Chapter Seven

Diana

Two weeks later…

IT FEELS NICE to have extra cash and pay rent early so I can take this weekend off and catch up on things I like, things I didn't have a chance to while Mike held me captive.

Today, I'm watching the official uploads from a music festival overseas. I had no idea until today that the bands I liked when I was fourteen are still going, and I settle in with a blanket and a cup of coffee, ready to relax. Maybe feel like a normal almost-nineteen-year-old for once.

Until a door slams across the hall, so hard the building shakes. I close my eyes, sighing. Was it Mrs. Thompson or the other guy I haven't officially met?

When a tentative but frantic knock comes at my apartment door, I get my answer. When I open the door, Mrs. Thompson has a vicious bruise across her eye and cheek. She's holding an ice pack to it.

"Fucking Rick?" I guess, letting her inside.

"I let him know in advance I'd be two hundred short on rent and have it by the third and he decided to let me know how much he appreciated my heads up." Her voice trembles even as she sounds angry. "But that's not the worst part."

It doesn't look like he assaulted her, not going by her clothes and face, so what's worse?

"He's coming back this afternoon. When Whitney gets home from school."

My whole body freezes at that implication. "You're fucking with me."

She shakes her head and bursts into tears. She's much older than me, but she's so small, so frail, so sweet. Things I never got to be. Learning the hard way what the world is like to women at thirty-something? That has to be a shock.

"Let me hide her tonight. He can't stay at your place forever," I suggest. "I'd say I'd hide you, too, but he obviously knows where you live and will come back. But at least this way…"

This is bullshit. I have to tell a woman she's going to be assaulted just to protect someone even more vulnerable.

Mrs. T keeps nodding as she tries to catch her breath. "Yes, please. I will deal with whatever he does to me, just please protect her."

So, that afternoon, Mrs. T ushers little Whitney over to my place.

"But I don't understand," the kid says once her mom kisses her goodbye. She puts her backpack on my threadbare secondhand couch. "What does Mom need to do?"

"Just a grown-ups' meeting," I tell her. "Want a snack?" I don't have much, I still don't eat much, but I have chocolate pudding pops and Whitney happily eats one.

"Hey, I have something I need to read, but do you want to watch TV? You can put it as loud as you want," I tell her. "In fact, blast it so I can hear it out here, okay? The TV is in my room."

Her big eyes light up and she gives me a slightly sticky hug. "You are so cool for an adult!"

She literally dashes away and just in time, as I hear Rick calling for Mrs. Thompson, banging on her door.

Whitney has found the YouTube app on my crappy smartTV and the sounds of a popular song about love seven days a week should be enough to drown out the sounds I can barely hear out here.

Closing my eyes, I try to stave off flashbacks.

You're out of there now, my conscience reminds me. And you're helping another child not be in your position.

I can't believe the neighbors don't report the sounds coming from the Thompsons' apartment, but maybe they're used to it. Maybe they were threatened too. Maybe the men wish it was them doing it. Who knows?

It feels like hours before the sounds stop and I hear Rick shout, "If that two hundred isn't there by tomorrow this time, there's nowhere you or your fucking slut daughter can hide from me. You will get that money, or she'll earn it."

No. Fuck no, Hell no, just no .

I'd rather die than know a child will go through what I did.

There goes my weekend off. But it will be worth it.

After I ensure Mrs. Thompson is okay and help her in the aftermath, I send Whitney home and get ready to go to my usual spot in the city.

I sigh to myself, wishing I didn't have such a big heart. But if Mrs. Thompson doesn't have that last $200, I don't think I can hide her daughter any longer than I did today. And then what happens to Whitney? She's fucking twelve, she doesn't deserve this, any of this.

Just like I didn't.

One more sigh and I round the corner where some of the other girls stand and assess them.

Stand near the uglier ones, or the ones whose bodies don't look as good. That's how you get chosen. Sad but true; I guess I got blessed with being pretty so I could have some sort of living … even if I'd rather die.

And if I wasn't worried about Whitney and her mom, I'd do it. No one would look for me until long after I was dead and my rent was late. Or they smelled my rotting corpse. Whichever.

Okay, Diana. Stop thinking and go out there and present, I scold myself and step forward. I see Sin turn to look at me and grimace. I usually stand near her. Her pink hair gets attention, and then they spot me and choose me over her nearly emaciated form. Despite the fact I'm still extremely thin, my boobs always get attention.

I don't stand near her tonight. Look at me, being so altruistic.

After fifteen minutes, I check my crappy watch and wonder if I would be better off going to one of the hidden brothels. I don't like to share my earnings, but it would be faster.

And then a familiar white BMW pulls up, automatic windows rolling down to reveal the man behind the wheel. The handsome one who keeps trying to "save" us working girls. He has shown up four times in the past two weeks. If he starts his spiel tonight, I am gonna knee him in the balls. He's alone though. Usually he's with one or two others when he heads down here.

"Lily." Hearing my street name from his lips surprises me. Green eyes pierce me even from a couple yards away. If I was a respectable young woman, I'd have considered dating him. But men like him won't sully themselves with my ilk. No, they have their Stepford Wives-in-waiting.

Girls like me are the ones they fuck behind the wives' backs.

I step forward, leaning into the window out of habit. He doesn't even glance at my tits, just like last time, and this time they're literally right in his face.

"How can I help you, Pastor?" I ask.

"In-training," he corrects with a charming smile, like every time. The locks click open. "You can get in."

I resist the urge to smirk at him. I knew he was just another red-blooded perverted man, religion be damned. I should have made a bet with the others. Oh well, at least now I get to brag about being right.

Opening the door, I slide in, feeling the heated seat below me, the leather soft as butter. Christian rock plays on the radio, and it smells like aftershave, but not overpowering. Indeed, his blond goatee looks neatly and newly trimmed. He drives about half a mile before turning into an abandoned alley. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he turns to face me.

"You realize you don't get free favors just because you're a man of God," I quip.

He nods. "Nothing free is worth having, Diana."

I go to reply when my body seizes up, hearing a name he never should have known. No one knew it aside from Rick and those who bothered to check my name on my mailbox in the building.

"What did you call me?" I ask, trying to keep my voice level.

"The name your mother gave you, baptized you with," he replies, his voice still soft and even.

"How do you know that?"

"Oh, sweet, sinful girl, I know everything about you. And I'm going to save you."

He reaches across me to the glove compartment and I barely move, too shocked. When he pulls out a hypodermic needle, I rush to unbuckle my seatbelt, but he's too fast; he's done this before or practiced to get every movement precise.

The needle pierces my neck and he depresses the plunger even as I try to fight him off. For being a slim man, he certainly is strong.

The drug must be a sedative, and injected in my carotid, it begins to hit me in maybe two minutes, as I feel my strength flagging and my head growing woozy.

He gently pries me off him and fixes my seatbelt. "We don't want you getting hurt if I make a sudden stop."

"I'll … fuckin' kill you," I rasp out, eyes drooping.

He looks at me and smiles. "Sleep, Diana."

And I do.