“It would be so much easier for me to let loose if you could play me something.”
“No problem. What do you want to hear?”
“Well, I haven’t looked to see what’s there yet, but if you could find anything electronic, or maybe some Nine Inch Nails, or Pink Floyd . . . really anything but fucking Justin Bieber?”
He laughs. “I feel you. And sure.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Ryan, by the way.”
“Grace.” I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too. I’ll be right back.”
He walks off to the bar, and I begin to plan how the fuck I’m going to drink that drink without actually drinking it. Shit. This’ll be a fun challenge—not.
Ryan heads to the jukebox first, flipping through pages of CDs. I squint, but can’t make out what he’s looking at. I’m tempted to leave this cage and go over there myself, but when “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails comes on, I breathe a sigh of relief. Typical strip club song, maybe? But whatever, it’ll work. I force my limbs and muscles to move to the music, though I don’t want to. Fuck these perverts—all of them. Ryan seems nice enough, but I’m sure it’s hiding a dark side somewhere. Guilty until proven innocent. I may adopt that as my new motto, because it seems my paranoia has been validated in light of recent circumstances.
Ryan returns from the bar with a red drink, matching red straw inserted, and matching maraschino cherry floating in the ice. He hands it to me with a grin. “Here ya go, Grace.”
“Thanks. What is it?”
“They call it Love Potion. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.” He gives me a wink, and his simple charm almost wins me over.
I laugh, surprised that it’s a genuine one, and I take the cold beverage from him. “Aww, you’re sweet. Thank you.” But there’s no way in hell I’m drinking it.
I pretend to take a sip through the straw. “Mmm, yummy. That’s delicious.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ll be right over there.” He points to a nearby table. “Let me know if it works.” And he gives me another wink.
“I sure will.” I smile. “Enjoy the show.”
“Oh, I definitely will.”
I take another pretend drink from the glass before setting it next to my cigarettes on the stage. Ophelia screams at me to drink it and quit being lame, but I ignore her.
Missy, remember?
And she silences.
§
Two hours into my stripper gig, my watered-down drink still sits at the same level it was when Ryan handed it to me. Hopefully, no one will notice I’m not actually drinking it. One thing’s for sure, though: if I don’t get out of these shoes soon, I may have to. Too bad Converse aren’t considered appropriate stripper attire . . .
The bar fills with more and more bodies, and only one cage is left empty now, which strangely makes me a little more comfortable. More action means I’m less watched . . . maybe. So, I slip out of my shoes and put them by my drink. Ahh . . . Much better. The wood beneath my bare feet is cool, but nice. The throbbing blisters, on the other hand—not so nice.
Watching a couple of the other dancers, I pick up a few pole moves, and dredge up the courage to try them. Why not? I may be here for a while, and this is starting to bore me to tears. I get a good grip on the pole and jump, spinning through the air around it like a pro. Hell yeah. I admit, it’s actually fun, and I’m starting to loosen up a little, finally.
Something trancey comes on the jukebox—Tiesto?—and I move to the beat, as sensually as possible, feeling less and less inhibited. Men begin to gather around my cage, like the others, which makes me nervous, so I try to ignore them. I close my eyes and lean against the pole, rubbing my body, and to my surprise, I become aroused. I almost stop, but decide to just go with it. It’s okay to be aroused, I guess. Maybe it’ll help me through the next few hours, or days, gods forbid.
“What the—? Grace?”
I spin slowly around the pole, until I meet Logan’s dropped jaw, then I lower to my knees and crawl toward him. With hands clutched tightly around the bars of my cage, I dip my face between them and kiss him on the mouth. He kisses me back, timid at first, maybe because he’s supposed to be working, but then he grips the back of my head and kisses me hard . . . like he’s missed me. Like he wants to devour me whole.
He pulls away, breathless. “I thought you were working in the dorms?”
“Fuck the dorms. This is much more fun.” I grin and kiss his cheek, then stand again, giving him a twirl.
