by Bella Jewel
I turn and study him. Mack is Native American, and possibly one of the most handsome men I’ve met, outside of Tyke. He’s flawless, and rugged without having a single tattoo on his body. He doesn’t look as if he fits into the club, but he most certainly does.
“It’s going good, Mack. Thanks.”
“You working with some good people?”
I nod. “As far as I know. I’m mostly on my own and I’m okay with that.”
I started a job at a massive hotel about three months ago. I service all the rooms and clean. It’s not the best job in the world, but I’m studying on the side to do my basic schooling, and then I want to progress onto being a nurse, of course I need to come out of my shell a whole lot for that to happen, so right now it’s just a dream, maybe even a goal. I was taken at a young age, so my education was limited. I have no job experience and poor reading and writing skills, so I’m lucky to have gotten a job at all.
“That’s good, kid.”
“Well,” I say, sliding off my chair, “I just wanted to come by and say hello.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” Maddox says, nudging me with his shoulder. “You know we like havin’ you around.”
“Yeah,” I say, my eyes sliding to Tyke, who is studying me.
“I’ll walk you out,” he says, dislodging his hand from Andi, who had been squeezing with fierce possession.
“Okay, see you guys.”
I get a heap of goodbyes, and then I take Tyke’s hand when he offers it. Andi glares at us, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He walks me outside of the compound and to my car, which everyone pitched in and bought for me when I started working. When we reach it, I lean my back against it and Tyke steps up in front of me, his intense brown eyes studying my face.
“I’ve missed you, darlin’.”
He doesn’t call me darlin’ often, but when he does my heart melts.
“Me too, Tyke,” I say, smiling up at him.
He reaches out, placing his hand on the car beside my head, effectively trapping me. “We’re going to get together. I’ll make the time.”
“It’s okay, you’re busy with Andi and—”
He leans down close, cutting my words right off. “I said I’d make time, Pip, and I will.”
“Okay,” I say softly.
I’m not good with confrontation, and I struggle to get into arguments. It probably makes me somewhat of a doormat, but I’m timid in personality and that’s because of my upbringing, at least, that’s the conclusion I’ve come to. It’s probably why Tyke isn’t attracted to me; he seems to like his women more on the . . . fierce side.
“Missed your pretty face around these parts.”
If only he knew how much I’ve missed him, too.
“I should come in more. I just . . . don’t really feel the need to be in here. I’m not part of the club.”
“Hey,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “You are and always will be part of this club. Just ask any one of those members. You’re one of the few women they’d lay their lives down for, and you’re not even an old lady.”
I wrinkle my nose and he grins. The whole “old lady” thing is still strange to me, even though I understand it to a point. Santana seems happy with the title, so it mustn’t be too bad.
“I’m kind of glad I’m not an old lady,” I say with a low laugh.
His eyes twinkle. “Me too, because I wouldn’t be happy about it.”
“You wouldn’t?” I squeak.
“No,” he grunts. “I wouldn’t.”
He doesn’t elaborate. What do his words even mean? Confusion swells in my chest.
“Well,” I say, shifting. “I should go.”
He reaches up and cups my jaw, titling my head back. “Don’t be a stranger to me, little one. You hear me?”
“I hear you, Tyke.”
He flashes me a smile, and then kisses my head again before stepping back. “Call me, yeah?”
“You got it.”
I climb into my car, smiling.
I might not have Tyke in the way I want him, but having him in my life is the most precious gift I’ve ever been given.
~*~*~*~
“Pippa!”
I flinch at the sound of my boss, George’s, voice. I turn slowly, letting my fingers uncurl from my cleaning cart. I was just about to enter room 204 to give it a clean before the next guests arrive tomorrow, when he called out to me.
I don’t see George a lot, mostly because I work nights when everything is quiet, but tonight he came in to do his usual weekly check.
I keep my head partially lowered as he strides closer. George is about thirty years old, and is quite a handsome man. He’s got dark red hair, pale skin and light blue eyes. It works for him—he has that Scottish look. He has a slight accent, too, which tells me he probably hasn’t been here his entire life.
“Ah, good evening, George,” I say timidly.
I still don’t lift my head and stare him fully in the eyes. This is something that bothers a lot of people, but I struggle to do it. My submissive personality has my face turned down more than it’s turned up. Tyke often takes hold of my chin and forces our eyes to meet.
“You didn’t do as I asked, Pippa,” he barks.
Did I mention George is also an awful boss?
He is. I assume a good deal of bosses are like this, or so I’ve figured from hearing people around me talk, so I don’t question it—I just keep to myself.
“Ah . . .” My voice shakes. “I thought—”
“You thought?” he barks. “You thought what? I said you are to clean all the visitor toilets before starting your duties.”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts,” he roars, stepping closer. “If you can’t do your job, then you can find another one.”
My bottom lip trembles and my chest clenches. Sofie, the other girl I’m on with tonight, told me she would do the toilets if I would take the rooms. We often switch jobs. I don’t know where she’s gone, but she obviously didn’t do it or George wouldn’t be here getting in my face and screaming at me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, staring at the carpet.
“Are you daft or something?”
