by Jani Kay
"This needs to go," she informs me. "You look like a fucking virgin with that fuzz going on."
I’m hit with a sudden memory—the mystery biker’s words to me as he gripped hold of my wrist. Tell them you’re a virgin. Whatever happens, make sure Hector knows that. Even the firm look he gave me as he walked away was reaffirming what he’d said to me. I haven’t even considered what it might mean for my situation right now, but he seemed so insistent. And he hated Raphael; I could see that in his eyes, too. I open my mouth and tell Ramona what he told me to say, choking on the words. "I am a virgin."
Ramona rockets to her feet, taking a step back. "What?" She looks like I’ve just slapped her.
I contort my arms around my body again, trying and failing to cover too many parts of myself. "I’m a virgin. I’ve never been with anyone before," I say in a small voice. This is a flagrant lie. I lost my virginity when I was eighteen to the first guy I ever loved, Joshua. We’d been dating for two years through the final years of high school. We’d finally committed ourselves to each other the week before he left for college in Oklahoma. We’d known it was over but we still loved each other. It was a final, gentle moment, one last gift that was shared between us before we said goodbye. Since then I’ve only had one sexual partner, Matt, but we’ve hardly been shy about what we’ve wanted from each other.
Ramona casts a doubtful eye over me. She doesn’t believe me. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-one."
"Ain’t no white college girls virgins at twenty-one," she tells me, as though she’s an authority on the matter.
"My family’s religious. I’m religious. No sex before marriage." My cheeks burn like charred ember when I go to church these days—there’s never been a woman so wanton sitting in the pews of St. Augustus Catholic Church. When I’m feeling particularly penitent, I’ll go to confession and take my Hail Marys on the chin, along with the partially visible scandal that marks Father Richmond’s face.
Ramona stares at me some more. I’m probably blushing—I’ve never been manhandled like a piece of meat before. Hopefully the woman’s taking my rosy glow as embarrassment over my confession to her. "You never been touched by a boy? Ever?" she asks.
I shake my head.
Ramona tosses the face cloth back into the sink with a wet splash, tutting under her breath. "Put the dress on anyway. I’ll be back in a moment." She leaves me, naked and shivering, wondering if I’ve done the right thing or if I’ve just made things infinitely worse for myself. I have no clean underwear, so I climb into the pale yellow dress without any. The thing is a frou-frou monstrosity, all ruffles and pleats. There’s even a satin bow that ties just under the bust line. I tie it, all the while wondering if the strand of ribbon is long enough to hang myself with if it comes down to it. I wasn’t joking back in the van; I would rather die than be violated by a bunch of strange men.
Twenty minutes pass. I sit on the edge of the bed, counting my heartbeats. It’s strange that the treacherous organ in my ribcage insists on skipping along so steadily, when it seems as though the intensity of my fear should have stopped it dead by now. I hear voices after a while—loud ones—and then the thunder of boot steps out in the corridor. The door rattles as the key is fumbled, inserted, twisted, opened, and then Hector, Raphael and Ramona storm one by one into the room. Raphael’s face is twisted into a rictus of rage. Hector simply looks like he’s being inconvenienced.
"Lie back on the bed," he says.
I lock my ankles together, my arms clamped firmly around my body. "No."
Hector laughs, looking at Raphael. "You always bring the spirited ones back, huh?"
"She’s not a fucking virgin, Hector. No way. She’s lying."
"And why would she do that?" he asks softly. "I’m presuming you didn’t tell her of our business here?"
The creases in Raphael’s face deepen. "No," he admits.
"Then the girl is probably a virgin." He turns back to me, walks over to the bed, and places a hand on top of my head. I cower from his touch, which seems to displease him. He grabs hold of my chin in one hand, lifting my face so I’m looking up at him. "Lie back on the bed, sweet girl, or I’m going to make you. And I don’t want to have to do that, because I don’t want to hurt you, you see. Do as you’re told and I’ll be quick. I promise."
My tears return, blurring out the world. Maybe that’s a good thing. I don’t want to see their faces as I slowly lie back down onto the bed. Hector throws back the skirts of the yellow dress, and I bite back a cry of shame. His hands are cold. They push my legs apart, and then his strong, thick fingers are investigating, parting the folds of my flesh, demanding entry.
