by Sophia Henry
“Hook, line, and sinker,” I whisper as I hang up the phone. Giddiness makes bubbles flutter in my stomach. Maybe my plan isn’t too far-fetched after all.
As soon as I hang up, I rush to tell Mama immediately – saying that one of my clients wants to buy us clothing, jewelry, and makeup. It’s always best to lay it on thick.
“Mama!” I call, rushing to her. She’s on the couch watching the local news. “Mama! Guess what?”
“What’s all the fuss, Katrina?” She takes a drag on her cigarette.
“Remember the man from Friday night—the one you said was a good one?” I plop down next to her and grab her hand, playing up my excitement.
“Yeah?”
“He wants to take me to Eastland Mall after school,” I say, emphasizing Eastland because it’s the biggest and best mall in Charlotte. “He wants to buys me clothes and jewelry and makeup!” I squeeze her hand.
“Really?” she asks.
I’ve never seen her look as proud of me than she is at this minute. She’s always pounded it into my head that the best thing was to find one man and milk him for all I could before moving on.
My mind has been reeling with so many thoughts over the past few days that only Stan and the thought of what he can offer that keeps me grounded.
During school, all I can think about is my meeting with the beautiful, dangerous Russian who occupies my mind.
Dre catches my eye a few times during English class. I smile sheepishly and lift my fingers in a slight wave. I can’t help the guilt that washes over me. After years of telling him everything, this plan is one thing I can’t reveal. It’s too dangerous to tell anyone.
The last thing I want is for the Russian mafia to shake down my best friend for answers about me. My life is what it is, Dre’s doesn’t have to be that way.
After enduring hours of different teachers droning on about the topic, they would repeat to next year’s batch of 12th graders, I finally get to leave school and get to the adventurous part of the day. I am curious to find what the Russian has in store for me; probably more sex and some money for me to keep on the side.
I pick out a pair of faded straight-leg jeans that hold my butt firmly and peg them at the ankle. Then I slip on a hot pink crop top that exposes my flat, toned belly. It’s flirty, but still leaves enough for the imagination.
Today I’m the seductress, and I plan on sinking my claws completely in Stan.
Mama taught you well, a voice says in my head and I can’t help but feel ashamed but I have to do what I have to do to reach my goals.
My knees shake and I’m on the edge of my seat while the bus weaves through Charlotte streets on the way to Eastland. When I walk in, I feel a twinge of jealousy when I spot other girls who look to be around my age, giggling and having fun. I’m not jealous they’re having fun. I’m jealous because I missed out on that part of life. I never got to hang out at the mall with friends like I didn’t have a care in the world. I didn’t have the money—or the time. I can’t remember what it feels like to have such innocence and freedom.
Freedom. The same thing Stan’s looking for in America.
As if he knows I’m thinking of him, I look up and watch as he descends from the escalator like a hovering angel. He smiles when his eyes focus on my face.
I note the ways his skin crinkles around his eyes. Stan might look like a kindly old man when he ages, which is a weird juxtaposition seeing as he’s probably committed more than one murder in his time on earth. For some reason, his dangerous past and his rugged handsomeness allures, rather than frightens, me. Which definitely confirms how messed up I am.
Stan is dressed in a way that compliments his rugged looks; a pair of loose, off-white pants with a round-necked shirt tucked into them and a crème jacket to top it off. Looking at him, you would think he stepped out of a men’s fashion magazine.
“Katrina,” he greets me, opening his arms for an embrace that I didn’t expect. When I hesitate, he gently pulls me into his arms. Can a Mafioso be gentle?
The warmth comforts me immediately. I breath in the scent of nutmeg, oranges, and cinnamon and relax into his embrace. The memory of his naked body flashes through my head, and sparks throbbing between my legs.
“You look beautiful,” he says when we pull apart. I feel light-headed and giddy again and it isn’t just because of this man’s money and how it can help me, it is something different.
