A Warlord's Lady

by Nicola E. Sheridan

  Thus far, the holiday had been a wonderful ego boost — the Laotian men were charming and a balm to my battered ego. The attention they gave me was nice, something I certainly wouldn’t get in the bars and clubs of my hometown, Rockingham.

  In the steamy gloom of the bar, I noticed a particularly handsome Laotian man smile at me from a nearby table where he sat with two friends. He had cheekbones that could only be described as chiselled, and dark brown skin, shadowed in all the right places by sexy stubble. His hair curled slightly just above his collar. I felt myself blush. Not a good thing for a Chameleon to do, as I tend to turn a rather unflattering crimson red which seems to put most guys off. I took a gulp of my cocktail to cover my embarrassment. Was it just me, or was this drink stronger than the others? I found myself staring googly-eyed at the handsome guy again, but thankfully my blush stayed down. He offered me a long, lazy wink and raised his glass of beer in a cocky salute. I suddenly became aware of the artistic sculpture of muscles beneath his snug shirt. I really wanted to have a holiday fling. No, actually, if I dare to be uncouth — I was gagging for a shag. It had been months since I’d been with a man; I didn’t like it and nor did my body. My pulse began to race at the mere thought of touching the hard muscles that moved so enticingly beneath the white of his shirt. He must have read something in my eyes, and he smiled quickly, offering a flash of wolfish teeth. Something swooped inside me and I found myself barely able to suppress a gasp.

  Let it be said, I am not modest, but I’m not a beauty by any means, not in Australia and certainly not in Laos, where the girls all seemed pretty and petite. Yet the look in the man’s eyes was appreciative and dare I say it — bordering on desirous? Perhaps he was just a gigolo? Did they have such things in Laos? They’d certainly had them in Thailand as we’d toured through. Then a thought came unbidden: did I want to become another western notch in a cocky bar-boy’s belt, for a paltry hundred thousand kip? Yes, actually, I rather liked the idea. The notion of handing over the equivalent of 20 Australian dollars to get my rocks off seemed like a better idea than returning to Perth sexually frustrated as well as single.

  However, I am not bold by nature, and the distance between our table and his could have been a million miles because I simply didn’t have the gumption to walk it. At this point I was drowning in lust and swampy humidity. The smell of Asian perfumed cigarettes hung around me, dizzying and exotic.

  ‘He’s been eyeing you off since you got here.’ Maggie nudged my arm with hers, startling me. She threw a coquettish glance at a German-looking bloke seated not far from us. She lifted her cigarette lazily to her pursed lips in a sensuous salute.

  I ran a sweaty palm down my top, all too aware that I wasn’t cutting a sensual figure like Mags. Wearing a loose cotton thing, which was practical for the weather but not all that flattering, suddenly felt like an oversight — I looked like a typical tourist. The only thing beautiful about me, according to most — is my eyes. Smooth steely grey, people say they’re almost hypnotic. The handsome guy gave me another appraising glance and I felt his gaze, heavy as lead, linger on the line of my unfortunately sweaty cleavage. I felt myself blush again, realising ruefully that I looked not only clammy, but red-faced as well. I took another frantic swig of my cocktail. The bitter tang of strong vodka almost made me gag, but I swallowed it purposefully down.

  ‘Why don’t you go over to him? You deserve a little bit of fun.’ Mags nudged me again, smudging out her cigarette with red painted fingertips.

  I swallowed and my throat felt constricted. I glanced at her for confirmation. ‘You think?’ I croaked, watching Maggie’s prematurely aged face for any signs of jest. At 45, and a heavy smoking and drinking divorcee, Maggie was a blast, but I didn’t exactly trust her judgment.

  ‘Sure, why not?’ she replied, digging about in her fake Louis Vuitton handbag for another ciggie. ‘Get yourself a little rumpy-pumpy. Why not?’ She grinned at the enormous blond German man and he crooked a slimy finger at her, sleazily urging her to come to his side. ‘I’m going to.’ She smiled, displaying her white capped teeth.