I start to sob. I should have thought of this. Centuries ago, they used to confirm a maiden’s virtue before she could be sold off to a husband. And now Hector is going to find out I’ve lied to him, and I’m going to pay the price. I should have just kept my mouth shut. I cry out as Hector’s finger probes deeper inside me. It hurts. The horror of my situation has my whole body clenched tight, locked up and rigid, which makes what Hector is doing to me pinch and burn even more.
I hold my breath, my fingernails cutting into the skin of my palms as I wait for it to be over. For him to call me liar. For more pain to arrive.
"She’s telling the truth," Hector announces. What? I can’t…it takes a moment to register what he’s saying. He believes me? He withdraws his finger from inside me, and even that stings. Lifting his hand, he takes his index finger and slowly slides it into his mouth. "She’s sweet, too. She has a sweet pussy."
My stomach roils, making dark threats. If I had absolutely anything left inside me, I would throw it up all over the bed.
Hector gives Raphael a conciliatory slap on the shoulder. "You know the rules, my friend. Virgins belong to me. Maybe next time you should fuck them before you bring them home, huh? That way there would be no doubt." Raphael’s lips are pulled back into an ugly sneer.
"Hector, she is mine! I—" Hector snaps his right hand out, backhanding Raphael across the cheek. It probably didn’t hurt all that much, but the action silences Raphael in an instant.
"I don’t repeat myself for anybody, Raphi. You know that. Please, remember yourself." Raphael clenches his jaw. He nods once, staring the older man directly in the eye. Hector ignores him; he faces Ramona, maintaining a cool, effortless calm. "Get some pictures taken. Post them immediately. Make sure she gets sent to one of the cartels. I don’t want her opening her mouth about the judge to any of our other clients. Highest bidder wins out. I want her gone within twenty-four hours." He storms out of the room, wafting a sickly sweet cloud behind him as he goes. I close my legs slowly, pushing down the layers of the dress, crying silently.
I’m to be sold. Like a piece of meat, an object, nameless and unimportant, I am going to be sold.
REBEL BY CALLIE HART
6 - Alexis
Ramona disappears and comes back a while later with a small point-and-shoot digital camera. She makes me pose in my yellow dress, dead eyes staring straight down the lens, and then she makes me strip. She tells me how I’m to stand or sit, how I’m to hold myself, and she snaps off picture after picture of me, the flash burning another flare of color into my retinas each time. When she tells me to sit on a wooden chair and open my legs for her, I refuse, and she slaps me across the face.
"You’d better just do it, white girl. You don’t want to make this hard on yourself," she says to me, her voice softening. It’s as though Ramona is both the good cop and the bad in this scenario, which makes it hard to know how to react to her—I never know which side of her I’m dealing with at any one time. She gets her way in the end. I open my legs and close my eyes, and the flash doesn’t bother me this time. I think maybe she’ll tell me she wants to take the shot again, eyes open, but she doesn’t. Maybe the people who will be viewing these pictures like when a girl’s shame is evident, along with the most private parts of her body. Maybe that’s what excites them.
"Don’t wor
ry," Ramona says, as she hovers in the doorway, half in, half out, her job done. "You’ll be out of here really soon. The men who are gonna bid on you, they take good care of their possessions. If you’re good to them, do as you’re told, you won’t want for anything. It’s a better fucking life than you would have had here with Raphael."
She says this as though she might know from personal experience what a life with Raphael might be like. She leaves me alone in the bare room, my clothes, the clothes I wore in another life still quietly stinking of vomit in the corner, and me naked, curled up in the middle of the bed, too empty and too nothing to even cry anymore.
I eventually fall asleep. I don’t dream, which is a small blessing. It’s dark when I’m woken up—by a silhouette standing in the doorway. Raphael. "You fucking lying whore," he spits.
I sit bolt upright on the bed, regretting not putting the yellow dress back on. Adrenaline washes through me in a powerful tide that jumpstarts my heart, sending it into overdrive. Where is Hector? Ramona? Without them here, I don’t feel safe. Not that I’m safe with them here, but at least they would protect their goods, as it were. "You’ve been touched before. I know it. I can fucking smell it on you," Raphael snarls.
