“You don’t have to be,” Joaquin says. “Even in Russia, women know never to speak to him; he’s never seen the inside of a jail cell because no police officer would ever dare arrest him, certainly not for something as minor as hitting a waitress because she greeted him at his table.”
“Everybody knows his face,” Cesara says. “And if they don’t, they learn it quickly.”
I want this man dead almost more than Vonnegut. Maybe he is Vonnegut—that would be perfect; killing two birds, and all that. Oh well; if they’re not the same, at least I’ll have something to look forward to after Vonnegut is dead.
“And the third buyer,” Cesara says, relaxing against the couch; her body language suggests this man isn’t as brutal as the last. “Well, she and I have…a past.”
She? Ahh, I get it, Cesara; no need to elaborate—but I want you to anyway.
“Her name is Callista,” Cesara says. “Worth fifty million. She’s rich and beautiful, and she loves buying men strictly to serve her every need. Not much you need to worry about her.”
I’m not sure I believe her—maybe the smirk that followed has something to do with it.
“Oh, now don’t lie to her, Cesara,” Joaquin says playfully, and I turn my attention to him. “Callista loved Cesara once—I think she still loves her. If you want to call what they had, love.”
I pretend to be irritated at this ‘enraging’ and ‘unacceptable’ news—another woman and Cesara? I’ll kill a bitch! Of course, I couldn’t care less, but I can’t let her know that.
I turn to Cesara, lines of anger deepening around my eyes, the inside of my mouth pinched between my teeth. “And you expect me to treat this…buyer…with respect? That will be hard to do when wanting to kill her is the only thing on my mind.”
Cesara smiles, and she leans toward me; I can feel the warmth of her mouth nearing mine, and then the moistness of her tongue. I kiss her hard, almost forgetting that with her I’m supposed to be the submissive one. But with Joaquin in the room? I’m not sure what she expects of me in a situation like this. And I don’t want to be in a situation like this! Shit…I don’t know what to do!
“As I said,” she whispers onto my mouth and I can still taste myself on her, “you won’t have to worry about Callista. She’s weak—nothing like you.”
“Then why did Joaquin call you a liar?” I tug on her bottom lip with my teeth.
The heat of Joaquin’s body pressing against me from behind crowds me; one hand moves along my hip, the other brushes my hair away from my neck. “Callista doesn’t do anything herself; she has others do it for her,” he says, his breath on my neck.
When Joaquin’s hand slips between my legs, it triggers the plan to get out of this, that I never even knew I had. I turn on Joaquin like a captive lion turning on its trainer; my elbow spears his face, and he falls back against the sofa with me on top of him, my legs straddling his waist; my hands around his throat, my thumbs pressing against his windpipe; my face twisted with rage: teeth bared, eyes swirling with all the crazy I can summon.
“Lydia!” Cesara’s voice is like a whip; her hands grip my arms from behind, trying to pull me off of him. “Stop it! Stop it now! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
I grip Joaquin’s throat tighter, and bear down into his strained face, but alas, he’s much bigger, much stronger than me, and I can feel the tables turning quickly.
Two seconds later, I’m flying across the short distance, and I hit the floor on my back with a thud!
“LYDIA!” Cesara shouts; before I notice Joaquin coming toward me, Cesara is between us, trying to hold him back. “Joaquin, wait! Just wait a fucking minute, all right!”
But he’s not listening, and he grabs Cesara’s arm and shoves her aside before bearing down on me like a towering, murderous shadow. Joaquin’s eyes…he’s going to kill me; my ‘brilliant’ plan was the worst plan I’ve ever come up with.
Nonetheless, I stay in character, rounding my chin defiantly, daring him to do his worst; a grin dances on my lips. “Do it,” I challenge. “Do it!”
“Please, Joaquin,” Cesara begs, coming up behind him. “At least let her explain herself—please!”
Is that real begging? She’s actually begging this man for my life. Interesting.
