by Nicole Fox
And, of course, once the line of physical abuse was crossed, there was no going back. The next time he hit me, I wasn’t lucky enough to be too shocked to feel anything; I felt all the pain.
This was something I wouldn’t stand for. I began to think more and more about leaving. But everything was in his name; I didn’t have a dollar to call my own aside from a little bit of mad money I had socked away. If I left, I’d be totally on my own. And Logan must’ve been suspecting this—he made it clear that if I ever left, he’d track me down and bring me right back.
“That’s … sweet of you,” I said to him, knowing that even the slightest perceived insult could send him over the edge.
He sat down behind me and started rubbing my shoulders. He was drunk, so he didn’t realize how hard he was doing it. The pain too much, I squirmed out of his hands.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he slurred.
“Just … hurts, is all,” I said.
I should’ve known better.
“I swear to fucking God,” he said, shooting up and off the bed, nearly stumbling over in the process. “I work all goddamn day for you, for this …”
He made a sweeping gesture towards the spacious, well-appointed bedroom.
“… and I’m not even allowed to touch my own goddamn girlfriend when I get home?”
“No, no,” I said, trying to do damage control, “it’s not like that.”
“Then just what the fuck is it like?” he asked.
His brown eyes burned like coals and his mouth was twisted into a tight little curl of anger.
“I mean, why the fuck wouldn’t you want me to touch you. Unless …”
And that was it.
He threw the usual unfounded accusations of cheating at me, his tone growing more and more severe as he went on. And I just took it. Not like there was anything I could have done. When he was done, he capped off his tirade with his usual move of grabbing me by my shoulders, shaking me hard, accusing me of being an ungrateful whore, and slapping me hard across the face. When he was done, he lay down on the bed and was a snoring, drunken mess within seconds.
Normally, I would’ve gone to the kitchen, applied some ice, and cried my eyes out until I fell asleep on the couch.
But that night, for reasons I couldn’t quite understand, I felt different. I felt a resolve that I’d never felt before. Right then and there, I decided that I was done, that I was gonna leave for good. Carefully, I stuck my hand into the back pocket of Logan’s slacks and withdrew his wallet carefully, like I was playing a game of Operation. I took out the cash he had and slipped the wallet back in. I knew he was out like a light, but I didn’t want to risk waking him. I found a small bag and packed a few essentials, making sure to take the little bit of cash I had. I should’ve planned things out a little better, but I knew the longer I waited the more likely it was I’d lose my nerve.
So, bag in hand, a little bit of cash in my pocket, I grabbed the keys to my old beat-up Honda Civic and got the hell out of there. I didn’t even take my phone, figuring Logan would find some way to track me down using it.
Stepping out into the cool night air, I felt finally free. I was free from the drunken tyrant who’d made my life a living hell. As I put my keys in the ignition of my car, I felt lighter than air.
The feeling didn’t last. As soon as I drove a few blocks from the apartment I realized that I didn’t have anywhere to go. I could find a place to stay in town, but New York hotels weren’t exactly the cheapest places to rent. So I drove out deep into Long Island and found some cheap flophouse near Levittown. I rented a couple nights, figuring that this would be more than enough time to figure something out.
And as I stood in the mirror of that shitty little diner, looking at my reflection, the color all but drained from my face and my auburn hair matted and frizzy, I felt just about as hopeless as I could. I had no idea what to do with myself—I’d gone from living at home to living in the dorms to living with Logan; I’d never been on my own. All I had now were a few items of clothes, some toiletries, and my crappy little car—a car that was where I’d be sleeping tonight now that I couldn’t afford a hotel.
I splashed my face with some water and reapplied my makeup, taking care to make sure that my black eye was good and covered. Then I headed back to my table, the waitress staring at me just as hard as she’d done on my way to the bathroom. Taking my seat, I forced myself to eat a few pieces of bacon, the food now lukewarm.
I needed to figure out something, and fast.
“How’s that food?” asked the waitress, returning with her coffee pot and topping me up. “Just more coffee?”
She didn’t even wait around for me to answer.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the cheap pay-as-you-go phone that I’d bought with the little bit of cash that I had. I pulled open Craigslist and searched it for something, anything, I could do for some extra money, maybe even a place to stay.
But for a girl like me, a girl with no options and no place to go, I knew exactly what that meant.
Chapter Two
Alyssa
“MODELS NEEDED NOW”
“CALENDER GIRL AUDITIONS – YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL GIRLS WANTED”
“MAKE UP TO FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS A DAY – GIRLS NEEDED NOW”
I flipped through the ad listings on my phone, my stomach growing tighter and tighter as I did. There wasn’t a single ad for any job that I could possibly get hired for in the next week. Aside from these ads for models, that is.