He takes one step into the room, and I push back on the bed, my hands and feet scrambling for purchase against the sheets. "I’ll scream," I whisper. My voice cracks—so much fear, so much adrenaline—and I think perhaps he might not have heard me. "I’ll scream," I say again, this time louder, more confident. Raphael snorts.
"Scream all you like. It won’t get you anywhere. You’ve been bought and paid for now, bitch. And from what I know of your new owner, you’re gonna wish you’d never been born." He chucks something at me, something dark and shapeless. I flinch as the object—an article of clothing—hits me in the chest. "Put this on. They’re already coming for you."
Ramona’s warning—be good and your new owner will be good to you—was apparently a waste of breath. If Raphael thinks whoever’s bought me is a bad person, then I am totally fucked. The scratchy fabric Raphael’s thrown to me turns out to a shapeless woolen dress. Black. Very short. It’s better than my other options, though, and right now I would frankly wear anything that covers my bare flesh from Raphael’s angry eyes. I slide it on over my head.
"Come with me," he commands. I get to my feet, my head spinning from lack of food and panic, and follow after him as he leads me back down the stairs. In the corridor, he stops abruptly, turning on me. My head smashes against the wall as he pins me by the throat with one powerful hand. "You should know, Sophia Letitia Marne, that I have a very long memory. And I hate being fucked around, especially by whores. I don’t like not getting what I want. You got a sister, huh? Any family? I am going to find your family, Sophia, and I’m gonna make them pay for your little lie. You hear me? And then, when I’ve fucked and killed your mother and all of your sisters, I’m going to send you pictures. And you’ll know that their deaths were because of you." He spits in my face, then—a huge, wet ball of saliva and phlegm that hits me on the mouth and cheek. "Just wait and see if I don’t," he whispers.
A door next to us opens, sending a rectangle of orange light spearing through the darkness, and Hector appears in the doorway, hands on his hips. "Thank you, Raphael. That will be all," he says. My legs almost collapse out from underneath me when it doesn’t look like Raphael is going to let me go. But he does. He squeezes my neck one last time, fingers crushing my esophagus, and then pushes away from me, growling under his breath. He charges down the corridor and then out the front door, slamming it hard behind him.
"Why don’t you come and wait with me, Sophia?" Hector asks. I’m too paralyzed by what just happened to even contemplate answering, let alone following after him. He takes hold of my elbow and guides me into the lit room he just appeared from, where he sits me down on an overstuffed wingback chair and hands me a tissue. I wipe my face mechanically, too numb to do anything but breathe.
"I should kill you."
My head snaps up to find that Hector has sat himself down opposite me. I see the room properly now—the rows and rows of shelves along the walls, jammed with books. The writing desk. The fireplace, in which a fire is crackling enthusiastically. This must be his study. Hector bridges his hands together and crosses his right leg over his left, studying me with those green eyes of his. They looked sharp and calculating in the sunshine earlier, but in the muted light they now look watery and inconstant. Like they aren’t any one fixed color and could easily change with the man’s mood. "I hate being lied to, sweet girl. Why did you tell me you were something you weren’t?"
It suddenly feels like I’m choking on my tongue. He knows. He knows I’m not a virgin. "I don’t know what you mean," I say. Hector tuts disapprovingly, shaking his head.
"I’ve slept with hundreds of women, my girl. I know what an intact hymen feels like. And yours is most definitely broken."
I don’t answer. It’s better to keep my mouth shut than to confirm or deny the fact. Hector shifts in his chair, apparently getting comfortable. "So really, I should kill you. I would never normally risk such a liability out there, walking and talking, mentioning my name in places it ought not to be breathed. But, you see, I’m currently under investigation for murder. You may know a little something about that, given Raphael’s interaction with Judge Conahue, perhaps? No?"