Stan makes a circle with his arm and offers it to me. After I loop mine in his, he places his palm over my hand and holds it across his stomach. It’s much more intimate than holding hands—which is really awkward when the height difference is immense like ours is.
Together, we explore the mall. We walk silently, save for the times I point out something to teach him about American culture.
He stops abruptly in front of a jewelry store, staring at a simple silver necklace with a solitaire diamond so intently I’m worried that he might be thinking of robbing the store and making me his accomplice.
“This will look good on you,” he says haltingly in that sexy Russian accent. I snort out a laugh taking his words as a joke, but Stan’s flat expression doesn’t change. Suddenly, he smiles mischievously and pulls me toward the door.
“No, no, no,” I protest when I realize what he is up to. This man will get me killed.
“Come on, I get you one,” he says stubbornly, pulling me toward the entrance again.
“Stan. Listen to me for a minute,” I say sharply, trying to dig my feet into the slippery concrete floor. Surprisingly enough, he stops to listen. “Someone will mug me or kill me if I wear something that expensive in my part of Charlotte.”
Stan’s muscles tighten under my grip and he narrows his eyes. “What is mug?” he asks but I have a feeling that the other words have gotten under his skin.
“They will rob me,” I explain.
“I would break such person,” Stan quips.
I know he’s not joking, but why would he want to seek revenge and risk incarceration again for my sake. Maybe he’s taken a liking to me, but I can’t risk making such assumptions yet. I need to solidify his affection before he gets bored and tosses me aside for fresher meat.
“I know you will,” I agree, trying to play on his ego. “But please, no jewelry. My own mother would take it and pawn it for cash.”
In fact, that’s the most likely scenario. She’s done it before.
Stan’s eyes lock with mine and we have a staring contest until he gives in—another surprising thing for him to do. I’d expected him to stand his ground.
“Da. All right.” He sighs in resignation. “Then I buy you something else.”
He takes me into another store. One with clothing so expensive, I know even one item on the rack would probably pay our rent for the next quarter. For some reason it makes me uncomfortable, which means I need to suck it up and work harder at this gold-digging gig.
How am I supposed to get money from him when I cringe at the idea of him spending it on me? Maybe because it feels like he’s looking out for me, and I’ve never had that before.
Stan and I walk through the store. He’s very patient, waiting as I stop every few steps and riffle through a rack of clothes.
“I wish there was a store that had affordable clothes that were still fashionable,” I mutter while flipping through a rack of the beautiful—yet grossly overpriced—dresses. “Everything is either ridiculously expensive or cheap and ugly.”
“What does this matter?” he asks. “You do not pay for this.”
“I know, Stan. I just”—I shake my head—“I feel weird about letting you spend this much money on me. Especially since you’re going back to Moscow soon. And—I don’t know. I’m the worst prostitute ever,” I laugh.
Men like Stan don’t care about other people’s feelings. The plan mulling through my head has me paranoid. I don’t know how much time I have to charm him. All the while these thoughts are crossing my mind, Stan’s been watching me intently a
nd from his expression, I realize that for the first time in a long while, I’ve let my poker face drop.
“You know why I bring you here today?” he asks, gesturing for me to sit me on a bench outside of the fitting rooms. The action earns us an ugly look from the woman at the till. I’m guessing it’s because we haven’t brought any clothes to try on. She must not be happy we’ve suddenly converted the store into a meeting place.
“No Stan, I have no idea,” I reply with my arms folded, trying to harden my resolve and brace myself for the worst.
Stan sweeps a stray lock of hair away from my face and tucks it behind my ear. Why is he acting like this is some sort of romance novel? Where’s the blunt man I opened up to on Saturday?
“I want you to stop prostitution,” he says, gazing into my eyes.
I feel like he flipped my world upside down. What is he talking about? Then I do the dumbest thing and laugh out loud, earning us another nasty look from the lady at the register. Stan glowers at her so harshly it makes goosebumps pop up on my arms. The violence inside him is barely bridled.
