6. Meredith

6

MEREDITH

I t feels like I'm floating.

In reality, I know I'm not. My brain is fried, and I have no idea where I am.

Memories tug at the edge of my mind, and that's when I notice that my eyes are closed. My body is still, like I'm resting or sleeping in bed.

But I can't seem to move or open my eyes. Instead, I let the memories tug me down. Hanging out with my friends, then going back to campus. Going into my dorm room to change clothes for a run.

Nothing out of the ordinary, so why do I feel like something is incredibly wrong? Suddenly, I remember. Someone was asking me for directions. Someone I thought was harmless. Someone visiting, or a new student.

Instead, I got a needle to the neck.

Was it meant to end my life? I don't think people usually use needles to the neck to kill someone. At least not at first. So where have I found myself?

Eventually, I'm able to pry my eyes open. I'm in sort of a fetal position, and my body's stiff. Plus, I'm afraid to move. I don't know what was in that needle, and I don't know who will notice me if I start acting like I'm awake. Maybe if I just lie here for a moment and silently look around with my eyes only, I'll have more time to process this.

There's a blanket on me. I can see it out of the corner of my eye, and I can feel its weight on me. But it's scratchy. Cheap. No matter, it hides the movement of my hand as I slowly run it over whatever I'm lying on. It's very small and springy.

Cot. It must be a cot. I listen for any sounds I recognize—people's voices, water running, literally anything—but it seems to be silent other than a clock ticking on the wall. The time is hard to read from here, but I think it's showing it to be around nine or ten. But is that at night or in the morning? Who the hell knows?

When I can't think of any more reasons not to move, I do. I sit up and find I have a massive headache, though nothing else really hurts. Just stiff, like I thought. I must've been lying here for a long time.

I look around the room, and there are three other cots. But they're all empty. I'm alone. I have none of my things. Not my cell phone or my smartwatch, not even the hair tie that was holding my hair back. Though, I'm still wearing the same clothes.

The walls and the door look like concrete and metal, plain but strong. I don't think there's any use in trying to get out of the door. I'd likely get myself in even more trouble that way, depending on who's done this to me.

I try to think back to anything that could have gotten me into this mess, but I come up empty. Maybe I've been left alone because whoever took me is starting to realize I'm useless to them. I don't have any kind of information and I certainly don't have any money. Neither does anyone in my family. So, maybe they'll let me go. It's not like I remember any faces in detail.

The door opens, and I turn away just in case. My hair cascades over one side of my face.

"Oh, you're awake. They'll be happy about that." The voice comes from a woman. Not one I recognize.

I dare to peek through my hair and I see a short woman wearing nondescript scrubs. A nurse, maybe.

"Could you possibly tell me who you are and where I am?"

"I'm sorry, girl, but I can't. I'm here for one job—to make sure you're okay to get ready. And to make sure you didn't die. That's it. Now, if you cooperate this whole thing will go a lot faster."

She taps her foot like an impatient mother rather than someone who's helping to hold me hostage and refusing to tell me anything about it. Her words ring in my ears. She has a job to do. Maybe her job is something that's forced? If that's the case, I'd hate to find out who she's working for.

I turn around to face her and let her go through the entire checkup process. I feel more like a kid right now than anything. As she's wrapping it up, I try one more question. "Can you at least tell me why you have to check to make sure I'm not dead? Is it something to do with what was shot into my neck?"

The woman looks me up and down, and her face is fierce. She's very intimidating for her small size. She puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head, whispering something under her breath in another language.

"Fine. I suppose there's no harm in that. Yes, it has to do with what was shot in your neck. You've been unconscious, along with a couple of the other girls. You've been asleep much longer than anyone else, like maybe you had a bad reaction. It's unusual, but it can be dangerous. Lucky you, you're just going to be a little bit groggy. You're fine, though, so I'm going to clear you for prepping. My job's done here."

She turns on her heel, her tennis shoes grinding against the floor. Then, she's out the door as quick as a single breath.

She was talking about prepping. I've been drugged and taken somewhere. As my half-asleep brain tries to process this and figure out what it means, another memory from what feels like another life comes to me. A time when Harlow was in trouble.

The way she was kidnapped. And the people who did it. What they were after.

I shake my head, as if I can shake away the thoughts.