He adjusts his erection, then gives himself a quick rub. “Fuck yeah, it is. Just surprised me, is all.” He glances behind him as people line up behind his one buddy at the bar. “I gotta run. Guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you tonight.” He kisses two fingers, throws me a peace sign, then trots off to serve the mob.
Clueless. I’d never be able to pull off the act with Gideon; he’d call it in a heartbeat. He knows me too well to just accept that, after the shit I’ve been through, I’d be up here giving free shows to the surviving perverts of New America.
“Hey, sweetheart,” a guy says behind me. “Can I get one of those?”
The music changes, this time coming through the speakers overhead, and it’s the same music they played in the Wet Room when we were there. Fuck music, for sure. I guess they wait until there are more folks in here to turn up the heat . . .?
Adrenaline flares in me like fireworks and my heart palpitates. The fuel clears out the remaining fog with each breath, each grind of my hips and slip of my fingers beneath the black lace. I ignore the jerk, zeroing in on Ryan watching me from across the room where he sits beneath a camera, and I close my eyes, moving to the music.
I imagine my first encounter with Evie in the bathroom at school, and feel her blaze inside me again, like I did that first time. I remember how her perfect breasts bounced as I fisted her, how all of her soft, wet lips felt against mine, how they tasted, and I finger myself.
When I open my eyes, fully self-aroused, I’m surprised to find my watching group of men, and a couple of women, has grown. Ryan has moved closer and now stands inches from me.
I close my eyes again, but Evie’s gone. There’s the lingering fragrance of lavender and incense, and a sadness that almost penetrates my wall. So I think of Syd and the way she’d pleasured me effortlessly, as though she’d been studying Grace Vincent’s anatomy for years, lusting over it, even.
The arousal returns, and I continue my display of blatant voyeurism. I’m surprised when I feel myself approaching Nirvana in front of what might be fifty people by now.
Afraid to open my eyes, I picture Gideon, Logan, Evie, and Syd, a montage, all of them taking turns with me, all of them so fucking beautiful in their own ways, and I’m overcome by their immensities. In a matter of minutes, I’m gushing all over the stage, not holding back the moans that come with it. I turn it loose, because it may be my one-way ticket out. Let’s cut to the chase and make it count.
“Damn, girl.” Somebody whistles, claps.
“That was hot as fuck,” another guy says.
“How much for a date, sexy?” says someone from the other side of the stage.
Unfortunately, these assholes didn’t have the foresight to provide us dancing ladies with the proper cleaning materials for our cum spills. What. The. Fuck.
Dripping wet, I ignore the men around me and return my soggy g-string into place on my equally soggy vag, then I wink at the camera. How’s that for a show, boys?
Twenty-Nine
I can no longer wear these wet panties, so I slip out of them, tossing them into the crowd. Drunk Grace would pull some shit like that, right? A man catches them, and activates my gag reflex when he puts them up to his face for a whiff. Disgusting.
I’m sticky from my own dried cum, cold, exhausted, and hungry as hell, when a man in black fatigues comes to escort me from my cage. It too
k seven hours. I’m not sure if that’s the norm, so whether to be offended by such a seemingly extended time frame is the question, though not a very important one.
“What’s going on?” I ask the man when he takes my arm, as if I don’t already know.
He doesn’t answer, so I jerk against him. “Where are you taking me?”
He pulls me through the crowd to the back doorway where the others have disappeared, without a sound.
“Hey, man!” Logan yells from the bar. “What the f—?”
When we get through the door, someone puts a black cloth bag over my head, pins my arms behind me, then cuffs me with a zip tie.
“What are you doing with me?” I ask, not needing to dramatize my fear. That part is real.
But no one answers. They lead me down a long corridor, and through the cotton, which may be a pillowcase, I make out lights at intervals. The sound of crying grows louder, then there’s clanking metal before my zip tie is clipped, head covering removed, and I’m shoved into a cell with three other women.