Without acknowledging her, Joaquin crouches in front of me, propping his arms atop his legs; he cocks his head to one side, and then the other, studying me, as though undecided whether I’m the most intriguing thing he’s ever encountered, or the stupidest.
“Is that what you want?” he taunts me. “To kill you?”
“I don’t care what you do,” I snap back, “just don’t touch me like that.”
A hint of a smile appears around his eyes.
“Joaquin—”
He puts up his hand and silences Cesara.
“I’m not going to kill her,” he says, and it surprises me. “Just like you didn’t kill her when you first brought her here—like you, Cesara, I see something in her worth studying. Like you, Cesara…” he grins at me, and slowly rises into a stand. “…I see something in her I want, something I’ll have before long.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” I ask, still sitting with my back pressed against the sofa; my legs spread open; an I-fucking-dare-you look on my face.
He spears his fingers through the top of his hair, and then adjusts his tie. “I like a woman hard to get,” he says. “But one who hates men this much, presents an even more intriguing challenge—and I never back down from a challenge.”
He turns to Cesara. “Take off your clothes,” he tells her, and she knows he means business; she knows this isn’t the time to stall, or argue, or play hard-to-get herself.
Cesara steps out of her red dress, letting it pool around her feet.
Joaquin grabs a fistful of the back of her hair and he turns her naked body around, bending her over the sofa arm.
He looks right at me as he shoves himself into her from behind. “I want you to watch me fuck the woman you’ve…”—he thrusts his hips—“…grown so attached to.”
My jaw tightens, grinding my teeth; my nostrils flare; my eyes shoot him with hatred and vengeance. But I don’t test his patience, knowing I’ve already not once, but twice now, kissed the mouth of Lady Luck and saved myself from certain death. But Lady Luck, like all ruthless bitches, rarely ever offers thirds.
Niklas
Jackie breathes heavily into the phone. “You should’ve seen it,” she says. “I knew stuff like this went on in the world, but…Niklas, it was awful—awful!”
“Calm down,” I tell her. “Remember what we talked about—you need to stay in character at all times, even when you think you’re alone—”
“I can’t!” she cuts me off. “I’m surprised I could hold it together while I was there; I almost lost it. You sent the wrong person, Nik—what the hell were you thinking, anyway?”
I’m starting to think she’s right—I shouldn’t have sent her; I should’ve sent someone experienced. But it’s too late to do anything about that now. I just need to keep her calm, and in character long enough to pull this off.
“Are you Ok, Jackie?” Is Izzy Ok? Was she even there? I really need to know what Jackie found out about Izabel, but right now Jackie is priority.
“Sure,” she snaps back sarcastically, “I’m per-fect! I’m in Mexico, pretending to be someone who likes to buy slaves, surrounded by dozens of sick, twisted people who actually do like it, and I’m on the verge of losing my shit right there in front of everybody—I can’t go back tomorrow; I just can’t do it, Niklas. Besides, I…” She trails off.
“You what?”
I hear her sigh into the phone.
“Jackie?”
“I’m out of money,” she confesses.
“How can you be—?”
“I tried to buy them all,” she says, and my throat dries up listening to her, “but I could only buy thirteen.”
“Thir—thirteen?! Are you fucking kidding me? You bought thirteen
girls?”
“Yes!” she snaps. “And don’t you talk to me like that, you sonofabitch!”
“You were only supposed to buy one or two,” I say, gritting my teeth. “And those were just for show—now you’re telling me you spent the entire one hundred fifty grand on the first night?” Jesus Christ, Jackie! Wait…thirteen girls, one hundred fifty grand—something doesn’t add up.
“No,” she says, “I spent your money, and my money, too.”
I blink and suck in sharply—What the fuck…
For a moment, my mouth is too goddamned dry to speak; I roll my sandpaper tongue against my cheek; my free hand is balled into a fist down at my side.
And then it dawns on me—she spent her own money, one million dollars, that she knows she’ll probably never see again in her lifetime, on those girls. I feel like the biggest piece of shit.
