Traffick (23 page)

Still the men beat her. Kick her. Stomp

on her. Goddamn it! “Hey, assholes!

You like beating up girls?” They

straighten, turn toward me.

This ain't no girl, dickwad,
says one.

Besides, what business is it of yours?

“She happens to be my friend.

But even if she wasn't, I'd have

to kick your ass.” Two against one.

Bad odds. But I have no choice,

so I wade in, hoping they don't rob

me when they're finished wasting me.

I hold my own for a while, and

barely feel the blows that connect.

Luck is with me in a couple of ways.

One, neither man seems to have

a weapon. And two, by the time

I'm actually losing the battle, a siren

is closing in. A huge set of knuckles

opens my forehead just above my left

eyebrow. The dudes take off running

as I drop to my knees, blood dripping.

I crawl over to Pippa, pull her skirt

down over her exposed crotch

before the cop can see it. She's

unconscious, breathing shallowly,

and bleeding a lot worse than I am.

I'm glad she can't see her face.

Son of a bitch! The cruiser pulls up

parallel to the sidewalk, and an officer

gets out, strolls over to take a peek.

You call this in? What happened?

“Can you, like, possibly arrange

for an ambulance or something?

In case you haven't noticed, they

messed her up pretty good.”

He actually bends over to check her pulse

and see if she's breathing.
I probably

should. You stay right here. I'll need

you to give me a statement, okay?

He saunters—yeah, that's the word—

back to his car. I sit, pull Pippa's face

off the sidewalk and into my lap,

try to stroke her hair smooth. I know

she'd be mortified for anyone to see

her like this. “It's okay, lady,” I soothe.

“You're safe now.” She moans softly,

so maybe she hears me. Suddenly,

I remember the bottle in my sock.

The cop is busy reaching for something

so I take the opportunity to remove it

and roll it off to one side. Just in case.

To be a wise move. When the EMTs

arrive, one of them takes a look at

my face and decides I should go in

for stitches, which means I get to ride

with Pippa in the ambulance. They haul

her into the emergency room immediately.

I, on the other hand, get to wait for a while,

filling out paperwork, both for the hospital

and for the cop who impatiently followed

to bug me for that statement. Pretty

sure he thinks I was more involved with

the incident than happening onto it

by accident, but tough. What I write

is a truthful account of the facts as I know

them. By the time I finally arrive home,

forehead sewn back together and bandaged,

it's almost three in the morning. I expected

David to be worried. But he's fast asleep.

I, on the other hand, won't sleep tonight.

I go outside, call Micah, disturb his dreams.

That's what everyone

called me when I was a kid,

and truth is, they were

right

though they didn't know

just how screwed up I was.

I believe the correct word

is sociopath. I was born in the

wrong

century. Ancient Rome

would've been perfect for me,

as long as my circumstances

were royal. I mean,

who

wouldn't celebrate having sex

with any number of slaves,

then trading them in

for newer models as soon

as boredom sets in? I

really

wish I'd been born into

money, instead of having

to create an income stream.

Think of the opportunities, no

cares

in the world except having

an exceptional time just being

alive and getting laid by pretty

young girls like Whitney.

I'm plugged into my computer,

where online learning is boring

me to tears. Yes, I've got lots of

catching up to do, if I'm to start

school again after the winter break

and reintegrate with my classmates,

now halfway through their junior year.

But even if I log in hours upon

hours, read every entry, learn

every math trick, pass every test,

how do I manage going back there?

What's the point? To pretend

I'm a regular kid again?

Even trying to reconnect

with Paige has been strange.

Yes, because she's friends

with Skylar, and that bitch

hasn't changed one little bit.

But it's more than that. For

as much as Paige has altered

her appearance, dropping

poundage and tinting her spiky

hair pink, once you get past

the Skylar-inspired conceit,

she's still the same inside as

before I left. Goofy. Girly.

She likes shopping. Texting.

Dreaming about the perfect guy.

But me? Oh, I'm different.

Once you've immersed yourself

in ugliness, wallowed in it,

sponged it up and internalized

it, you can't cough it back up

and spit it out. It becomes hard

to find beauty in anything.

No matter where I look, I find

evil lurking. A monster sleeps

inside every man. Cop. Mechanic.

Minister. It doesn't matter. I can

see the beast he hides. I won't let

one of them sneak up on me again.

How am I supposed to sit in

a classroom, hurry through

the hallways, change for PE?

How am I supposed to have

fun goofing around with friends

who have no concept of reality?

How am I supposed to stay clean

when the truth of what I've done

closes in around me, squeezing

hideous memories from the deep

recesses of my brain, and what

I really want is the kind of sleep

only the Lady can provide?

How am I supposed to trust

enough to fall in love, knowing

every guy is defective?

