We’re at the front door now, and Regan has stopped hissing insults at me because she’s stunned into silence by the prospect of escape. “How long you think you will keep her?”
Turning to face Gomes, I place my hand on the door. Down here in the entrance, it’s actually more dangerous. Gomes has guards at the door, inside and out. He’s having trouble processing that I don’t want to fuck in his little shithouse.
“You think I’m paying a quarter for her and that I’m going to just trot her back after an evening?” From Gomes’ frown it’s clear that he thinks she is coming back tomorrow. I shake my head. For the money that I’ve given him, he should’ve assumed that Regan would be fucked until she’s dead. “She’ll be back when I’m good and ready to return her. I didn’t pay that kind of coin for one night.”
“What will you do with her?”
“What do you care?” I ask impatiently. Regan is shivering beneath the jacket, the bangles beating a faster rhythm. Her feet are probably cold on the red clay tiles. Outside she’ll be warmer though, and as soon as we’re out of the favelas I’ll get her some shoes.
Gomes looks a little ill. “I need her back.”
I shake my head. “You let me worry about the disposal of this one. You should worry about the fact you’ve been spreading the tales about your wares into some dangerous places. Places where policia federal might have to take notice. Don’t be a shithead and ruin it for the rest of us.” And by the rest of us, I mean you, asswipe.
I look at the two hired muscles standing inside the front room, which serves as Gomes’ office and show room. It’s got a deep red carpet that has stains all over it. I don’t know whether it’s cum or blood, but I’m glad I was wearing shoes when I made that transaction with Gomes thirty minutes earlier. With my hand on the door knob, I give everyone a leveling gaze. “We’re done here.”
Gomes looks at his goons and then at me. There’s something about me Gomes doesn’t like, or maybe it’s because he thinks he’s losing a valuable piece of property. Second thoughts are all over his face, and I ruck up my suit coat on the side so I can have ready access to my gun, just in case. The goons move toward the door of Gomes’ front room and the tension becomes heavier, like dense smog descending over the slums. I calculate my next course of action. Gomes does not look armed. He’s wearing a thin cotton Panama shirt and linen pants, wrinkled and splattered with liquid around the ankles. The cotton would reveal any hidden guns at his waist or back. He could have an ankle piece, but I’m a good enough shot that he’d be dead by the time he bent over. I dismiss the house mom. The two muscled guys are my only worries. The entry way is narrow, like the stairs, and we are packed into the foyer like little sardines in a tin can. If a firefight breaks out here we are all toast. I know Regan doesn’t want to be touched, but I need to signal her, somehow, to get behind me.
“I worry about you in the favela,” Gomes says. He waves his hand and one of the goons step forward. “Ricardo will escort you out, to be sure that you get back to your hotel safely.”
Or he’ll shoot me in the back and take your blonde American prize back to the stable. No, not happening, but I’m anxious to get out of the house. Ricardo can be taken down once we are outside. No doubt there are several other thugs along the way that Ricardo intends to meet up with, but we have way better odds outside.
“Whatever,” I answer and then throw open the door, hard. It hits Ricardo in the nose and he curses. Behind me I hear a muffled snort. Good girl, I think, and then I walk outside with Regan close on my heels.
Three
Regan
I CAN’T TELL IF I’M happy or numb with panic. For the first time in almost two months, the horrible, horrible chain is off my ankle. I’ve been given a coat to wear. It’s not warm, but it covers the ridiculous bikini and makes me feel almost human. We’re heading outside. I should be ecstatic.
But I can’t quite shake the feeling that I’m in bigger trouble than before. They never let me out of my room. Never. The fact that they’ve unchained me and are letting me walk out with this smooth-talking American who sticks out like a sore thumb can mean only one thing:
He’s bought me.
And that could be very, very bad. No one wants a whore for longer than a night. I glance over my shoulder at Augustina, the housemother, and Senhor Gomes, but they look mildly unhappy. I see fear flickering on Augustina’s face, and that panicky tightness returns to my stomach.
This man is worse than the place I have just left. I know this. I am starting to suspect, that from the look Augustina’s wearing, I am a dead woman walking. I swallow hard. I’ve longed for freedom, but never to the point that I wanted to die. I want to live. Always.
The American continues to spit rapid-fire Portuguese at Senhor Gomes, and they argue over something as we go down the stairs. I walk, ignoring the fact that the floor is cold on my bare feet and I’m barely dressed. What is going to happen to me now that I have been sold again?
Nothing good, I am sure.
If I want to live, I need to escape this man. I need to get away from everyone—Gomes, Augustina, this new American in the suit. Somehow I need to get away and run. Run until I find someone that will take me to the closest American embassy.
Gomes says something else, and Ricardo steps forward, a big bruiser who works at the brothel. I’ve had to service him before, and I hate his guts. He isn’t coming with us, is he? But it appears like exactly that; he follows us closely. The American asshole doesn’t look pleased, either. He slams the front door of the brothel open and smacks Ricardo right in the nose.
I can’t help it. I snort with a stifled laugh. I like seeing these jerks get hurt. It soothes my soul. I’d scratch all their eyes out if I could.
The American turns to me and raises an eyebrow, and I give him a challenging look. “Are you going to kill me?”
He glances at the others standing close nearby. They are listening to every word he says to me. “Not today,” he says.
That’s not reassuring.
I cross my arms tighter across my chest. “Where are we going?” I don’t step through the front door even though I can see the dirty street outside, and every instinct screams for me to bolt out there and make a break for it.
“It’s a great little place I like to call Shut the Hell Up and Quit Asking Questions. Now, come on.” He gestures at the wide-open door. There’s a hard tone in his voice. “Stay close to me. You won’t like it if I have to chase you.”