The door slams shut behind me, and I spin around to grip the bars. “What the fuck? Why am I in here?”
“They won’t answer,” a woman says. “None of them do.”
A woman I remember from one of the cages yesterday stands and hugs her bare skin. “They bring us two plates of scraps and two glasses of water a day—that’s it. We can’t even get them to bring us clothes or blankets.”
Horrorstricken by the visions of what Missy’s enduring at this very moment, I lean on the bars, a sudden dread so heavy that I question whether I’ve just made a huge mistake. What if they don’t take me to the same place as her? What if Sheryl-Dean was wrong about that? It was months ago when she talked to her husband, so they might do things differently now . . .
My panic builds to dangerous levels. Unmedicated, volatile, and highly emotional, I steady my breathing—time to scrape up all of those old self-help skills.
Positive affirmation: I will make it out of here alive.
Proof that it’s correct: I’ve survived so much already.
Breathe, in and out . . . slowly . . .
My emotions are a wave, they come and go.
My thoughts and fears no longer have any power over me.
All is well in my world.
Nope. That one I can’t even accept.
I choose to see the light in every situation, no matter how dark it may seem.
That’s better.
After thirteen years of various professionals wielding their powers of the MD to “fix” Grace’s broken pieces, I may have picked up a few things here and there.
Sometimes, the seeds we plant take a while to grow.
Jay’s words come back to me in a flash, and I have a mini epiphany. He’s right. That was thirteen years’ worth of collecting artillery for use when Grace would be strong enough to use it against herself, to win herself over from the enemy’s side. It’ll have to be enough, now that I’m stripped of all else.
§
When I’ve dredged up some mental fortitude, I collect a mat from a corner that reeks of piss and vomit, and move it to the other side, which is a mere five feet away. I make myself comfortable on it—as comfortable as possible, anyway—shivering from the chill in the air. Looks like the luxury stops once you’ve been “sold.” Not to mention, any semblance of a life.
Another jackass in black fatigues comes to collect first the young woman I saw yesterday, then the next two leave within a few hours of each other, I think. It’s hard to conceive time in this dungeon, but it appears I’m next in line.
Shivering and alone, I expect to be gone within the hour. But time marches on through two pee-breaks on the metal toilet, and tossing and turning a million times for a comfortable position. I finally nestle myself in to sleep until someone gets here to pick me up. I need to stop the spiraling in my head by shutting the systems down.
I let my eyelids droop, and my body begins to relax. Using my left arm as a pillow, the other curled up at my chest, I send a prayer into the stratosphere for whatever deity may choose to have pity on me this time. And with love in my heart as my strength, my shield, I head in the direction of my nightmares.
§
I startle awake to the sound of squeaking metal, and startle again when I find Murray sitting beside me, smoking his cigar. He doesn’t look at me head-on, but studies me in his peripheral.
“Murray . . . I’m glad you came back. Even if you are just a figment of my screwed-up imagination.”
I reach out and touch his arm, its warmth, the leathery skin with woolly gray hairs. So real. How?
I marvel at the misplaced superpower. The ability to make real people out of your own mind!
The catch? Only your crazy ass can see them.
“Are you okay?” Murray asks me, dragging on his cigar.
“As okay as I can be, I guess. You gonna get me out of this one, too?”
He chuckles under his breath. “You keep saying I’m not real, that you made me up, yet . . .” He gives me a solemn inspection. “You give me credit for saving your life?”
The spark of mischief I saw in him at the church, lit Zippo in hand, returns now, as he makes me question my own rationale.
“You need to spend less time thinking with that”—he taps his cigar-holding pointer finger on my temple, yet his smoke doesn’t burn my eyes—“and more time thinking with that.” He points at my chest, then takes a good, long puff.
After a long silence, he passes me his cigar. Curious, I take it from him. “Thanks.” And I inhale a good, long drag. To my surprise, I get an actual head rush.
