It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue. Beau’s nothing like Boris. I don’t know him well, but I do know what I saw when looking at him. He is Russian, yes, but not all men from my beloved country are like Yema says.
I remember being a little girl and seeing the baker nearly every week. He’d offer me treats each time my mother would take me with her. If he were evil, as Yema claims, he’d have never cared about showing kindness to a young girl. Those were some of the best memories I have.
I miss my mom, but I was separated from her at such a young age that sometimes my memories of her begin to feel as if they’re fading. I remember the night everything changed like it was yesterday, though. We were walking home, and it was evening time.
The air was chilly because I was in a bright red pea coat. It was my absolute favorite. The fabric made from wool was so warm, and it had big black buttons down the front.
I was holding her soft hand, swinging them between us as I skipped along beside her. Her hands were always there, embracing me in some way. I loved the affection that she so openly showed me. I was humming a song, and she kept singing little bits of words to it; she only knew a few here and there. Her voice was beautiful. She always sang the prettiest at Christmas time when we had carols to keep busy with.
I ran the song through my mind, giggling each time she had to make up a word because she’d forgotten the correct one. I felt her hand give me a quick tug, and when I glanced back, her eyes were wide. She was scared, and I quickly turned back to look in front of me, but there was nothing.
I peered her way again, and there was a big man standing directly behind her. He had long, dark hair, shadowing part of his face full of overgrown wiry hair. His hand was wrapped around her neck as he tried to drag her backward. She fought; I know she did with all her might. But my mother was a delicate woman, always giving me any extra food we may have had, so I was never hungry. I didn’t realize it then, but she was starving herself. I know now that’s most likely the real reason the baker gave me treats on each visit. He always stared at Mother with kind, worried eyes.
Mother’s grip on my hand was tight. It increased until I called out, yelling for the mean man to let her go. I was fierce at one time—not this meek shell of a human being I’ve become.
I yelled, sternly, “You let my mother go!” Only he didn’t listen. His hand grew tighter like a vice until my sweet mother’s face was red and puffy, as she gasped for air and clawed at his arm with her free hand.
Eventually, she had to let go of me to fight against him harder, only it was no use. She was no match for the overgrown brute. He started dragging her toward a dark corner, and I charged. So brave for a tiny girl, I was determined to save her like one of the superheroes I’d seen on our sorry excuse of a television. The picture was so bad, and the cartoons came across as fuzzy. It didn’t matter, though; none of that stuff did. I didn’t care she had to find our furniture next to dumpsters or make potatoes for dinner a few nights a week. I was proud of her—I loved her.
Wearing a fierce expression with a fiery growl, I lunged and was stopped by a strong grasp on my shoulder. Stunned, I glanced up into a much younger Master’s eyes. I think my heart faltered a bit gazing up at such a powerful man. I had nothing on him, and I knew it. Still, not one to give up, I pushed and pulled against him, kicking out and swiping my nails at his face the same way I’d gotten in trouble at school for doing. It was like swatting at a fly. He chuckled, his eyes full of amusement as he ducked and weaved to miss my hits.
I fought the hardest that day like nothing was going to stop me. I was determined to help my mother—to rescue her. The Master’s steel-like arms wrapped around me securely, until I could barely squirm and I was a good squirmer; my mother told me so, many times when she’d wrap me up in my favorite blanket.
I stared off in the direction I’d last seen her sea blue eyes, wide and frightened. She was gone at that moment like she’d never existed, and my life was changed forever. As the Master loaded me up in his big, fancy car, I could’ve sworn I heard her scream.
Yema picks up a lacy bra, flinging it at me.
“Undress. You’ll wear this. Maybe the others will bid on you, and he’ll spend more on you in the end. You better make money, or you’ll go back.”
Obeying immediately, I shuck out of the plain, white nightgown. It’s what they make us wear when we’re not at one of these events. The Master says it’s cheap and offers them an easy view if they want it. I don’t want to upset Yema in any way; I want to go away from this place with my gentlemen. I want him to keep me.
Yema’s calculating gaze watches me closely as I stand naked in front of him, struggling a few seconds until I get the bra clasp hooked behind me, securing it around my small breasts. There’s nothing extraordinary about them, but I hope they will please Mr. Masterson in some way.
Hearing his last name at first made me falter with unease. Going from the man I’ve called Master for so long to someone who’s last name is quite close, frightens me a bit.
I watched him as much as I could get away with in Chicago and he surprised me. He didn’t kiss Yema’s feet as so many of the others do; but instead, he stared at him with a stern, angry gaze. It pleased me beyond words with how ugly Yema can be to me and the other women he brings to sell.
There have been many nights I’ve thought of killing Yema and the Master. I’d never do it though; I’d never succeed. They’re too strong, and I’m always afraid I’ll die doing it. I never have the energy either. How can a tiny person like myself hope to kill a man when I never know if I’ll randomly pass out.
“Now the skirt.” Yema throws a shred of material at me.
It hits my face, a piece of the fabric going in my eye. It stings enough that they try to tear up, but it’s hard to cry when you don’t have a lot of extra fluids in your body. I stopped crying over things long ago. Now I just exist through them.