I knew exactly what they were asking for. They wanted girls like me who were desperate for drugs or money. I imagined showing up to some hotel in Manhattan where a few guys would be standing behind some camera equipment when I walked in. They’d ask me about myself, asking me questions about my life, the questions growing more and more personal. Then they’d ask me if I was interested in doing some “auditioning.” Then some tattooed sleaze with a dick like a mule would come out, do what I knew they’d been planning from the word go, and send me out with a few hundred dollars in my pocket and my dignity shattered.
I’d have some money, all right, but I’d officially be a prostitute. And that wasn’t even getting into the idea of someone seeing the videos once they went online.
I flipped through a few more ads, hoping against hope that I’d find something a little more reputable. But aside from the “calendar girl” ads, all I found were postings for “live-in maids.” That’s right—I could live in some rich guy’s place for free, and all I’d have to do was attend to his sexual needs whenever he needed them satisfied. Sure, like the calendar girl ads it didn’t say this directly, but the constant references to what type of applicant the person was looking for—always young and female—coupled with requests for headshots made it as clear as it could be without saying the precise words.
So that was it. Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I realized that it was prostitution or nothing. Sure, I could get a few more nights out of my car, but I’d need money for food and gas. Not to mention the fact that it was getting colder by the day.
And right at the moment that hopelessness overcame me, the waitress returned. This time, the only thing she’d brought with her was an expression that was even surlier than her typical one.
“Listen, missy, I can tell you got nowhere to go, but I gotta make a living here,” she said. “You’re costing me money taking up my booth, and I gotta ask you to finish up that food and get a move on.”
With that, she dropped my check on the table and left just as quickly as she’d arrived.
I took the bill from the table and looked it over. Sure enough, the bill would just about wipe me out. I should’ve skimped on the tip, but the waitress had sufficiently shamed me for wasting her time, and I wanted to just get out of there. I wasn’t hungry, but I knew I would be later, so I shoveled my crappy food down, dropped a couple of twenties on the table, and got out of there before I had to confront the waitress again.
Steppi
ng out into the cold New York evening, I felt about as bad as I’d ever felt in my life. I walked down the street slowly, in no hurry to get back to my car. After all, the only thing waiting for me there were the few things I’d brought with me. The best I could do was sleep and hope that no policeman happened to walk by and see me in there.
Soon, I reached the alleyway where my car was parked. It was a quiet, depressing little place, only chosen by me because the sign stated that I could park there as long as it wasn’t a garbage collection day. That would be tomorrow, of course, and as I approached my dingy, rundown off-white Civic, I realized sadly that the task of tomorrow would be to find a new place to park. That, and avoiding Logan.
I was sure that he was looking for me. He was the type of man not to take an insult like his woman leaving without a word lightly. He had the determination and the resources to track me down, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that he’d hired a private investigator or two to find me. And if he did … well, I didn’t even want to think about that.
I sighed as I opened the door to the back half of the car. I’d gathered together my clothes and made them into something resembling a bed, though it really looked more like a little burrow that a hamster or some other tiny critter like that would call a home. Taking one last look to make sure that no one was watching me, I climbed in and tried to make myself as comfortable as I could. My stomach was hot with fear about the days ahead, and as I watched my breath form in front of me from the chill, I knew that unless I figured something out, getting caught by Logan might be the least of my worries.
Sleep seemed to be an impossibility, and part of me was certain that I’d spend the night tossing and turning, the sun rising with the night not even providing me with a single minute of sleep. But I was out pretty quickly.
Thank heaven for small miracles.
# # #
Something like a bang awakened me. I was buried under my clothes and couldn’t see a thing. My eyes were wide open, and my first instinct was to throw my “blankets” off of me and figure out what the sound was.
But then I felt a presence, followed by a grunt, and the sound of someone shifting their weight in the driver’s seat.
Someone was in the car.
And the last traces of sleep were rushed out of my body by the adrenaline that was now coursing through me.
“Goddamn piece of shit car.”
The voice was thin and gruff, almost like a teenager’s impression of a tough adult.
Next, I heard the slamming of something against something, maybe metal, but I couldn’t tell.
Then the engine started.
With horror, I realized that my car was being stolen—with me inside.
I felt the car lurch into movement, then the motion of the vehicle as it pulled out of the alley. I hoped against hope that this was some kind of bad dream, that I would wake up safe and warm in my pile of clothes, refreshed from my rest. But as I felt the car turn onto the road, I knew that everything that was happening was terribly real. I was being kidnapped. My awful situation had somehow taken a turn for the worse.
I did everything I could to hold back a scream.