(Still logging those online learning

hours!) while surfing the Web for

more exciting discoveries

than what chemistry can offer.

My news feed is full of them,

and the first story that catches

my eye is about a teen prostitute

whose body turned up rotting

north of Las Vegas. You know,

that could have been me, except

Bryn wasn't exactly the murder-

his-girls type. He was more

the help-them-OD type. Guess

I got lucky. The word makes

me snort. Yeah. Lucky. That's me.

Wonder how many girls just

disappear, sucked into the life

one way or another, only to die

at the hands of a pimp or a john,

no one to mourn them, or if there

is, those people have no idea

that their loved one met death

in such a brutal way. Is anyone

mourning Shayleece Reynolds?

Did anyone mourn her mother?

If I would've died there on that

stinking carpet, wonder how long

my family would have mourned me.

In schoolwork. Blow through

English and American history,

which aren't as boring as chem.

Dad says homeschooling isn't

a good path to college, but I

can't think past today, let alone

start plotting my future.

Mom pops her head in once

in a while to make sure I'm

performing, and when I finish

she has a surprise for me.

You've been working so hard.

I thought you might like to go

to the boardwalk. The rides

are closed this time of year,

of course, but there's Neptune's

Kingdom and the big arcade

and tonight is the holiday lights

train. What do you think?

She's letting me escape

the house? Surely not without

supervision. “You mean, go

alone or with you or what?”

No fun to do it alone. Why

don't you call Paige and see

if she wants to go along?

I'm happy to spring for it.

Is right on the beach. In summer,

it's really fun, but during the winter

months the rides close down and

you're left with indoor amusements.

Still, there's music and food and

arcade games, which I used to love.

At this point they seem pretty silly.

So, of course, Paige wants to play

them. When I invite her to come,

I think for sure she'll turn me

down. Skylar, apparently, is tied

up elsewhere, however, because

Paige is quick to say okay.

Mom drops us off a little after

three. We watch her drive away.

“Before we go inside, can we take

a walk on the beach? My feet

haven't touched sand in months.”

Las Vegas has sand,
she whines,

but then agrees to a short stroll.

It's a crackling cool, clear blue

day, and the sound of waves in

the distance lifts a mist of nostalgia.

The last time I was near the surf

was the day Bryn took pictures

of me. How can I possibly miss him?

Paige must be psychic because

she chooses this moment to say,

So tell me about modeling. Did

you make bank, or what?

I'm good at off-the-cuff lying.

“Not really. I was still building

my portfolio by doing local shoots.

I was also partying a lot. It goes

with the territory.” That part, at

least, is accurate enough.

Skylar says you were probably

doing porn. You weren't, were you?

“Skylar's a jealous whore. Tell

her I said doing porn would be

preferable to listening to her rude,

nasty comments. You can also

tell her she couldn't qualify to do

porn. She couldn't pass an audition.”

I can't believe your mom would

let you go to Vegas with that guy.

“Mom's more open-minded

than you'd think. Okay, my feet

have touched the sand enough.

The train's at five. Let's get tickets.”

I'm finished talking about Vegas.

Except Mom was really clear

that it should be part of the evening.

I think it's her own nostalgia.

We used to ride it every year

when Kyra and I were little.

Dad used to come along, too.

“You don't mind riding the train,

do you? Pretty sure Mom would

be disappointed if we didn't.”

Are you kidding? Santa Claus

and candy canes are two of

my favorite things.
See?

That's the old Paige right there.

We have to wait almost an hour

to board. As daylight fails and

the lights glitter on, I start to feel

pretty good. Like maybe I don't

really need a romp with the Lady

after all. But soon enough, we run

into a few people I used to know

at school. They all ask where I've

been and I feed them the same

tired story I shared with Paige.

After a while I kind of want to tell

them I was doing porn, if only

to see the shock in their eyes and

determine the velocity of rumors.

Once the locomotive gets

rolling through town. It chugs

through neighborhoods

where many people have

decorated their homes to

the max for the enjoyment

of the entire city, including

us holiday train passengers.

It's fun to watch the children,

especially the young ones,

whose eyes grow wider and

wider as they wait for Santa

to vacate the caboose and make

an appearance in the cars. Funny,

but I've never even thought

about having kids of my own.

I'd probably be a crap mother,

but, hey, you never know.

Was that just me, thinking

I might be able to have

something approaching

a normal life, after only

a few hours ago being very

sure that wasn't possible,

because of a train ride?

Maybe my mom knows

a thing or two after all.

Is crowded with families

enjoying everything from

pool to bowling to pinball,

plus a huge variety of electronic

games. Christmas carols loop

in the background, and the whole

place is done up with ornaments

and tinsel. It's fake, fake, fake.

But still, it's very pretty. I think

I'm starting to define “bipolar.”

Before long, one thing starts to

stand out. I noticed it on the train,