by Peg Brantley
“Look, do your best for me, will you? I promise I’ll make it up to you.” He flashed his widest smile and winked as he headed toward the doors leading to the parking lot.
Once inside his car, he jammed the keys in the ignition and hauled ass. Parking on any of the nearby streets posed a problem as rent-a-cops patrolled the high-end neighborhood frequently. Rich people didn’t want any cars parking on the streets their taxes paid for, especially a crappy seven-year-old Camry. He drove a half-mile away to a parking lot in front of one of three office buildings and found a place in a far corner where his car would be less likely to stand out when everyone finally left for home.
Donny grabbed his bag and looked around. A few people were coming and going from the buildings but no one glanced in his direction. He set off at a quick but steady jog, not wanting to call attention to himself. Once back at the center’s parking lot and only slightly out of breath, he found Alexis’s Porsche 911 Cabriolet and experienced immense relief that he’d beaten her to it.
Tossing his bag casually at his feet, he leaned against the hood and waited. He didn’t have to wait long.
Alexis spotted him long before she got to her car. He saw her grin and then immediately downgrade it to a tiny smile. “What are you doing here, Donny?”
“I thought you could use extra attention this evening. Maybe a friendly ear.” He took a breath, stalling to gauge her reaction. “Am I right?”
Alexis walked passed him to the trunk and tossed in her gym bag. “How did you know this was my car?”
“Now you’re making me feel like a stalker.”
“Are you?” She grinned.
“Look, Alexis. I became a fan—not a stalker—long before I knew you drove this car, or any car for that matter. I happened to see you get into it one afternoon is all.” He smiled at her. “I think you want someone to vent to. If I’m right, I’m your guy. And I’m ready to go with you anywhere. My treat.”
“Your treat? Really?”
He laughed. “Of course.”
She looked around. “Where’s your car?”
“In the shop. I took the bus in today. I’m hoping you’ll give me a ride home later. I don’t live far from here.”
“You just don’t want to ride the bus.”
“Not true. I want to spend time with you. Away from exercise equipment and people scratching private parts of their bodies everywhere you look.”
This time she laughed.
He knew he was in.
“We’re in a technological age now where we have powerful computing devices that we can hold in the palm of our hand,” said Sgt. Dan Steele, of the Denver Police Department, who supervises the Innocence Lost Task Force. “Because of that, we have now seen traffickers and sex buyers alike looking at those devices and going, ‘Wow, I can sit on my couch or I can sit in my car or I can stand on the street corner and I can pick and choose a person that I want to exploit. I can pick and choose if I want to buy someone, sell someone, exploit someone.’”
—FBI recovers 9 child sex trafficking victims in Colorado, Wyoming as part of national operation, by
Jesse Paul, for The Denver Post, October 18, 2016
CHAPTER FIVE
ALEXIS
I shove down the blanket, suddenly hot and uncomfortable. I open my eyes enough to get my bearings. The room is gray-scaled with highlights of silver, a combination of moonlight and the ever-burning city lights that serve to ensure the entire Denver Metro area will never experience complete darkness.
I look around for a clock in the shadowed room and see a digital readout on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. 1:37.
Shit.
I might as well stay tucked in and go to school from here. Dad’s not in town, as per usual, and even if Mom is, she’s always so out of it she’ll never know whether I came home. The only person who would be the wiser would be Marla when she comes to make up my bed and clean my bathroom. Our maid figured out a long time ago my whereabouts aren’t newsworthy. At least not to Steve or Adele Halston.
Donny’s apartment. It’s weird but also nice to be here. I was happy when he invited me to go home with him after our dinner at Shanahan’s. He gets me.
A warm feeling floods my body. Shanahan’s isn’t cheap by a long shot, and we consumed enough booze to set a record. My expensive fake ID had paid off again. I offered to buy but Donny insisted. Sweet. He cares.
His apartment surprised me too. I expected to walk into something that looked like a continuation of the fitness center—stacked weights and exercise balls at the very least. Instead, while not exactly luxurious, it’s tastefully decorated with two or three passable pieces of art. Not collector’s items, but not half bad.
I look next to me and Donny’s not there.
Since I don’t have pajamas and don’t feel like marching around naked, I tug the duvet off the bed and wrap it around me as I leave the bedroom. Donny has to be here somewhere.
Trailing the ridiculous duvet behind me I see Donny out on the tiny deck off his living room. He’s talking on his phone and smoking a cigarette.
A cigarette? Donny smokes? I can’t decide whether to be disappointed or intrigued. Maybe a little of both.
Who is he talking to at this hour?
I shove the sliding glass doors open and Donny quickly kills the call. Moving to the rail, I lean over to see a jogging trail and bike path side by side, both of which make sense in this part of town. “Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
“Missed you in bed. Who were you talking to?”
“A night-owl friend on the West Coast. He gets even less sleep than I do.”
“Did you hang up on him?”
“Nope. We were done.”
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“Only when I’m anxious about something.”
“You? Anxious?”
“Well, not normally. But my friend has a lot going on and wanted me to help him work through things.”
I’m impressed. A guy who cares enough about someone else to talk with him at his hour? “Got another one?”