  Suddenly I was alone at my table and I watched, fascinated and awed, as Maggie’s rear deposited itself on the bar stool beside the German. Her arm slung over his shoulder in introduction, she threw back her blonde mane and laughed loudly. How did she do it? So casual, so natural and unashamed. It made me feel even more sweaty and awkward. Unable to tear my eyes from her flirty gestures and overt confidence, I could see she was completely absorbed in the German. He was huge and ugly, I thought. Evidently Mags didn’t care. Her skinny arm, jingling with bracelets, tightened around him, and she drew him into a wet, heady kiss.

  Shameless, that’s what she was.

  As I watched, I wondered — why can’t I be shameless like that? I gulped my drink, inhaling the heavy air woefully, resigning myself to returning to the hostel without her. I reached down to gather my bag, which sat between my sandal-clad feet, and I heard the scrape of a chair close by. My heart leapt and I looked up.

  There he was looking down upon me — the handsome guy.

  Up close he wasn’t merely cute, he was magnificent. All chiselled masculine grace. His slanted eyes were dark, exotic and mesmerising. Yum.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, his voice smooth and gentle despite the crass music that perforated the atmosphere.

  ‘Hi,’ I squeaked in return, willing my skin not to change colour or otherwise show off what kind of freak I was.

  ‘You Australian?’ he asked.

  I felt the uncontrollable tingle on my skin that heralded change of colour. Without answering him, I found myself staring down at my hand. It was changing to match the pattern of the chequered tablecloth. Hoping he hadn’t noticed my abnormality, I tucked it underneath the table.

  His gaze turned quizzical, rich chocolate brown eyes studying me.

  ‘You’re Australian, yes?’ he repeated in flawless English slightly flavoured with an accent.

  Where was this bar-boy from?

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered, feeling a blush that I hoped was a normal colour rear up my cheeks again.

  ‘You have beautiful eyes,’ he purred, and swept down onto the chair beside me with the grace of cat. His hand, warm and dry, landed firmly on my exposed thigh.

  If I were a romance writer I’d say ‘at that moment my loins melted’, but as I’m not, I’ll just say that it flat-out turned me on. No one had come on to me so overtly — ever — and suddenly in that steamy bar in the depths of Vientiane, one dirty little fantasy was about to be realised. Or so I hoped.

  I struggled with an insane urge to throw myself onto the table and scream at him to ‘take me now’, but I found myself mumbling, ‘Thanks’. My hand reached down and touched his, and sparks of heat and electricity jolted up the pathway of my bones.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked, and his warm hand captured mine, hauling me hook, line and sinker to stand.

  ‘Sabra,’ I whispered. Why was he so mesmerising? I couldn’t take my eyes from his, sexy, sparkling with intent.

  ‘Beautiful name for a girl with beautiful eyes,’ he purred, as he gestured to my handbag and I picked it up blindly, unwilling to remove my gaze from him, not for one second. ‘I am Tao.’ His hand tightened on mine and he turned to lead me from the bar.

  Had I been careful, had I listened to my teachers all those years ago, I’d have recognised the magic in the air, the electricity in his touch as sorcery, but I didn’t. And maybe even if I had I wouldn’t have cared.

  ‘Sab!’ Maggie called as I followed the gorgeous guy from the bar. ‘Where are you going?’

  I turned to face my friend, belatedly realising that I didn’t actually know.

  ‘Where are we going, Tao?’ I asked the man whose hand gripped mine so tightly. My head swam and I felt giddy; my head lolled onto his shoulder as he turned to speak to Maggie.

  ‘Just out, don’t worry.’ He smiled beatifically at Mags and, apparently placated, she shrugged and returned to her Germ
an man without a further word.

  Tao laughed, and he said something in a flurry of his native language to the barman, who stood watching, warily, drying glasses behind the bar. Through the haze of toxic cocktails I saw the barman’s eyes drift to me, but they snapped back to Tao within a second. He nodded then looked away. At the time I didn’t understand, or take much note of the gesture, but I should have.

  ***

  So, I left the bar somewhat drunkenly with a man named Tao, the alcohol in my system making me giggly and uncharacteristically brazen.

  ‘Where are we going, Tao? Somewhere a little private, maybe?’ I leaned against him and inhaled. He smelled like the perfumed cigarettes: sweet and kind of nice in a smoky way. Yet a tickle of unease gnawed at the back of my mind. What was I doing? Heading into the depths of Vientiane with a complete stranger — not one of my best lifestyle choices. Eventually, when I was able to drag my eyes from the gorgeous planes of his cheekbones and the sensual promise of his lips, I realised I was a long way out of my comfort zone. How far had we walked? The buildings here were crumbling and the people who sat in the doorways seemed dodgy, with shifty eyes that narrowed as they assessed me, then flickered with worry as they noticed Tao.