I step into the skirt and slide the short stretchy fabric over my legs. It’s loose around my waist, but the spandex in the material will help keep it in place for as long as I’m on stage. I wish he would’ve given me some panties to wear with it, but of course, he pushes those off to the side. While I want to hide as much of myself from the old vultures fluttering about the room out there, Yema and the Master want me to flaunt too much.
I’ve seen the men at these events many times. They either like the women quiet and meek or readily showing off their goods. There’s no middle, it seems. The Master claims that I’m lucky to get to come to these places with Yema, that I have a better chance than all the other women.
I don’t see it, though. If anything, it makes me more frightened because I know once most of these men are finished doing their business with their purchases, that the ladies will be killed. I’m miserable in life, but I don’t wish to die.
He claims this is a privilege that I had to earn the opportunity to be seen on Yema’s arm. Personally, the man makes me sick, and every weekend I pray one of these men will stab him to death and I’ll escape. The chances of someone killing him are decent; as for my escape though, not so much.
And then there was my gentleman. Could I really have gotten so fortunate to meet a man who would want me and not kill me afterward? Was the Master right all along about me having a better chance than the others? I’ve been to ten of these events and last week was the first time a man specifically asked for me. Of course, they’d made suggestions in the past, but Yema always shot it down, claiming I was no good. Was this man someone special that he’s changed his mind? Was he different than all the others? Who is he?
“Come on; you’re going out there first. Those imbeciles are always overeager to bid and go home early. It’s the late buyers who have less money.”
Following behind Yema, I remain silent, my stomach twirling at a ridiculous speed making me nauseous. What if he doesn’t like me? What if he’s not pleased once he sees me naked? What if someone else buys me?
“Don’t look so…whatever
it is that’s wrong with your face.”
God forbid I be sad or nervous. Of course, I’m happy to be away from him and the other evil men they bring around, but there’s still fear of the unknown. I flash a fake grin that I’m sure resembles a grimace.
“You don’t make money, you’ll go back, and you won’t like it, girl.”
He calls everyone girl. I wish he’d trip and face plant right now.
Victoria, the Master’s niece announces my name. “Here’s sexy Sasha! Get your money ready, gentlemen.”
These are not gentlemen. These are men with mean eyes just like the Master’s. I take one step onto the large, black stage. This stage doesn’t have the catwalk feel like the last. The stage here is flat against the far wall, maybe six feet wide, twenty feet long and five feet off the ground. I’m supposed to walk the entire length so all the men standing in front of it can see me.
Taking one step in front of the other, the dim lighting illuminating over the crowd helps me block out their faces a bit. The overhead lights above me are strikingly bright, and there’s so many that I instantly feel warmer walking underneath them. I put another foot in front, and the first degrading remark hits my skin like a whip. Then another slams into me, burning my flesh and hurting my soul. I pass one man after another, their comments becoming cruder as I go, and I find myself seeking one face in particular as my body shakes, plagued with nerves.
Beau.
Once I pick his handsome features out of the crowd, I train my gaze directly on him, ignoring everyone else in the room. One step, then another… I’m nearly to him when my head suddenly becomes dizzy. My fingers feel like they have tingles in them and then everything goes black.
The men mulling around the poorly-lit lower level room have my stomach turning. The low-ball tumblers of dark liquid being handed out by the few servers look more enticing with each passing moment. That refreshing drink could assist in dulling the senses and help everything appear a bit less twisted than it is.
Finn sighs, his eyes a bit weary as he glances around.
“See?”
He nods. “I do. I’ve been ta one before, unfortunately.”
His response takes me off guard; I had no idea. He’s never mentioned anything about it in the past, but I guess he wouldn’t have. He should’ve let me know something on the plane.
“When?”
He shrugs. “I was a young lad. Never went back after that. There’s something creepy about it all. Too many women want a bad boy anyhow, no need ta waste this sort of money when you can find a willing one.”
The intercom comes on, welcoming us all to the night’s ‘most anticipated event.’ The losers all crowd around the stage, but we stay back waiting until it’s time for us. These guys up front will all bid on the first thing that walks out, just like last weekend, but I’m waiting for one woman in particular, along with a special group they’re supposed to have picked out for me. No doubt they’ll try auctioning them off in front of me, to get more money. Bastards. They’re stupid if they don’t realize that I know that much of their plan.
“Sasha! Get your money ready, gentlemen.” I catch the ending, but it was enough for me to make out her name.
Fuck.
“Come on,” I grunt and elbow my way through to the front. This wasn’t supposed to go down like this. I’m guessing that assface, Yema, is doing this shit on purpose to throw me off.
I’m at the end of the stage, but at least I have a good spot to bid on her and hear the others if they bid as well. If…who am I kidding? Of course, they’ll bid on her. She may have been bruised up and skinny last weekend, but there’s fire underneath it all.
Sasha walks on stage, stiff as a board. Her footsteps appear heavy as her strides are so small like she’s dreading the walk, and who can blame her. As she approaches, her face grows ashier with each step. I wish I knew the thoughts running through her mind to have that look resting on her face. She’s still beautiful, but that can’t distract me. Not tonight and not ever. I have to help her, not consume her like my own thoughts have insisted I do—taunting me with the memory of her beauty all week.