Chapter Three
Alyssa
I stayed perfectly still. The car tore down the road; whoever was driving it was doing so in a reckless manner that I never would. We peeled hard around a turn, the tires sounding out a shrill squeal. My heart pounded in my chest and I could feel the wet sting of perspiration in my eyes. I couldn’t believe how scared I was.
The thief turned on the radio and fiddled with the dial, finally settling on a rap station. Aggressive lyrics began streaming out of the speakers, and I allowed myself a few whimpers of fear. As we drove, the car thief began rapping along with the music, barely keeping up with the lyrics. The engine whirred loudly, and I could feel just how fast we were going.
Please get pulled over, please get pulled over, I thought over and over like a chant.
But I had no such luck. The driver kept on going, making wild turns around corners, driving well over the speed limit, and rapping along to the music.
After a time, I heard the chime of a cell phone. I heard the driver fumbled around for his phone, finally answering it.
“Yo, Russell! What’s up, bro?” he said, yelling over the music. “Fine! Damn! Hold on …”
The music quieted. I assumed that whoever was on the other end didn’t share the car thief’s taste in music.
“Yeah, I got it. We meeting in the same spot? All right, all right. Of course I’m driving carefully—what the fuck you take me for? Okay, see you in a bit, bro.”
The conversation ended and the music went right back up.
So, it wasn’t just this guy acting alone; this was some kind of operation. But what the hell would they want with my shitty little car? I couldn’t imagine them getting any more than a few hundred dollars for this old pile of junk.
I weighed my options.
Jumping out’s an option, I thought. I mean, I’ve seen it happen on TV enough times. Don’t you just, kind of tuck and roll?
I dismissed this possibility as not likely; this guy was going so fast that I’d probably just get smeared on the road.
Maybe I could grab one of these pieces of clothing and cover his eyes, I thought. Maybe force him off the road.
This was tossed aside just like the other ill-thought-out plan. I wasn’t exactly the strongest person alive, and even if I put all the power of my five-five frame into it, I doubted I could overpower a man. Not to mention the possibility that obscuring the thief’s vision might end up with him wrapping the car around a telephone pole.
No, it looked like my only option was to wait this thing out and hope that he and whoever else he was working with were just taking this thing along for a joy ride. Wherever he was going, I was along for the ride.
After a time, the car slowed and came to a halt. The music was still pounding, and the driver laid on the horn, peals of honks cutting through the music. I felt sick when I realized that this likely meant that he was picking up whomever he’d just been speaking to on the phone. Sure enough, after a few moments, the passenger side backdoor opened up. I froze in pure fear at the possibility that this meant that I’d be discovered.
Instead, I heard a heave, followed by the impact of a huge, heavy bag that landed square on top of me. The force of the bag landing pushed all the air out of my lungs, and I struggled a bit just to position myself in a way that allowed me to breathe. The door shut, and then the front driver’s side door opened.
“Come on, Russ!” I heard the driver say, his voice high and whiny. “Why the fuck can’t I drive?”
I heard a body settle into the driver’s seat, followed by another in the passenger’s. The volume of the rap lowered, and the two doors shut.
“Because you drive like a fucking asshole, and I can’t stand that rap shit you’re always playing.”
The new man’s voice was … different. Whereas the thief’s voice was whiny, bratty even, the second man’s voice was low and resonant, with both an aggressive edge and a purr.
“Come on, bro,” said the thief. “It’s gangster shit. Gets me pumped.”
The car pulled out of its stop, this time more slowly. Once back on the road, the new driver kept the car straight and steady, driving at a measured speed.
“You pull jobs like the fucking idiots in these songs and you’ll be in jail before you turn twenty-five. That is, if you don’t get yourself killed first.”
“Pshh, no one’s killing Cody Motherfuckin’ Carrick. Us bros ride hard, you know?”
I’d heard the driver call the other man a bro, but I’d just assumed that it was a casual term. Was this a brother crime team?
“You’re fucking lucky you didn’t get pulled over driving like that.”
“Man, if a fuckin’ pig tried anything, I’d just be like, pop, pop! Take that motherfucker right out.”
“Bro, you play too much goddamn “Grand Theft Auto�
�; you get into a gunfight with a cop and the only thing going ‘pop’ is your skull when the SWAT sniper puts a round right through it from a quarter-mile away.”
“You kidding me?” said the first thief. “With those fuckin’ guns back there? Shit, we could take out the fuckin’ National Guard with that gear.”
“Don’t you even think about shooting single fucking shot from any of those things. The buyers are paying good money for mint weapons.”
Weapons? Is that what was in the bag that was currently crushing the life out of me? I’d only held a twenty-two once before in my life, and I remembered it being heavier than I imagined it would be. If this bag was full of guns, it’d make sense.