It can't be. I thought all of that was dealt with.

Close to hyperventilating, I start to count my breaths, a hand on my stomach and my diaphragm as they push out and then pull back in with each breath. I have to stay calm. If I really am with the Bratva like she was, I've found myself in a place where panic can get me killed. I'm going to have to stay calm and cooperate until I see a safe way out.

I don't have to wait in the room much longer. Two women and one man come into the room, speaking another language the whole time, and start to look me over. I'm made to follow them, stripped down, and forcibly bathed.

It's particularly humiliating when you're an adult and complete strangers are holding you down and scrubbing you over and over until you're red and raw and shiny. Especially when one of those people is a man. The whole time, his eyes are moving up and down my body, but I don't know that it's attraction. It's almost scrutinizing. As if he's trying to give me some kind of rating or something.

I don't want to think about what that could mean.

Instead of using a towel or allowing me to dry off, I'm quickly taken into another room where my whole body is blow-dried. The heat further irritates the patches on my skin that have been rubbed raw, and I stand with my eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears of pain. There are probably going to be much more worthwhile opportunities to cry later on.

When this is done, I'm taken into yet another room, the winding halls so confusing I could never find my way back to the room I was in, much less the way out. The three people who have been "prepping me" leave me in this room.

Soon I'm sitting in a chair in front of a mirror, and there's another woman in the same position a few chairs down. She's sobbing into her hands until a woman with red hair comes into the room. The redhead doesn't say anything, but she has a smile on her face. And then I notice the clippers in her hand. And the box next to the other woman—a box full of hair care products.

Apparently, I'm meant to get the full spa treatment today. If only it was easier to pretend that's all that's really going on. Maybe it would make it easier to get through this.

If I was doubting what this was all about before, I have no doubts now. They're prepping me for somebody. It could be a member of the Bratva, or it could be worse—it could be trafficking. Straight up trafficking.

How I could be pulled into some kind of trafficking ring while I was on a college campus in the middle of a run with people around, I have no idea. I must be the most unlucky girl in the universe. Next to Harlow, I suppose. Though, she makes a reasonable target, being the daughter of the president of a motorcycle club.

Me, I'm nobody.

I find myself sitting in the chair for at least an hour, if not longer, as my light-brown hair is curled and teased. I look like some kind of southern beauty queen when the woman is done.

Then, I'm shuffled away into the room next door. This room is even more obvious than the last. There are women just like me in various states of upset. Some seem to be praying, some crying, and others have gone catatonic in freeze mode. All of them are having makeup smeared all over their faces.

The makeup is heavy and dramatic. Nothing at all like what I would normally wear. But I'm guessing this is meant to make us all stand out.

My body betrays me and starts to shake, showing my fear, as I'm placed in yet another chair. I go back to my deep breathing. It's the only thing I can do.

When the makeup woman starts working on me, I just close my eyes. I play home movies in my mind of the best times. Most of them involve Harlow. She's more my family than my parents ever have been, but there were a few good moments with my parents here and there, especially when I was really little. I replay all of them over and over until the woman lets me know I'm done.

I have no idea when this roller coaster is going to end. I'm sick of being buck naked and passed around from person to person, none of whom seem to see me as anything other than a doll meant to be dressed up. No one, even those who speak English, talks to me about anything.

This time, I'm in a large fitting room. If I didn't know any better I'd think it was some kind of styling room backstage before a fashion show.

I used to be obsessed with fashion and runways when I was younger, as if I was intending to be some kind of model. I've never really fit the profile, and eventually I got over it and stopped following all the latest trends in the magazines. But that's exactly what this looks like. There's even a massive closet—the only difference is, all the clothes are lingerie. Something I've never actually worn or had a reason to wear.

I shiver as I consider something that, if these people found out, would probably make me infinitely more valuable in their eyes—the fact that I'm a virgin.

I'm greeted by an older woman with curly hair, gray mixed in with midnight black, all piled atop her head in a messy bun. With her thick glasses and her pen and paper, she could be a schoolteacher. She doesn't look like anyone malicious, and my body tries to relax a little in her presence.

"Well, aren't you a pretty one?" she says as she looks me over. The first words I've heard from anyone since the nurse, at least words I can understand.

"Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?" I dare ask. It just pops out. Apparently my fight-or-flight response is broken and going from freeze mode to just plain fight. Leave it to me to have a smart mouth while kidnapped.

"I'd watch my fiery mouth if I were you," she says, but there's a smile on her face. "The ones who pay the most usually don't like that kind of attitude. And it's my understanding you are meant to fetch a pretty penny, my dear."

She starts dancing circles around me, looking me up and down, like I'm a fossil or some other kind of specimen in a museum. Then, she goes over to the rack and starts sifting through it while mumbling to herself.

"What's so special about me?" I ask her, hoping she might be more forthcoming than anyone else. "I don't even know why I'm here. So, why should it matter how much money I can fetch or how beautiful I am?"

She raises a thick eyebrow at me as she holds a corset in her hands. Probably one of the most feminine and least sexy-looking articles of clothing on the rack. It's white with a little bit of lace detailing in the back and pink flowers dotted all over it.

"You and I both know I won't be answering that question. But I do think there's someone who will answer your questions, at least one or two. What you do need to know is that fighting won't get you anywhere. Just like most of these girls here, you're stuck. In fact, you might be even more stuck than the rest. So, I suggest you prepare yourself to make the best of it."

She nods as she starts to wrap the corset around me, and I raise my arms. As she said, there's probably no use fighting any of this. I've known it the whole time. But that doesn't stop me from wishing there was a way out.

She fits the corset on me and starts pulling it tight around my waist.

My waist is almost nonexistent when she starts out. I've always had a bit of a boyish figure, but people tell me it's cute. Now, the full-length mirror across the room, as I watch her work, shows a different picture. I look voluptuous, older, and sexy. Curvy even. She's trying to create an illusion, one that will fetch that pretty penny she thinks I'm here to get.

But if I know anything about this kind of shit, I know that money has nothing to do with me. I will never hold it in my hands. I'll be little more than a slave by the time this is all over.

"So, how did you get stuck here, then?" I ask, trying to make a connection here. It will either make me feel better, or it could give me an in with someone who might just have the empathy to help me out when I need it most.

She doesn't look at me as she goes back to the rack and sifts through for something to put on my bottom half. None of it looks like it's going to cover enough to make me even remotely comfortable.

"That's a long story. Not one I'm sure you'd even understand, girl. It involves family, money, lies, and a lot of trouble I used to get into. You're not going to be here long enough to hear it."

She finally comes back with more white and lacy fabric. Only this is a thong. It has little jewels all around it—probably the most expensive thong I've ever seen.

She makes me step into the ridiculous piece of cloth and then points to a pile of shoes on the other side of the room. "Find your size. Take your pick. They should be white, black, or pink. Do you understand?"

I nod and do as she says. I find the lowest heel I can, a pair of white heels. Very basic. But I'm sure they'll have the same effect regardless.

"Now, I train you," the woman says.

"Train?" I ask. "What do you mean?"

The woman puts her hand up to stop me from saying anything else. "You need to get out of your head and listen to me. The more you fetch, the better off you'll be. They want to see perfection. They want to see a Victoria's Secret model they can take home and do whatever they want with. Do you understand? So, I must teach you to walk, how to look, how to pose. I have to get your angle right. Are you going to look sweet and innocent or be a naughty vixen?"

She's not actually asking me these questions, she's just demonstrating the problem she has to solve for herself.

I want to throw up. As if on cue, my stomach vaults backward and flips forward again. It makes this horrible crumbling sound that fills the room.

I nod, not able to get anything else out with without puke coming up with it. And I let her train me. I let her show me how to walk, and every time I get it wrong she smacks me on the forearm or yells at me. It turns out by the end I'm not half bad. At least, that's what she says.

"That will have to be good enough," she says. "I have to send you off with the other girls now."

Suddenly, I want to cling to her, as if she's my grandmother or my aunt, or even my mother. Of everyone, she's been the most forthcoming—and the kindest, in a weird and twisted way. I know if I leave this room and go with the other girls like she said, I'm going to my doom. To my own personal hell.

But even if I could run and cling to her, she would just push me right off.

So, I follow her directions out of the room and into the hall.

How am I going to survive this? How am I going to get out? When am I going to wake up and find out this is all a nightmare?

The answers don't come.