The Bronze Garza

by S. Ann Cole

  The drive isn’t long. In about fifteen or so minutes, we’re in the parking lot of an establishment. A wide, rectangular building lit up with neon-pink light all around. Above it, a glowing sign reads: High Scores Gentleman’s Club.

  My heart falters, and my neck heats.

  A strip club.

  Oh.

  Oh.

  This is his club.

  He’s chosen me. Finally. And I don’t know if I should be excited, or terrified. What I do feel is pathetic that “excited” is even a consideration. I’m losing my goddamn mind.

  The car parks and Simone and I are all but dragged out of it. Dimitri and Pavlov get out as well, and Oleg and Viktor get in the front seat, then back out of the parking lot, leaving us.

  We’re grasped by the elbows and urged toward the building. The wide, black door swings open and a tall, half-handsome, half-menacing man in a pinstripe suit steps out.

  Holding the door open, he scowls at the men. “They’re sixteen hours late.”

  His accent is British. Hmm. Not Russian.

  Dimitri shrugs. “Igor is, how you say, in a mood.”

  “I don’t care about his mood,” the English snaps. “This is business.”

  A derisive snort from Pavlov. “Let your boss take it up with our boss, yes?”

  “That I will do,” the English mumbles under his breath as he steps aside to give us pass.

  “Move it, svin’ya.” I’m shoved roughly through the door, as if it’s my fault Igor’s in a snit. But I don’t complain, because I’m desperate to get out of this biting cold in this skimpy ass dress.

  We pass through a narrow entrance, which spits us out into a large club. The lights are dim, and the chairs are turned upside down atop the tables and stage. A graying woman in blue overalls is mopping in the far back.

  “Take them upstairs,” the English orders.

  “We do not work for you,” grumbles Pavlov. “We are here to keep watch over our girls, not to take orders from you.”

  “Bloody fucking hell with you two grumbling wankers,” the English growls. “How has Igor kept you fucktwits around for so long? You wouldn’t last a day with me.”

  The two men huff with indignation, but escort us up the stairs. Metal stairs. The unsafe kind with huge gaps in between.

  We’re then lead down a hall of red doors, a left turn, and a few shuffled steps later we’re in front of a paint-stripped metal door.

  Pavlov produces a key and unlocks the door. Then he bangs it open and shoves us in, barking at us for no goddamn reason except to be an asshole.

  Inside the room is decorated quite nicely with pinks and purples and has two plush-looking full-sized beds with thick comforters and fluffy pillows.

  It’s two occupants sit up in bed and rub their eyes.

  Kate and Zoey.

  “Zoey,” Pavlov barks, “you will tell them how it works, yes?”

  With that, we’re pushed into the room and the door is slammed behind us, followed by the telltale click of the key in the lock.

  Caged again.

  Zoey’s eyelids flutter, and I think she’s blinking sleep from her eyes before I belatedly realize it’s from shock.

  “You two?” she asks in disbelief.

  Kate flips over to face the wall, mumbling, “I’m not sharing a bed with either of them, Zoey, so you better get over here.”

  I pinch the hem of my dress and curtsy. “Your royal highnesses.”

  Simone rolls her eyes at me.

  Zoey flips back the covers and climbs out of the bed on the right. “Okay, you two can take this bed. I’ll fill you in later about the rest, if that’s okay. We had a busy night and I just really need to get some sleep.”

  “Of course, that’s fine,” Simone replies. “No problem.”

  I curtsy again. “Spasiba.”

  “Quit being a bitch, Cola,” Zoey snaps as she crosses over to Kate’s bed. “You’re always such a sarcastic cunt.”

  While Simone glowers at me as if I’m the reason for her troubles, I amble to the bed and carelessly drop my bag to the floor. Then I kick my shoes off and climb under the covers.

  “Turn off the lights!” Kate whines.

  I arch a brow at Simone.

  Do the queen’s bidding, girl. Since you want to climb up their asses so badly.

  With an inaudible mumble under her breath, Simone flicks off the lights.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Something that will numb me.”