“Those poor girls,” she says with pain in her voice, “who’s going to save them and get them back to their families if I don’t, Niklas? I couldn’t just sit there and let that happen.”
“Where are they?” I ask quickly.
“Who?”
“The girls.”
“They’re here,” she says. “With me in my hotel room.”
My head falls back, and I let out a long, irritated sigh, closing my eyes and trying to get it together. I calm myself, and prepare to speak, knowing I can’t lose my temper anymore—this whole thing is too fragile, now more than ever.
“Jackie,” I say carefully, “you were supposed to wait until the third day, and take the girls with you then—what do you plan to do with them when you go back?”
She scoffs; I can picture one hand on a hip, and a sour look on her face. “I didn’t plan on going back at all,” she says. “That’s why I took them with me.”
Calm, Niklas, just stay calm.
“OK,” I say, “but did you see Izabel?”
I’m starting to assume she didn’t, or else she probably would’ve said something by now.
“Yes,” she answers, and my heart stops beating for a moment. “She’s there. And she’s fine. More than fine, actually”—(there’s a bite in her voice that confuses me)—“I’m a lot disappointed you sent me to that place for someone like her. I guess I didn’t know you as well as I thought I did.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s not one of the slave girls, Nik,” she says, as if she thinks I probably already knew this. “I think she’s one of the owners. She looked important. The man who runs the place, Joaquin Ruiz, I saw him with her and a blonde woman after the auction was over. Your Izabel had a slave girl sitting at her feet the whole night. It was disgusting.”
I can’t help but smile. Leave it to Izzy to find a way…
“All right, Jackie,” I say, “I need you to listen to me—”
“I’m not going back there,” she cuts me off.
“Do you want to buy more girls?”
Silence—I knew that would get her attention.
“If you can hold it together one more night,” I begin, “I’ll put enough money into the account for you to buy as many girls as you can.” Wait—oh, tell me she didn’t!
“Jackie, I’m going to ask you an important question.”
“OK.”
“The one million I gave you; I didn’t put that money into the account—it was put into your personal account. How in the hell did you pay them?”
“I told them I was…well, that I’d get them the money tomorrow.”
“How did you plan to do that—write a fuckin’ check with your real name and address at the top of it?”
“I don’t know! I just did and said what I had to! You figure it out!”
Don’t lose your head, Niklas, don’t lose your head, becomes my mantra.
“All right,” I say calmly, “I’m going to transfer that money into the other account—make sure you pay them tomorrow, exactly when you said you would, or they’ll kill you before you ever leave your hotel.”
“OK,” she says.
After a moment she asks, “How much?”
“How much what?”
“You said you were gonna put more money into the account so I can save more girls.”
She’s more than interested—hell, she’s out the door already; she’s in the damn limo; she’s at the mansion entrance banging on the glass to be let in!
“Five million dollars,” I say, and Jackie gasps. “That should be enough to get you in the door on the last night, and to buy a few more girls.” Four or five at the most, but I better not tell Jackie that.
“But what about tomorrow night?” she asks.
Oh, now she wants to go to all three! Make up your damn mind, woman!
“I need you there on the final night,” I explain. “And if you go on night two, you’ll end up spending the whole five million and have nothing left for night three.”
“But—”
“No,” I cut her off this time, “you do it my way, or you don’t buy anymore girls.”
“Save,” she corrects me icily.
“Save anymore girls,” I correct myself just to make her happy. “And don’t be so judgmental of Izabel; she’s playing a role just like you. You just keep an eye on her for me; report everything back to me: who you see her with, what she does, anything that happens to her.”
“OK,” Jackie agrees, pauses and then adds, “But now what do I do with these girls?”
I laugh shortly. “You’ll have to take them with you,” I tell her. “Can’t leave them alone because they could blow your cover. Can’t set them free right now, or it’ll look suspicious. How are they taking it? The girls—how do they feel about you?” Please don’t say you told them you rescued them.