She gets nearer to our spot, and as she approaches, I can hear the lewd comments from every asshole she passes. Their taunting words ignite a rage inside me, and I have to hold my breath to keep from pummeling a few of them. I’m not here for them, at least not yet. If I get the chance to put a few behind bars, it’ll be icing on the cake.
Sasha’s willowy body wavers a bit as she takes another step, her gaze finally landing on me. I think it brings her a sense of peace as hope enlightens her irises just a smidge. Her foot lifts for another step, and I can’t help but silently cheer her on. Come on, baby, you can do this, almost to me.
And then her eyes roll back, her body falling to the floor in a heap, out cold.
I’m the first one on the stage, my training kicking in. My fingertips go to her neck, checking for her pulse. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on the beats, counting. Her pulse is there; it’s not quite at a resting rate which isn’t good. It should be at least slightly elevated with what was just going on.
She’s not as healthy as she needs to be, that’s for sure. It angers me and makes my stomach sick inside at the same time. I hate these people, and I’ve never wanted to kill these assholes more than I do right now.
It worries me, but she should be okay. I’m guessing it’s my prior diagnosis of the women being dehydrated and malnourished. The event tonight probably pushed her over, burning through what little she had saved up inside that was keeping her going.
Yema strolls over casually, appearing bored. Victoria, the announcer, remains at her podium, eyes sad, while the other men in the room use this as a bathroom and refill break.
“I knew she was weak.” Yema shrugs. “We’ll dispose of her and find you a replacement.”
The growl that leaves my throat is so deep and feral you’d swear it was from an animal and not a man. Gruffly, I scowl, “You won’t touch her. I told you I wanted her.”
“They usually die fairly quickly once they start passing out like this. Unless you like them unresponsive?” He asks this like it’s a normal request and fuck if I don’t want to upchuck at the thought.
“How much?” grates out between a few breaths as I rein my temper in. This guy will get it, maybe not right this moment, but at some point, it’ll happen.
He shrugs, sighing in exasperation. “I don’t care, five hundred thousand? She’s pretty useless to me at this point.”
“Fifty thousand and I take her now.”
“I can get that when she’s dead…one hundred thousand.”
“Done. Bill me and have the other group for me next weekend. I’m not waiting around when she needs an IV. And make sure the group I buy don’t fucking pass out. Try feeding them.”
His eyebrow cocks and Finn steps beside me, arms crossed over his chest, staring Yema down crossly.
“As you wish, Mr. Masterson.” His mask shutters over his face again as he takes a step back and mock bows.
I’m going to teach this pissant some manners. Standing, I hike Sasha over my shoulder. I need to get her to the private plane ASAP.
Strong women still need
their hands held.
-Truth
For once in a very long time, my body feels warm all over, and I don’t have the constant ache in my stomach from never eating as much as I’d like to. Opening my eyes, I find a light blanket tucked all around me. I feel funny, like I’m in a vehicle, only I’m laid out on a bed. It’s comfortable with a black and grey duvet covering it. There are probably ten pillows surrounding me as well.
Where am I?
I start to sit up when something stings my arm. I start to jerk it when a gruff voice halts me.
“Careful, there’s a needle in your arm. I don’t want you to yank it out or hurt yourself.” My eyes find the owner of the voice. It’s my Mr. Masterson.
My gaze flies to my arm, where indeed there’s a needle tape
d securely in the crook. A tiny tube pushes clear liquid into me.
He’s drugging me? But he doesn’t have to. I want to be here with him. I’ve seen what’s happened to the other girls when they put stuff into their arms. They end up going crazy from it. I don’t want that for me. I can serve him without it.
“I-I…” I clear my throat, dry from sleep and try again. “Please,” I plead. I know not to speak unless he asks it of me; I know not to go against his wishes. I grew up learning these things from the Master.
“Please, what?” he asks, my eyes growing wide that he’s actually asking me what I want to say. It’s never mattered in the past.
“Please stop the drugs. I will obey without them, I promise.”
Scowling, he stands and paces in front of the bed, like a caged animal, ready to break free. “That’s an IV with saline. I’m not drugging you; I’m making you better.”
A tear trails over my cheek. I have no idea what he means.
“What now?”
“I’m not good enough. I’m sorry, I will be better.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “You don’t know what saline is?”
“I don’t, I apologize.”
“Stop apologizing. You were dehydrated and passed out. You fell to the floor. You needed fluids in your body to get well again; that’s what this clear stuff is doing. It’s making your body heal. As will the vitamin shots you received. The B12 should give you some energy. I’m sure you have a deficiency of everything at this point. But we’ll get all of that fixed with food and whatever the doctor suggests when we land.”
I don’t know what he means with vitamins and stuff. Master never gave me any of that sort. He said I needed water and enough food to live, that’s all. The shots would explain why my thigh feels so heavy though. I push the covers aside to look at the area, noticing I’m in an oversized white t-shirt.
Does he dress us like the Master also?
Undercover Intentions Page 8