  Lyra

  A VOICE I HAVEN’T HEARD IN a long time pulls me from the depths of slumber.

  Damon Salvatore.

  I knock the covers off from over my head and flip onto my back. Mounted on the wall across the room is a flat-screen TV I hadn’t noticed last night, and The Vampire Diaries is on.

  There are several televisions back at the penthouse, but no international channels, so all the girls watch on them are news and Russian soap operas.

  And me, I read.

  All day long.

  At the penthouse, there’s a room upstairs adjacent to Igor’s office that’s like an asylum. White all around with no furniture and all the windows boarded up. We call it “the dark room”, ironically, because it’s where Igor sends us when we misbehave. Locked in, isolated, no food.

  With me being me—unyielding and lippy, constantly chafing against Igor and his men—I spend at least two weeks out of every month in that room. Starved and sequestered.

  There are a lot of books in the house, however, because the lady doctor who examines us bi-monthly brings us a stack of books in English each time she comes. When I’m in The Dark Room for punishment, Igor does allow me a book inside. So reading is all I ever do. It’s quite possibly the only thing that’s kept me sane.

  Now seeing a familiar TV show, hearing these voices…it feels like waking up from a deep, deep sleep.

  God, I want to weep. I never imagine Damon Salvatore’s annoying waggling eyebrows would bring me such peace.

  Such a simple thing, yet so monumental at the same time.

  Kate and Zoey are sitting up in bed, backs against the headboard, attention trained on the television as they stuff their faces with burgers.

  Burgers? Where’d they get those?

  I glance around the room until I spot the trays with takeout containers, coffee cups, and bottles of water on top of the white, low chest-of-drawers.

  It’s food. Like, real food. Not carrots and broccoli and cauli-fucking-flower. I spot actual carbs and sugar on those trays.

  When I was first taken, I was about 180lbs. Even though I stand at five-feet-ten and hide weight well, my “excess weight” was deemed a travesty. Determined to turn me into a skeleton, Igor placed me on an extreme diet of nothing but fruits, vegetables, beans, nuts, and water.

  I’ve dropped thirty pounds in the first couple of months. However, my body type is not built to be skinny, and there’s nothing I can do about my wide hips or D-cups, so after losing an additional five pounds, that was it, my body rebelled and locked itself into a state of, well, nothing. I’ve neither lost nor gained an ounce since. And that pisses Igor off, so fruits, vegetables, beans, and nuts are all I’m ever allowed to eat.

  While the others are treated to fast food bi-weekly, I’m always forced to sit and watch them eat in front of me.

  Seeing those takeout containers now, it’s taking everything in me not to lurch off the bed and dive face-first into it all. But I know that’s what Zoey and Kate are probably waiting to see.

  A tiny sniffle catches my attention, and I look down to where Simone’s form is outlined under the covers beside me. I’d assumed she was still asleep but apparently she isn’t. Her eyes are red, wet, puffy, and her lips are pressed tight together as though she’s fighting with all her might to not make a sound.

  Simone isn’t one to show weakness, but I know all too well that sometimes the hopelessness and dejection can become so unbearable it saps up every ounce of strength and can no longer be kept in. Lord kno
ws I’ve had my own bouts of secret tears.

  As her sad, wet eyes lifts to mine, I mouth, “Don’t lose hope.” Then I tug the covers up over her head and give her the privacy she needs.

  ~

  “SO, HOW DOES it work here, Zoey?” I ask through a groan two hours later.

  I’m curled up in a fetal position as nausea presses down on me like consequences of a bad decision. I’d barely even finished my food when I was sent running to the bathroom to hurl it all back up. It was violent, like an allergic reaction, my body intensely rejecting every morsel of food I swallowed.

  Now my stomach feels like it’s gasping while nausea rocks me.

  But it’s darkening outside the windows and I’m still uninformed on what the hell is expected of me here.

