”
“And on the same days,” Jena trumpeted. “Now,” she leaned back and crossed her arms, scrunching her face in textbook perplexity, “what the hell is up with that?”
I feigned confusion. Did a lot of shoulder shrugs and gasps of disbelief. Then all but pushed her out the door in an attempt to hide my poor acting. It doesn’t make sense to bring two planes. Not unless you wanted to bring back to the States something you didn’t want your girlfriend to find out about. Now, on Puerto Vallarta’s airstrip, I looked for the Citation, searched for its tail number among the line of vehicles.
“Wanting to swap planes?” Brett teased, his arm tightening around me, pulling my head to his mouth.
I shook my head. “No, just looking. I didn’t realize how many different types of planes there are. Have you ever thought about getting another?”
Awesome segue. Maybe I did have a future in stealth. I looked away from the planes and towards the customs office. I hadn’t seen it. Maybe Jena’s information was wrong.
“No, the Chieftain handles my needs just fine. Plus, it’ll land anywhere in anything. Bigger planes cause more problems.”
I searched for a hidden, drug-related meaning in his words, but came up blank.
I woke up, at some point, confined, the hum of a car putting me - most likely - in a trunk, tape obstructing my mouth and eyes from any further information gathering. There was something hard against my back, each bump in the road throwing me against it. I tried to roll, tried to bend, the metal cuffs around my wrists and ankles keeping me in place, the only result a jarring knock on the head when I tipped forward. I stayed still, tried to listen, tried to think.