But when he turns back me, his face softens until he looks worried. “I need to get you out of this situation before it too late,” he continues calmly.
The possibility of Stan helping me get out of prostitution fills me with hope. At my current rate, I’d never be able to get to Chapel Hill.
It would be nice to finally stop being sold to different men. It would be nice to not have my gag reflex tripped when I walk by someone wearing expensive cologne and not be reminded of the disgusting, sweaty men as they cover my body, pumping in and out until they collapse in a heap on top of me.
The hope crumbles almost as fast as it rose.
“If I quit, how am I’m supposed to survive and take care of my mother?” I ask.
“I will take care of you,” he says, taking my hand in his.
I can imagine Mama’s reaction to those words. She would probably dance around and laugh with glee until the aftermath of too many cigarettes gets her coughing and hacking.
“Why?” I ask again. “Is this because of your mother and sister?”
A pained expression crosses his face but he recovers quickly. That nerve must be rawer than I realize. “Yes, but there is another reason,” he says, his voice hoarse now.
Oh Lord, please don’t cry, I say in silent prayer. I never thought I would ever see Stan be so emotional.
“You are in my heart, Katrina.”
I bite my lip as I process his words. He obviously knows what to say to sweep a girl off her feet. But at the same time, the admission scares me. I wanted him to keep me around long enough to get me to UNC, but I didn’t realize he had feelings for me.
And what scares me even more is that I have feelings for the hazel-eyed criminal sitting next to me.
A proper, Southern girl should be crushing on rock stars or actors or the cute boy in her Science class. But here I am swooning over Russian Mafioso. Proving there’s nothing proper about me.
“And that man,” Stan continues, oblivious to my internal turmoil. “That Waylon Harding—he is not good person. He is dangerous. Your mother do not know what he capable of.”
This part grabs my attention more than anything else. “What are you talking about,” I ask.
“Waylon Harding is sex trafficker,” Stan explains. “I come from Russia and act like a client, which is how I meet you. Information I have, say that it is Waylon Harding’s people who kidnap my sister and bring her to America.”
“Oh my god,” I say through an exhale. What has Mama gotten me into?
“He traffic girls, hook them on drugs, and turn them to prostitute that he controls,” he continues with his explanation. “After I done with you, he will force you to use much heroin. You will be addict and do anything he say for next fix. You be in Mexico before sundown.”
My chest tightens, making it harder and harder to breathe. The hate for my mother that’s always been bubbling at the surface, intensifies, threatening to spill over. I don’t trust her enough to know whether or not she knew about all this. Mama has always been calculating, but could she have stooped this low?
“You are lucky I am first client he give you,” Stan says. He’s still next to me, but it sounds like he’s a million miles away. “Don’t worry, Katrina. I will take care of the situation. I will take care of you.”
“I need some air,” I say, scrambling off the bench and running out of the store into the concourse.
7
Cookie
I can’t help but fume as I head back home. The bus ride back is quiet, thank God for that. The droning of the engine is calming—almost therapeutic—but it doesn’t drown out the questions floating around in my brain.
What kind of mother does that sort of thing? I’ve been trying to come up with a plausible excuse as to why Mama would set me up with a sex trafficker.
What would have happened to me if I was given to another client who has no personal interest in me? Would I be hooked on heroin and look like one of those junkie hookers on the corner of Trade and Tryon?
More importantly, what the hell am I supposed to do now? Can I trust Stan to be true to his word about protecting me?
Skepticism begins to rear its ugly head, but I remind myself that I wouldn’t have all the information I do right now if Stan hadn’t shared it with me. I don’t think he would share that information if his intention was doing me harm. But what if he’s a sadistic psychopath who’s showing me all the cards because it’s more fun for him?
He is mafia, after all.
No. I doubt he would have let me leave if that were the case.