  Zoey sighs as if I’m a nuisance and hits pause on the TV show. “Well, if you couldn’t already tell, this is a strip club. It opens at ten and we’re supposed to get on stage and dance and give lap dances. The men aren’t allowed to touch you. Sex is optional. Some will proposition you, but since we’re not working for ourselves and all monies will be taken from us at the end of the night, what’s the point, right?

  “Here, all we’re expected to do is dance and entertain, nothing more. Whatever else you do is up to you. Important, though: Igor doesn’t know that sex is optional. His men planted here think that’s what we do each time we’re taken into a private lap-dance room. But the truth is just among us, okay?”

  Oh. “So, it’s just the four of us?” I ask. “This is a big club.”

  “No, there are other dancers. But they are not...like us.”

  “You mean they’re free? Not captives? Not victims of human trafficking?”

  I just feel like it should be said out loud, and hopefully it’ll jolt her ass back to reality.

  Her gaze drops to the remote in her hand, her fingers trailing idly over the buttons, her voice weak as she replies, “Yes.”

  “Do they know about us?”

  Her shoulders jerk in a shrug. “I don’t think so. If they suspect, they’re probably too afraid to ask.”

  “So at the end of the night, they just pack their things and go and we get locked in here, right?”

  “Oh, fuck off, Cola,” Kate spits. “Yes, we know we are prisoners. We know we are sex slaves. But so what if we have different ways of coping with it all?”

  I smile. “Just checking to make sure you’re both still aware of it. The reality, that is.”

  “Whatever.” She flips me off and stomps to the bathroom, locking herself inside.

  I bring my attention back to Zoey. “I don’t know how to dance.”

  She leans back against the headboard. “I couldn’t either when I first came. But the men don’t really care, to be honest. They’re just here for the nudity.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Just...be careful what you say or do, okay? William pretty much intimated that a lot of the men here, even the security they hired, are in Igor’s pockets. His spies.”

  “William?”

  “The tall, ill-tempered Brit.”

  “Oh. Well, it makes sense,” I say with a shrug, “that Igor will do whatever to protect his ‘investments’. Making sure there’s no escape for us.”

  “Yeah...” Her voice is sad and sorrowful, and it makes me happy. Her braincells aren’t lost after all.

  ~

  THE THUMP THUMP thump of the music downstairs thrums through the building later that evening as we take turns doing our hair and make-up and get dressed in the usual attire of next-to-nothing.

  To think, I used to be so prudish pre-abduction. Now being half-naked has become like second nature. Perpetual. I’ve grown so accustomed to perverted eyes and hands violating my body that my skin no longer crawls and I no longer drape my hands across myself to hide.

  I’m forever changed. The old prudish, prudent, and positive me with dazzling hopes for the future died the night my virginity was violently stolen by Igor. To “break me in.”

  We’re soon allowed out of the bedroom—aka holding cell—and ordered to get downstairs and start working.

  Zoey leads the way, reminding us of the club rules and the prices for lap dances, basic versus private.

  I peer down as we move along the corridor. Crawling with bodies and dazzling with a kaleidoscope of lights, the club is a stark contrast to when we came in this morning. On stage, two strippers grind against each other. And I’m so damn jealous of them. Jealous that they get to choose this life. That they can just quit if they feel like it. That they get to go home at the end of the night to their families and loved ones.

  Kate and Zoey split away from us as soon as we hit the bottom of the stairs.

  Simone wraps her arms around her bare mid-drift, seemingly intimidated by the crowd.

  “Are you all right?” I ask her.

  She looks at me and makes as if to say something, but then turns and walks away from me.

  Oh well.

  I weave through the crowd, making a beeline for the bar. Igor does allow me alcohol as well as those pills that make me feel like I’m floating on clouds, so that’s one thing I know for sure my system will keep down. When I get to the bar, I recognize the server behind it as the tall English man from this morning.

  William.

  I lean my torso onto the counter. “Hi!”

  He pops a brow at me as he pours tequila into a shot-glass.

  “Are we allowed to drink?” I ask over the music.

  He slides the shot-glass of tequila to the waiting customer. “Yes, but with limits.”