  ‘Sabra,’ Tao purred, ‘I have some business to attend to.’ He lifted a gentle hand and caressed a line down my cheek.

  I shivered.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ I smiled, hoping to seem flirtatious, ‘with me.’

  Genuine amusement glimmered in the molten depths of Tao’s eyes. ‘Not just yet, but soon. I promise you.’

  Despite my growing concern, I felt absurdly disappointed when he suddenly looked away. The muscles in his hand tightened around mine, and his voice became hard.

  ‘Jürgen, come, take her to the car. I’ll be back soon.’

  I heard myself gasp in surprise. Jürgen? I spun around, tugging my hand from Tao’s to see the hideous German man from the bar standing not far behind me. Had he been there all along? Where was Mags? What was going on?

  I felt stone-cold sober.

  ‘Sabra, if you would be so kind as to follow my colleague, he will take care of you. I will join you shortly,’ Tao murmured. His fingers reached out towards me, and ran their heat down my exposed arm. His touch left me weak.

  At that moment, a silver Mercedes Benz rumbled down the cracked, potholed road towards us. My stomach was churning badly now. It stopped a metre away from us, and a fresh-faced Laotian man stepped out and opened the back door, a gun hung in the belt of his neatly pressed black trousers.

  ‘A gun!’ I cried and backed away from the men.

  ‘Sabra.’ Tao’s voice was firm and for the first time I recognised the smell of magic in the air.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I stepped backward, my nice new sandals from Thailand sinking into a foul puddle of water. The man beside the car lowered his hand towards the gun and horror boiled up through my body like acid.

  ‘Calm down, no harm will come to you,’ Tao soothed.

  ‘Are you kidnapping me?’ I cried, backing further away. I was beyond caring about my Chameleon abilities, and my face fluctuated wildly with colour.

  ‘She is a Chameleon, Boss, you’re right,’ I heard Jürgen say beneath the roar of blood in my head.

  ‘Boss? Who are you? You’re not a bar-boy at all.’

  Jürgen sniggered and Tao stepped toward me, his presence calming and numbing at the same time. ‘Please, Sabra, just relax. I won’t hurt you…’

  For a second I wanted to believe him, but the reality was frightening — I was lost in a dodgy part of Vientiane and there was a man with a gun.

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t trust you,’ I whispered, backing away again.

  As if sensing I was about to flee, Tao lurched forward to grab me. With a speed I didn’t know I possessed, I twisted and ran.

  ‘Get her!’ Tao yelled. ‘She can’t get away!’

  Wildly, I ran. This part of the city was a warren of small alleyways and paths and it was easy to lose Jürgen, big and bulky as he was. People peered out from their front doors as I dashed by, panting, unused to the exercise. As the sound of Tao’s yells and Jürgen’s heavy footfall became lost in the jumble of backstreets, I began to slow down, heaving for want of breath. Carefully, I forced my Chameleon abilities into action, changing my brown hair to black and my light skin to a Laotian tan. I wouldn’t blend in perfectly, with Caucasian facial features, but I thought if I kept my head down, perhaps no one would notice me. With my new disguise I walked on, trying to ignore the gross squelching my ruined, sodden sandals made on the cracked and broken pavement.

  A small boy who had been picking rubbish out of a nearby refuse pile turned as I walked past. Looking at me with wide-eyed surprise, a look of curious suspicion settled over his face and he approached me brazenly, hand outstretched for some pocket change. I knew then that my disguise would meet with failure. Whether it had been my clothes or my face, I was marked as a tourist and was therefore easy to spot.

  Reluctantly, I reached into my pocket and handed the boy a few kip, and he accepted readily before returning to dig in the pile.

  I walked quickly on, trying to ignore the prickling sense of being followed. Several street hawkers called out to me, gesturing to their produce, trying to engage me in barter. I shook my head. There was nothing else for it, I realised. I would have to get naked and camouflage completely, then find a way to the police station, or at least the hostel. Somewhere in the distance I thought I could make out Tao’s voice calling my name. My bowels squeezed. How had he followed me through this maze of streets?