“I told them I was saving them,” she answers, and I shake my head. “Most are taking it well—they’re hopeful, and ready to go home.”
I let out a long, deep breath; the fingers of my free hand rub in a circular motion against my temple, trying to tame a growing headache.
“Jackie, listen to me”—I point my finger sternly, as if she can see it—“you have to take the girls with you, and hope like hell none of them freak out by being forced to go back there, and end up blowing your cover.”
“Why can’t I just leave them with Schwarzenegger and Stallone in the hotel?”
“Because then who’s going to look after you?”
She sighs.
“I think I can handle it myself,” she says. “I made quite a show—it was actually kinda fun, the acting part—and nobody threatened me, or dragged me away; honestly, I think they enjoyed it.”
“What kind of show?” I’m afraid to know.
“Well, I know we talked about acting like I was too good for conversation to keep people from getting too into my business, but…I kinda went another direction last minute.”
My left brow hitches up. “Yeah?” I question suspiciously.
“It just happened,” she explains. “But it felt more natural in the moment.” Her tone changes from nervous to proud. “That’s the work of a real actress, a great actress: go with what feels right; it always makes for a more believable character.”
“Tell that to Spielberg,” I say.
“I’m sure Tom Cruise tells him all the time,” she comes back.
I shrug. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Wait—am I really having this conversation?
“Look,” I say, “I don’t care what role you’re playing, as long as you don’t get yourself killed, or your cover blown.”
“Aww, are you worried about me, Niklas?” she teases.
“Well, of course I am,” I say. “You die and I lose all my damn money.”
She laughs, and it’s obvious she doesn’t believe my reasoning. “OK, bad-boy Nik, you keep telling yourself that.”
I grin. Just a little.
I end the call relieved. Relieved that Jackie is alive and seems confident she can keep it that way. Relieved that Izabel is right where I expected
her to be. And even more relieved that she’s in a position that poses less of a risk to her life.
Going into this, I had no way of knowing if Izabel would be at this auction, but it was the only one scheduled in that area, and seemed like a no-brainer.
I wish I could tell myself to sleep well tonight, but I’m not at home, unfortunately. And I won’t be sleeping.
Slipping my cell phone into my front pocket, I turn back to the dimly-lit room, and to the man sitting in the chair, watching me.
“You won’t get away with this,” he warns. “When this is all over, my men will hunt you down, and they’ll kill you.”
Casually, I take a seat on his expensive sofa, kick my dirty boots up on his expensive coffee table, and pluck a cigarette from my sixty-dollar jacket.
I light up, taking my time.
“When this is all over,” I say, take a drag and hold it in my lungs, “as long as you do what you’re supposed to do, maybe you’ll be alive to tell your men to hunt me down.”
He snarls at me; he wants to beat me to death right here in his living room, but that’s not likely to happen.
I look over at his daughter; she sits quietly, tight-lipped, her hands tucked between her thighs.
“Does she know what you do?”
“Leave her out of this,” he demands.
“I’m not the one who brought her into it,” I point out. “You were, Mr. Lockhart.”
“Daddy, what is he talking about?”
“Don’t worry about it, baby.”
She looks scared. She should be. Frances Julietta Lockhart’s ‘daddy’ is a murderous piece of shit who likes to dip his shriveled-up dick in women he terrifies into submission.
He looks to me again, though always aware of the gun in my hand.
“Two more days,” I tell him. “I hope you have beer; I like to have a beer on the weekend.”
He shoots me with the most indignant look, and I puff on my cigarette.
Fredrik
“I haven’t seen her, boss,” Dante says into the phone. “There were a couple girls who kinda looked like her, but she wasn’t one of them—no scar on the neck.”
Damn. I thought for sure if she was going to be sold at this particular auction, it would’ve been on the first day; her scars make her damaged goods to these people, but she’s still a beautiful woman. And I know Izabel: if she wants into a place, she’ll get into it; if she wants to be worthy enough to sell despite her scars, then she’ll make them believe she’s worthy.
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