“Another one what?”
“Cigarette, silly.”
“Not only do I have a cigarette for you, but I’ve been working out a particular drink recipe I’d like your feedback on. Are you game?”
“Sure. Why the hell not?” I’m too jazzed to go back to sleep anyway.
Donny lights a cigarette and hands it to me. “I’ll be right back.”
Comfortably settled into a chair, dizzy from the tobacco, I look out onto the perpetually backlit sky and take a deep drag on my cigarette. For the first time in a long time I feel like I’m in the exact place I’m supposed to be.
“Here, let me know what you think.” Donny hands me a glass filled with a dark amber liquid, and sits on the chair next to mine. “Don’t lie.”
I swirl and sniff. “I don’t usually drink bourbon.”
“Don’t worry. It’s smooth, I promise. I added diet coke and my special ingredient.”
“Are we gonna go like bunnies again if I drink this?”
“If I’m lucky.”
“You mean if I am.” I take a long healthy swallow, then shake my head. “Donny, this needs work.”
He looks hurt. “Please. Try it again.”
I attempt to hand him the glass.
“Please?”
I put the drink back to my lips and swallow. “I don’t know, Donny. Not my drink. Sorry.”
Donny grabs the glass from me and marches inside to the kitchen. He’s acting hurt or pissed or something. Really?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” I watch his stiff back, but can’t help but admire the firm butt it’s attached to.
“Not to worry. I think maybe you should get dressed.” He presses both hands onto the counter and tilts his head toward the ceiling.
“Donny, I said I’m sorry.”
He turns to me. “Get dressed Alexis, or I’ll dress you myself.” He spits the
words at me and throws the kitchen towel on the counter before walking back to the deck.
I follow him and pause at the sliding glass doors. “Can we talk about this?”
“Tomorrow.” He’s looking at the sky but turns back to me with a cold stare. “Or maybe fucking never. It’s almost time to go and I’m tired of dealing with your drama.”
In the bedroom, I turn on the light and blink at the glare. Almost time to go? What the hell does that mean? I grab my clothes and tug them on.
A tear slides down my cheek. I thought he was different. I thought I’d finally found someone I could talk to. Someone who could love me.
“Screw him. Screw this whole night.”
I feel a little sick.
* * *
The I-70 overpass roared above Donny. Drivers flew by without even considering the dark places that existed below the highway they traveled. Underneath the racing cars and rumbling semis, almost subterranean, industrial yards surrounded three sides of the street. No trees or grass grew down here.
Back the way he’d come, sodium-vapor street lights cast shades of yellow over a closed bar. Everything else appeared shadowed and gray. Donny suspected that when and if a cop ever showed up down here, it was because there’d been a bloodbath.
Which, in light of his current mission, was probably a good thing.
He lit another cigarette.
Donny arrived ten minutes early to the meet. He killed the engine of the Porsche and pocketed the keys. It wouldn’t do to have the car ’jacked while he waited.
He stepped out and took a look around the place that felt both familiar and threatening. The smell of cement, dirt, and urine assaulted him. Anything could happen in this deserted underbelly of Denver. If his contact, whatever his name was, decided to kill him and take the girl there would be nothing he could do about it. All Donny could count on, right now, was that maybe this guy might think they could do business in the future, which had held true so far.
And of course he was counting on the cash that would soon be his.
He’d never before considered where the girls he’d handed off had gone, but somehow Alexis had gotten to him. At least a little. He wondered where she would wake up tomorrow. Then he closed the door on those thoughts. They weren’t doing him any favors.
The others he’d sold had been cows. Almost literally. There’d been nothing to them. Vapid. Scared. Stupid. Absolutely no awareness of what was happening to them. They’d been easy. How many? Four? Five? He couldn’t be sure. The most he’d been paid was a thousand bucks. The least was his first one. He’d pocketed a fifty and immediately blown it, ironically, on a prostitute.
Alexis, with her attitude, had given him a challenge. A challenge he was happy to meet (and get paid for) but also a challenge that made him wonder if he should reconsider his options. If maybe waiting four years wouldn’t be worth it.
He decided no. He could pluck girls like Alexis from expensive fitness studios or off the streets whenever he felt like it. In all likelihood she wouldn’t have come to him, even at twenty-one, without a lot of legal crap designed to keep the money in the family. He was doing the right thing.
Donny heard the echo of the van’s engine before he saw it. As it had previously, the van moved slowly down the other side of the viaduct. He leaned against the car and watched, knowing he was being watched as well. About a hundred yards away, the van turned left onto an intersecting street and then left again to work its way toward him. The driver killed the headlights but kept up a slow and steady crawl in his direction.
After it stopped, a large hooded man emerged from the passenger side of the van. He kept the door open between him and Donny while he stuffed something in his waistband, presumably a gun. Donny resisted reaching for the small of his back to touch his own weapon.
Not willing to make the first move, Donny waited. As he was shaking another cigarette out of the pack, the man stepped away from the van door, leaving it open.
“Need a light?” the man asked. His walk was all smoothness covering up both caution and a twitchiness Donny could pick up only from the fingers of the man’s left hand drumming against his thigh.