He dips his head, mouth open, clearly waiting for me to say something. I don’t. "You can imagine how awkward it would be if the authorities chose to visit my home while one of my men was burying a body out the back, of course. They have very unique ways of finding buried bodies these days. Freshly disturbed earth is a bit of a giveaway. A lucky thing for you, Sophia. A very lucky thing." A clock on the wall chimes, making me jump. Three a.m. Hector sucks on his teeth, tapping his fingertips together, as though he’s thinking on something. "Selling you is the easiest option for me right now, so yes, I have played along with your little ruse. Raphi’s a hot head. He can’t be trusted to have nice things unfortunately. He breaks them, and then refuses to clean up after himself. You leaving this place is best for everyone all round. But let me tell you, Sophia. I heard what Raphi said to you just now. Raphi is a man of his word. He will look for your family, and he will kill them if he finds them. I am in a position to prevent that from happening. All I require from you is that you keep your mouth shut. You don’t talk about me, ever, to anyone. You don’t talk about my home or my employees. Does that sound like a fair trade to you, sweet girl?"
My throat is as dry as the Sahara, but I still manage to croak out an eager, "Yes."
Hector nods. "Then we have an agreement. I would advise against breaking it, Sophia. I have eyes and ears everywhere. I also have an uncanny knack of discovering when people have been opening their mouths, when they should be keeping them firmly closed."
"I won’t say anything, I swear." I almost can’t believe he’s letting me go with another cartel. Seems to me that it would be easy enough to send me out with Raphael a couple of miles into the desert and have him put a bullet in the back of my head, but I am not stupid enough to question him. He stands up and takes me by the elbow again. "Time for us to wait outside. I don’t particularly like the man who has purchased you. I’d prefer he didn’t have to step foot inside my home. Come."
Hector is weirdly protective about his home, but then again he’s weird all round. I let him take me outside onto the veranda, where he sits me down on the bench swing. "Please don’t move from this spot, sweet girl." Hector paces with that deliberate, unhurried gait of his down the steps to where Raphael is standing, staring out into the desert. I’m left to do the same. Without any light pollution out here, the dark black velvet of the night sky glitters with an explosion of stars. I have no idea where the rusted van I was brought here in has gone, nor the men that traveled with us. No vehicles, no other people, nothing. Just us, the house, and the stars. Yet again, I’m tempted to slip silently off. The men’s backs are turned. It would be easy e
nough to do right now, but the fear of what they will do to me when they catch me—because there is no if—is enough to keep my bottom firmly planted on the bench.
I hear the rumble of engines before the lights come into view. It’s hard to tell how far away the convoy of cars is in the darkness, but it seems as though there are many of them. I count one, two, three, five different sets of headlights. My whole body is begging me to get up and run, to flee, to see how far I can get at least, before I’m trapped with yet another group of insane, violent men, but it’s too late for that. Too late for anything but to sit and watch the approaching armada of cars float toward us on the horizon. It’s a full five minutes before they’re close enough to make out the great plumes of dark dust and sand being kicked up behind the vehicles in their wake. There are seven cars, not five. Why so many? Hector said he didn’t like the man who’d bought me. Maybe the feeling is mutual. Maybe the extra muscle is to ensure there’s no trouble as the deal goes down.
I’m on the verge of hyperventilating by the time the cars, a mix of sedans and dirty four-by-fours, arrive in front of the house. Hector walks out to the lead car. A window buzzes down, and he shakes hands with the dark figure inside. Men begin to pour out of the cars. Every single last one of them is Mexican. Covered in tattoos and sporting a variety of weapons, they don’t look any friendlier than Hector’s people. The last person to get out of the cars is grossly overweight, dressed in a cream suit, complete with a Panama hat. And he’s wearing sunglasses. At three-thirty in the morning.
Hector slaps the man on the shoulder, grinning and shaking his hand. They speak in rolling, loud Spanish together, and the men standing around them burst into laughter. The fat man signals one of his guys forward. He’s carrying a brown paper bag—the kind Mom used to put my lunch in back when I was in elementary school. Hector doesn’t touch the bag. It’s Raphael that takes it from the other guy, perhaps his counterpart within this other cartel, and begins withdrawing bundles of money from inside. I can’t see what denomination the money is in, but Raphael lines up ten stacks side by side next to each other on the hood of the fat guy’s car.