I flinch, but don’t lift my eyes. I also don’t answer.
“Look at me, Pippa.”
I raise my eyes, even though I don’t want to. He’s glaring at me with his hands on his hips. “Well?” he barks. “Are you daft?”
Daft? I’m unsure what that word means.
“I, ah, no,” I say.
“Then stop acting like I’m going to flog you every time I speak. Jesus, it’s like you’re a scared wounded puppy. When someone speaks to you, Pippa, look them in the eye. You’re acting like you have half a brain! Now, do as I asked. If I have to ask again, I’ll fire you.”
With that, he spins and storms off.
I turn to face my cart with shaky legs. No one has spoken so harshly to me since . . . since Artreau. I feel stupid and pathetic. I feel as though he’s just proving to me, and the rest of the world, just how much I don’t fit in. I swallow the lump forming in my throat and push my cart towards the first set of toilets. Just as I open the door, Sofie comes rushing in.
“I’m so sorry, Pippa!” she says, her face flushed. “I was ill.”
My face scrunches and I grow concerned. Poor Sofie. That explains her delay.
“Are you okay?” I say, my voice full of concern.
She nods. “I think I ate something bad. I heard George yelling at you; I’m so sorry. I’ll go and tell him what happened.”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s okay. Just let it be.”
She gives me a sympathetic look. Sofie is a really nice girl. Each time I speak to her, she’s friendly and welcoming. She’s a lot like me in a sense. She’s a tiny blond girl, only her eyes are a bright hazel, instead of brown like mine.
My hair has a more white-blond effect, where as hers is sunny blond, but aside from that, we’re a similar height and weight. It’s nice
to know I’m not the only midget in the world. I have often wondered if I was always going to look different to every other woman I encountered.
Sofie changed that thought process for me.
“Let me help you out with these; it’ll only take me a little bit to do the rooms. I don’t want you to get into any more trouble. He really was an asshole to you.”
I nod, feeling the shame rise up in my chest again. The way he spoke to me tugged deep—it stirred emotions I’ve managed to live without for the past few years. He filled me with shame and made me feel as if I was worth nothing. I don’t like that feeling. I don’t like it at all.
I work in silence, even though Sofie chats away. Towards the end of the evening, my phone alerts me to the fact that I’ve got a text message. I don’t really answer texts because the whole thing confuses me, but lately I am starting to figure it out. Santana insists I learn, because it’s the ‘way of the world’, but I find so much more peace without it.
I pull the phone out, anyway, and glance at the screen. It’s a message from Tyke.
Tyke: Little one, I thought you were off tonight?
Oh. He thought I wasn’t at work. I try to remember if I told him my shifts, but don’t recall telling him I wasn’t working. Maybe he’s confused. I glance at Sofie, who is in a toilet cleaning, and I quickly respond.
Pippa: Sorry. I thought you knew.
He answers a moment later.
Tyke: What time do u finish?
I swallow, not sure I want to see anyone tonight. My heart is still . . . aching.
Pippa: Probably midnight.
Tyke – Good, I’ll swing past.
God.
A huge part of me wants to say yes, but another part, a more fragile part, doesn’t want him to see me like this. He probably thinks I’m pathetic as it is without seeing me in this state. I respond, hoping my message isn’t rude.
Pippa: I don’t want visitors tonight, but thanks.
Then I switch my phone off and get back to work.
CHAPTER TWO
THEN – Pippa
I don’t know where I am. All I know is that I’m in a foreign place, with foreign people, and no one to tell me what’s happening. I’m freezing cold and I’m so thirsty my tongue feels like a thick piece of sandpaper in my mouth. My body is aching from many hours of travel and little stretching time. I’m alone. Santana isn’t here. Kennedy isn’t here. No one I know is here.
The terror swirling in my chest hasn’t eased at all in the past forty-eight hours. Now we’ve been dumped in a huge frightening house, and it’s gotten even worse. The place we’re in is not America. That much I know. I have no idea where we are—all I know is that I am a long, long way from home. The worst part? I have no idea why.
My mind tries to go over every single thing that happened when I was in Kennedy’s care. Sure, there were things that were off, the drugs especially, but things seemed relatively normal considering. Santana had started to slip, and I knew he was giving her those horrible pills, but she still took care of me. It seemed as if things were moving along at a steady pace.
Then my world got flipped on its axis, and here I am. I have no idea what I’m here for, but I’ve grabbed a few snippets of conversations and managed to have a good guess. Whoever these people are, they buy people. Slaves, to be correct. What sort of slaves I don’t know, but it would seem that’s the closest I’m going to come to an explanation.
In my mind, I can’t quite figure out why someone would be sold as a slave. Did Kennedy do something wrong? Did he owe a debt and this is how it was paid? Did he do this on purpose to make money? I don’t know why anyone would want me. I’m tiny, and weak, and fragile. I’m no good to these people.
Someone coughs and I’m brought back to the here and now. There are eight of us in this tiny room with only one small window for light. There’s no definite pattern in race, age, or gender. There are white, black, Indian, Asian and even South African people amongst the group. There seems to be no age limit, considering I’m under the age of fifteen. The oldest of the group could possibly be sixty.