“Thanks.” Donny leaned into the flame.
“Give me your weapons.”
“Wha—”
“Now. I don’t know how the guy before me worked, but I want this to go without incident.” The man’s gray-blue eyes shone in the dimness like two high-beamed flashlights. “I promise, I’ll give them back to you when we’re finished here.”
“But I don’t—”
Before Donny could finish his sentence, the man spun him around against the Porsche and produced the gun from his waistband. Both of his arms were pinned with one meaty fist, and Donny thought his shoulder might be sprained, or worse. An efficient pat down didn’t turn up anything else and Donny was released.
“Did you bring our package?”
Donny reached up and grabbed his shoulder. “I did.”
“Condition?”
“Out of it.”
“Out of it how, pretty boy?”
“Roofie.”
“At least you’re smart about something.” He signaled the van and two more men slipped out of the sliding side door. One of them carried a large envelope.
“Let’s make this quick. I assume she’s in the trunk?”
Donny felt his face flash with heat. “She’s in the backseat.”
The large man laughed. “Well, for what you’re getting paid, it’s best not to turn over damaged merchandise.”
The man not holding the envelope opened the door to the backseat and nodded before hauling Alexis out like a bag of dirty gym clothes. Donny felt himself flinch when her feet slapped to the pavement. Then the money man shoved the envelope into his chest before helping carry the dead weight of the girl to the back of the van.
“We’ll see you again,” the big man said as he handed Donny his gun. “And if this one turns out to be as lucrative as we think, we might be back with a special order. You’ll be hearing from us.”
Less than five seconds later the van was gone.
Donny kneeled outside the driver’s door and pulled his thoughts together. A few minutes ago he thought he was dead. He figured he earned every dollar tonight. The dudes in this business were getting rougher. And the whole gun thing. If that hadn’t happened his shoulder would be fine and he wouldn’t have to think of an explanation for work tomorrow.
Suddenly that was the least of his worries. He cursed himself for not checking to make sure he had the money before the men and the van split with the cargo. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he tore open the envelope. A quick perusal settled his mind.
He’d been paid.
He started the engine of the Porsche. While he would love to drive the magnificent car for a few days, he knew he needed to ditch it. One of the long-term parking lots outside of Denver International Airport would be perfect.
An estimated 200,000-300,000 adolescents are at risk in the US each year.
—Girls Like Us, by Rachel Lloyd
CHAPTER SIX
ALEXIS
What’s happening? I groan.
Noise. Not from me. Sandpaper on my face. Can’t lift my head. Nothing is right. Worst hangover ever.
I gag from the smell. BO, vomit, shit. Bleach. Smells like fear.
Where am I? This isn’t right.
“Alexis.” A woman’s voice.
A hand on my shoulder, gently trying to wake me up. I’m not falling for it.
“Alexis Emily Halston, come on girl. It’s okay. Wake up.”
Something is whispering inside my head. Be terrified. Terrified. Terrified.
I push the hand away. Well, I try to. My coordination is off.
“’s th’ fu’?” My tongue is twelve-feet thick.
“There’s my girl. You’re coming ’round. That’s what I want to see.”
See. Open eyes. Bunk beds. Metal bunk beds. Cement walls and floors. No windows. Screaming l
oud. Someone in another bunk. Three people here. Sounds like a dozen. Head pounding like a bitch.
Wait. Where’s Donny? I try to lift my head that feels like a glob of granite and get nowhere. I close my eyes. Maybe this is a weird dream because Donny and I had a fight.
Sleep. That’s what I need. Sleep.
* * *
The fuzzy bits of my brain are clearing. I can hear people talking. I’m pretty sure they’re talking about me.
“She’s fine. She exhibited an attempt at responsiveness earlier. A few more minutes should be enough for the drug to wear off.”
“She has to get mobile. And pulled together. Buyers want to take a look in twenty-four hours. Could be a bidding war on this one.”
“My usual cut?”
“If you have her ready in time.”
“She’ll be ready.”
Before I can process this and understand what it means, another voice propels these words to the back of my mind. Someone is panicked. Afraid. A boy.
“No! No! You can’t do this!”
A slap and the sound of a body slamming into something hard. It’s all I can do to keep my eyes shut. Even if I open them there’s nothing I can do.
“We can do whatever the fuck we want, you little shit. The sooner you learn that lesson, the sooner you’ll get over your bruises.”
The voice was breathy and rough. No accent. Hell, he even sounds a little like Mr. Larson, my algebra teacher from junior high.
What’s going on?
“Here’s your choice,” the man with the raspy voice continued. “You can either be a pretty boy or do manual labor. Stay fresh and clean or give up bathing and privacy permanently. I’m willing to give you a try as a pretty boy because I can make more money off you. But don’t confuse me with someone who gives a flying fuck. The minute you don’t meet quota, whatever quota I set, I’ll sell you off so fast the smell of Dial soap will be a distant memory inside a week. Either way you’re gonna end up fucking assholes. Up to you, whether they’re assholes in the city or in some fuckin’ field.”