At this point, I feel like I’ll explode from the overload of thoughts. Thankfully, the bus stops and I get off quickly. The need to question Mama grows stronger with every step I take toward our apartment building. I pray I don’t murder her by the time the day is done.
Stan’s words echo in my mind. “Don’t worry, Katrina. I will take care of the situation. I will take care of you.”
I don’t talk to anyone as I walk into the building. Thankfully, Dre hadn’t been out when I got home because I would have snapped at him if he tried to start up a conversation. I have enough problems, I don’t want to add having my best friend pissed at me to the laundry list.
“Mama!” I shout before I even close the door behind me, scanning the room for her. “Mama!”
There’s silence in the apartment until I hear the toilet flush, and I realize she’s been in the bathroom.
Mama steps out with a scowl on her face which means she’ll have something scathing to say but right now I do not care.
“I don’t know what’s come over you to think that you can scream my name all over my house,” she counters. I look around what she calls a ‘house’, but all I see is a seedy room in a rundown building.
“How dare you set me up with a sex trafficker?” I bellow at her, ignoring her question.
“What the hell are you talkin’ about, Katrina?” Mama fires back. “And you best watch your mouth before I smack it, you hear? I’m your mother, and you will respect me.”
“Do you know what Waylon Harding does?” I ask, ignoring her threats.
All I get in return is a blank stare like she’s expecting me to divulge more information. “Who’s that?”
Is she playing with me or has this woman lost her mind? Again.
“The man you set me up with on Friday, Mama. Waylon Harding,” I explain calmly, trying not to come off as a raging lunatic.
“I don’t know any Waylon Hard-on or whatever name you said. I set you up with a handsome man named Beau Commons. I told him that my daughter was the finest piece of ass in the city.” She scowls, but it’s quickly wiped away when she starts coughing. Between hacks, she glares at me. “I told you not to fuck it up with him. Did you fuck it up?”
Instead of trying try to figure out why I’m so upset, she’s angry because she thinks I’ve ruined her trip to Easy Street. It breaks my heart
but steels my resolve to leave her as soon as I have the chance.
I’ve always second guessed her love, but now I know for certain—my mother doesn’t give two shits about me. She’s a lazy piece of trash with no education and low self-esteem who prostituted herself to make easy money. I’ve always been an obligation, not a daughter. Until I turned sixteen, and I became a slave.
What bothers me now is the confusion at hand. Was it Beau—Harris’ brother—who set me up to be trafficked? Or was he oblivious of the whole thing? Is Stan lying to me so I have to play the damsel in distress and depend on him?
More questions pile up in my mind, but my train of thought gets derailed when the phone rings. I rush to answer, grabbing the lime green receiver and answering breathlessly.
It’s Waylon saying he wants to see me immediately. There’s a new client he wants me to meet who won’t be in town for long.
Fear grapples me as I write down the address on a sheet of paper.
I could say no. But then what would he do? Kidnap me? Drug me? Send me to Mexico?
Kill me.
“Only one way to find out,” I say out loud. I make one more call before I grab the paper and storm out of the apartment.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Mama calls as I rush past her.
I don’t answer—don’t even turn around.
* * *
The address leads me to a small warehouse off Westinghouse Blvd, which makes me feel uneasy, but I keep moving.
Upon entering, it looks like a makeshift bar has been constructed and the exterior was left that way to make the place inconspicuous. A cover, so to speak.
“Ah, Katrina, there you are,” Waylon’s voice booms sounding more like he is announcing my presence than welcoming me.
I follow the sound and spot him sitting with another man around the left side of the bar. They wear suits like they are legitimate businessmen—maybe bankers, but now I know better; it’s all a disguise.
“Seems like you’ve become a bit of a superstar, darling,” he drawls as I get to where he and his partner sit. After a quick look around, I count five men scattered around the space. If I’m being set up to die there’s no way I'll be able to escape.