“Ah, that’s nice,” I mumble. “Those assholes didn’t even let me grab my cigarettes.”
“Yeah . . . I figured you might could use some company while you’re in here.” He faces me squarely. “So, you gettin’ on the wagon, Grace?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you going to man up and save that little girl? She’s counting on you.”
“I know. And I am. I just need to take it a step at a time. I’ll figure it out.”
When I think of how brief my past visits with Murray have been, I grow sad. I love having him with me, no matter how “crazy” it is. With Murray, I feel like I can do anything, and I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want him to ever leave. Not until I’m safe, with the people I love in my arms.
“Murray?”
He turns, raises an eyebrow to say “huh?”
“Will you stay? Please, I don’t want you to go. And if I made you up, I should be able to keep you here, right?”
He shrugs. “I come when you need me to, don’t I?”
“Well, yeah, but . . .”
“I’ll be here as much as possible, Grace, but sometimes . . .”
I hang on the word, waiting for a confession that never drops. “Sometimes what?” I coax.
“Well . . . sometimes, you don’t see me. For a long time, I just watched you grow, from a distance, waiting for my time to come and say hello.”
“This is getting weird, I’m sorry.” I stand and clutch my middle, suddenly remembering I’m not wearing any clothes.
Murray raises his arm, holds it out, welcoming me to the warmth at his side. I cross over to his mat and take the invitation, moving into him. The warmth radiating from his body is real, no matter how unreal. When Murray gives me a side hug, with a gentle squeeze to my shoulder, relief and gratitude wash over me, along with remorse.
“I’m sorry for ignoring you,” I tell him. “It’s just that, if people see me talking to someone . . . they can’t see, they’ll think—they’ll know—I’m crazy.” I bow my head. “But I guess they do now anyway,” I mumble.
“Hey, listen—” He peers down at me, a twitch in his mustache. “I’m sorry about that. That guy had his you-know-what out
and he was manhandling you. And after all you been through, Grace, I just couldn’t—”
“I know.” I lay my hand on his arm, then rest my head on his shoulder. “Thank you.”
§
When the rattle of the door wakes me from an unexpected doze-off, the startle is replaced by sadness, because I expect Murray to be gone. But when I look to my left as the guard in black fatigues enters my cell, Murray’s there across the room by the door, finger to his lips. The man covers my head with a bag again, and cuffs me with another zip tie, but as he yanks me out of my cell, I hear Murray in my ear. “I’ll do my best to stay with you, Grace. Be strong.”
It’s the last thing I’m feeling, though Murray’s words and company help some. Other words that come to mind are: Helpless. Terrified. Almost dead.
At one point along the winding corridors, I’m transferred to someone else. He slaps my ass, mumbles a “Thanks” to the other one, then he leads me farther with his hand to the small of my back. After two more lefts, a right, and another left, the air changes, and there’s noise, maybe from a ventilator. There’s the sound of an electric door sliding open, then my escort pushes me inside of the room. The door closes again, and the room begins to move down. I’m in an elevator. But why are we going down? Is that where they keep everyone? Will Missy be down here?
I wonder if Murray’s still with me. All I can make out through the cloth is a light above me in the room. To my confusion, my escort presses on my shoulders, making me sit on something soft, like a hospital bed. He clips my zip tie with something, releasing my wrists, but holds both of them in one hand, before laying me on the gurney and hovering over me. “If you move, I’ll kill you.”
Thirty
With my naked body sprawled out in the frigid air, racked with new terror, I do my best to make my trembling stop, to heed the monster’s warning. The elevator reaches its destination, and the man pushes me out. We traverse through chilled, winding corridors that seem to go on forever, with flashes of light that may be from passing rooms.
When the gurney wheels clack over something, we stop, and a door closes behind us. My fear escalates, tenfold. I’d expected signs of other women or girls by now, but there’s nothing. Just the breathing and footsteps of my unknown predator.
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