  “What’s the limit?”

  “Two beers max, or one shot of hard liquor.”

  “In that case, can I get a shot of the strongest thing you have behind there?” I say. “Something that will numb me.”

  Though his gaze narrows on me, he nods. Pours me a shot, then slide it across the counter to me. “Spirytus Vodka.”

  “Spasiba,” I say with a salute, then dump it down my throat.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” slurs an accent-heavy voice from my left. An arm snakes around my waist, an erection pressing up against me.

  “Hey, hands!” William barks at him.

  The man backs off me. “Sorry, sorry. I forget about your stupid rules.” He hiccups. “Are you up for a lap dance, sexy love?”

  “Sure, handsome. But I’m up on stage next,” I lie. “I’ll find you afterward, alright? “

  He gives me a grimy grin then blows me a kiss. “I will wait for you, sweet angel.”

  As he stumbles off, William gives me another raised brow.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say hastily. He might be behind the bar, but he obviously has some level of authority around here and I’ve just brazenly turned money away in front of him. “The alcohol just hasn’t kicked in yet.”

  He moves on to the next customer.

  Yup. I think I’m in trouble.

  With a sigh, I turn from the bar, willing the liquor to make haste permeating my system. I sweep my gaze around the club, over bobbing heads and through throngs of bodies, searching...

  For someone...

  Someone tall, and dark, with devastating green eyes.

  He sure is different from Igor, in that Igor likes to make himself seen, heard, known, so there’s no mistaking who’s in charge. But I’ve yet to set my sights on the man who’s in charge here.

  I spot Igor’s men around the club, however. Pavlov and Dimitri hovers close to Zoey, while Viktor watches Kate like a hawk as she gives someone a lap-dance.

  I’m considering sneaking off to the bathroom to see if I could get away with hiding in a stall for the rest of the night, but I’ve not made it more than two steps from the bar when I’m accosted by another customer.

  AN HOUR later and I’ve fast realized that strip club goers aren’t the same as Igor’s clients. These men don’t care that I’m not a stick figure or that my belly isn’t paper-flat. Or maybe they’re just too drunk to give a damn. Much to my dismay.


  At the penthouse, my undesirability protects me. Here, there’s no escaping these grubby men. In no time, I’ve worked out what little fortification the vodka shot had given me.

  I go back to the bar and beg William for another shot but he refuses me.

  As I turn from the bar with a huff and a muttered curse, I think I spot him, moving through the crowd like sand through fingers. I start in that direction but am abruptly intersected by a strapping man. “How much to get between your thighs, dorogoy?”

  I go to answer that I’m not available, but something about the directness of the question and his narrowed stare makes me rethink. Something tells me this is one of Igor’s spies. In the last hour, I was propositioned for sex three different times, and each time it was proceeded by at least two lap dances with some sweet talk mixed in. This man’s accost is too dry to be legit.

  Twirling a lock of my hair, I bite my lip and gaze coyly up at him. “Three hundred. American.”

  “Hmnh,” he grunts. “Let me think about it.”

  Yep. He’s totally a plant.

  As he brushes past me, I squint into the crowd, searching. Then I hear my name over the speaker.

  Shit.

  I’m being called to the stage.

  Now I really need alcohol. I whip to the bar again, but William isn’t there. Someone different is behind the counter now, and I almost bounce with glee. Maybe he doesn’t know I’ve already had my quota of alcohol. “A shot of tequila, please!” I call over the music.

  The man, not nearly as good-looking as William, assessed me. “Are you a Diamond Girl?”

  “A what?” I play stupid. “I’m new here, I don’t know what that means.”

  He nods and then pours tequila into a shot glass, and I lick my lips in anticipation.

  “You are American?” he asks as he slides the shot glass to me.

  “Yeah. New York. I’m just here for two weeks.” I down the tequila before he can catch on to my deception. “Anyway, they’re calling me on stage. Thanks!”

  I turn and weave through the throngs toward the stage, then begin bobbing my head to the beat of the music, trying to psych myself up.