  As I paused to listen, it became apparent that some of the street venders could also hear his calls and they looked up the street, their eyes suddenly wary.

  ‘Toilet?’ I asked a gnarled woman who stood beside a noodle stand.

  The old woman looked confused, then grinned, baring exactly five teeth, her hand extending a bowl of suspicious noodles.

  ‘No, umm.’ I fought the desire to laugh hysterically. I rummaged through my handbag with fumbling fingers and quickly looked up the phrases in my travel book. ‘Hàwng Nâm Yuu Săi?’ I finally asked with an appalling Lao accent.

  The little woman looked disappointed and retracted the proffered bowl of rice noodles, but nodded and muttered something in Lao as she waved her arthritic fingers to the left. My heart hammered a little faster as the clamour of activity not far away reached my ears. I dashed in the vague direction of the lady’s hand. Like a godsend, there between two ramshackle buildings the universal symbol for toilet beamed at me. Without waiting, I rushed forward. As with most Laotian public toilets these were remarkably clean. There was a cleaning lady sitting on a plastic stool outside. She looked peaceful. I gestured towards an empty stall and she shrugged. Without wasting another second, I scampered into the stall — determined to get naked, camouflage and lose Tao and his German henchman. Once I’d lost them thoroughly, I’d find a policeman and hopefully get the hell out of Laos.

  I didn’t want to alarm the old lady who cleaned the toilets, so I was carefully trying to quell my heavy breathing. I clicked the door shut behind me. Wasting not a minute more, I dragged off my clothes. They were gumming to my sweaty body and with trembling hands it wasn’t an easy task. Being careful not to step in the low squat toilet, I stuffed the items back into my bag, although part of me knew I wouldn’t be able to take it. I may have been able to change colour, but my handbag certainly couldn’t. For a moment I felt absurdly pleased I was in the tropics and not somewhere cold because, as soon as I was naked, the humidity clung over me like a cape. I closed my eyes, willing the strange chromatophores to react and adapt to my surroundings.

  To be honest, I’d not done this kind of camouflaging since I was a child, living in a communal foster home. I’d lived in foster care from the age of five, and I still don’t know why. I’d had parents once, I think, but the memory is hazy. They were gone, that’s all that really mattered. I’d never found out the truth,
and with no relative to claim me, the foster house had become home. The house-mothers were kind, and my foster siblings mostly good, but on hot summer nights I’d strip naked and camouflage myself to escape the fuss in the house. Like a cat, I’d sneak into the backyard of the property and climb a big gum tree at the back of the block. It was an ancient tree with boughs like arms, and there I’d sleep on those hot nights, covered only by a slight breeze.

  The clarity of this memory hit me with almost physical force. I’d honestly not thought about the foster home in years. Biting my lip and ignoring the sense of wounded abandonment, I looked down at my body, focussing on being decently camouflaged instead.

  As I looked down, the sight actually dizzied me. My breasts and stomach had all but disappeared. I’d forgotten just how good I was at doing this. My naked body had turned the exact pattern of the stall’s cream coloured tiles; they shimmered and reflected the dull fluorescent lights. I knew from experience that the illusion skewed slightly depending on the angle from which I was viewed, but I hoped in the crowded, ramshackle streets it wouldn’t matter too much. I turned and stared at my handbag. I couldn’t take it with me, I knew. There was no way I could keep camouflaged carrying an enormous fake designer handbag stuffed full of my discarded clothing. Reluctantly I pushed it into the corner of the stall, and said a mental goodbye. There was only some cash in there. All my cards and passport were still in the safety deposit box at the hostel. Still, I wasn’t a fan of leaving anything behind.

  Giving my body plenty of time to camouflage in line with my movements, I slowly opened the door to the stall. Being obsessively careful, I pressed myself close to the wall, always keeping sight of the environment I was trying to blend with. I knew from previous experience that any distraction could cause the chromatophores to return to their natural colours, giving flashes of a naked, chubby white woman to all who happened to glance my way. Something I wasn’t prepared to do.

  As I left the bathroom I noticed the old woman on the stool looking perplexed; she stood up and peered into the vacant cubicle. Muttering under her breath and shaking her head, she slowly bent down and picked up my bag.