The room we’re in is long, but thin. There are beds lined up and one tiny bathroom with an old rusted-out basin and toilet. The shower is broken—there are chipped tiles lining it and there’s little to no water pressure. The beds are hard and uncomfortable, dipping in the middle. We were stripped of our clothes the moment we arrived, and put in ugly work clothes.
Maybe that’s what we’re here to do . . . work.
We’ve all barely spoken, but a few words have been shared. Names, mostly. Everyone seems as frightened as I am. I don’t think they understand why they’re here, either. Some look as if they’ve had harder lives than the others, and like they may possibly even be drug addicts and alcoholics. One girl, who is around eighteen, looks like an old woman, she’s so damaged from substance abuse. I’ve lived on the streets long enough to figure out how people who abuse drugs look.
The door creaks and my head turns slowly towards it. The man who captured me walks in, dressed in a suit and tie. His hair is slicked back and he’s got a cold smile on his face. He steps into the room, his hands placed neatly behind his back. He looks so formal. I know he’s a monster, though. I can see it in his pitiless eyes.
“Hello, slaves. My name is Artreau, but that’ll be of no relevance to you. I’m here to tell you why you’re in my care. I own you now. You were sold to me to pay a debt—I’m sure you all know exactly who and what put you in this position.”
My heart clenches. Kennedy. He put me here. He sold me to this monster. I just don’t understand why. I thought he cared about Santana and I? Sure, he cared for her more than me, but he took care of us both. Why would he do this? And if he’s done this to me, what has he done to Santana? The thought has my chest clenching.
“I own tobacco fields,” Artreau goes on. “A good deal of them for that matter. I work them and sell the crop to make a living. I don’t want to pay people my hard-earned money to do the job of harvesting them, so that’s where you come in. You will work those fields, you will plant, and you will tend to and protect my crop. That is your job, and it’s how you will survive here. If you don’t do it, you’ll starve to death and die. Consider it the way you get fed.”
Vomit rises in my throat. It’s a dream, a bad dream. I’ll wake up soon.
“There’s full security on my land, so don’t think about running. You will be chained to a partner, so the action of one will result in the punishment of the person with you. Consider that before trying to escape me. You will be fed once a day, and only if you’ve completed your full day’s work. This is your accommodation.” He waves his hand at the room. “You will shower here, and once a week your clothes and bedding will be washed and returned to you.”
This is a nightmare. It has to be.
“Now, don’t bother to argue because there is no way out. You will be released only when you’ve repaid the debt owed to me. That can take years, even decades, so get comfortable. This is your life now.”
With that, he turns and walks out.
An older man from the back of the room leaps up and runs towards the door, but it’s already been slammed and locked. He pummels his fists against the wood, screaming over and over, but there’s no point. There is no way out. A silent tear slips down my cheek as a horrible reality sets in.
I’ll never be free.
My heart aches. Santana. God, help me, please.
~*~*~*~
NOW – Pippa
My tired feet drag me to my front door after a long night at work. I put my key in the lock but jump when a voice comes from the shadows. “I don’t want visitors tonight, but thanks.”
Tyke.
I turn and see him slowly emerge from my patio, arms crossed over his big chest. He’s limping slightly and I know it’s because his legs are sore, but he constantly insists on walking instead of being in his chair.
“Ah, Tyke, what are you doing here?” I whisper.
; “What kind of message was that, Pip?”
Dammit. I did offend him with my message.
“I was just—”
“I don’t want visitors tonight, but thanks,” he repeats, stepping closer.
I look away, my cheeks warming. “I’m sorry. I was just tired.”
“That’s a lie.”
I flinch and he notices, because he takes my chin and turns my face towards his. His brown eyes search my face. “What happened, little one?”
“Nothing, Tyke. I’m honestly tired.”
“Since when did you start tellin’ me lies?”
I swallow, and I can’t help it—the events of the night catch up with me and big, angry tears rise forth and spill down my cheeks. Tyke’s eyes follow them, and his face goes hard. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing, I just—”
“Darlin’,” he says gently. “What happened?”
I can’t tell him what happened. I’ve seen how the club reacts when one of their girls is upset, or hurt by someone else. If I tell Tyke about my boss, he’ll storm in there and probably beat him to a pulp. It’s the first and only job I’ve ever had; I can’t afford to lose it. So . . . I lie. I hate lying, but I don’t want things to spiral out of control.
“Tyke,” I say, so quietly my voice is barely there. “What’s daft?”
He flinches and his jaw goes so tight I can see the muscle bulging from his cheek. “What did you say?”
“I . . .”
“Did someone call you that?”
I look away.
“Who?” he demands, his voice like steel. “Who called you that, Pip?”
“It was a customer . . .”
I hate lying. I hate it. I hate it.
“Why would any customer call you that?” he questions.
I glance hesitantly at his face, and it’s still hard. “I dropped the serving tray. He got angry and called me daft.”
Tyke drops my chin. “Is he still there?” he asks, pulling out his phone.
Panic swells in my chest. “No, Tyke!”
“No one calls you daft, and no one makes you cry. Is. He. Still. There?”
He’s scaring me.