7. Lila
Lila
It’s been three days, and I’m healing. I’m still covered in deep purple bruises but I feel more like myself. The cut on my temple itches, but it’s staying closed. I’ll have another scar. The cut on the back of my head is still gnarly, with a gross scab. I made the mistake of brushing over it once.
The outside is getting better, but the inside, not so much. I can feel that my heart is shattered, but I don’t think about it. Survival mode is all I can manage right now.
I focus on eating. Showering. Sleeping. I’ve been so weak that I’ve barely been able to stay awake more than a couple of hours at a time.
When Cinder showed me my new room, not the one I’d been in at first, the closet was filled with new clothes.
The price tags still attached made my head spin.
One pair of jeans was worth more than our trailer.
I couldn’t resist playing dress-up in the middle of the night.
Just once. I don’t think I’ve ever had new clothes.
I always got donated stuff from families at the ranch who pitied us.
Old jeans with the knees ripped out and stained T-shirts were pretty much all I had.
Now, I’m sitting by the pool in my usual spot, wearing a bathing suit under a pair of shorts and a tank top. I thought about swimming. Today is the first day I’ve felt strong enough to consider it.
The pool is obscene. I grew up in a trailer with a garden hose and a plastic tub that we used in summer.
This pool is turquoise and long enough to do laps.
Huge white pots overflowing with flowers line the edge, carefully tended by someone.
I don't know who. I haven't figured out all the people in this house yet. There are more of them than I thought. Guards for sure, but I’ve also noticed a few women. I assume they are staff, but some don’t look like any housekeeper or cook I’ve seen on TV.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
I've had three days and very little to do but observe.
I've walked the ground floor twice without anyone stopping me.
The men stationed at the gates watch the perimeter, not me.
Cinder checks in twice a day but doesn't hover. It's a strange kind of captivity, and I’m definitely a captive. I’m not behind a locked door, and there are no visible shackles or bars on the windows, but I feel them.
I know what's outside the fence. I'm not in a hurry to test it again.
I hear Maksim talking to one of the guards. I’m immediately alert. The man has a presence I haven’t quite figured out. I’m not afraid of him, but I’m leery. After everything, I’d be a fool not to be a little suspicious of his kindness.
He walks into the backyard wearing swim shorts and nothing else. He's leaner than some of the guards who roam around here, but there's nothing soft about him. The ink on his ribs and left shoulder catches my eye. There’s more ink on the back of his biceps and his left calf.
I’ve always liked tattoos. Not the head-to-toe biker look my mother seemed to appreciate. His are… tasteful. Exciting. Very alpha.
He drops a towel on the chair next to mine, and my heart starts beating a little too fast. We haven’t spent any time together since he carried me in his arms. He’s been around. Offers coffee from the pot in the morning before he leaves. Around, but never really in my space.
He walks to the edge of the pool and dives in. I can’t stop staring. I’ve never seen anyone use the pool. I assumed it was more of something to look at. I never expected to see him so… free.
He swims like a man without a care in the world. He goes end-to-end twice and then flips over onto his back and floats with his face up to the sky, arms out, completely still.
I watch him despite my best efforts not to.
He's at ease in a way I haven't seen him. The few times we’ve spent around each other, he’s always managing the situation. This is different. This is him just being alive.
I look away from his hard, tanned body.
Eventually, he pulls himself out of the pool in one easy move and drops onto the chair next to mine, reaching for his towel. Water runs off him and darkens the concrete.
"You look better," he says.
"I feel better."
"Good." He runs the towel over his hair. "You should eat more."
"I eat plenty."
"Cinder said you didn’t eat much at dinner last night.”
"Cinder reports to you about how much I eat?"
"Cinder reports to me about everything. It's her job." He doesn't say it like it's a threat. He settles back in the chair and closes his eyes against the sun. "But you’re healing. You look rested.”
I look at him for a moment. His profile in the sun. The way he's completely relaxed talking about my health. Has anyone cared about whether I ate or slept? I know Mama tried, but she had her own problems and often chose to dull those worries with a bottle of three-dollar wine.
"You're still here," I say.
"It's my house."
"I mean, you haven't left for the club. Or wherever you go at night."
He opens one eye. "Are you keeping track of my schedule?"
"I'm keeping track of the people in the house where I'm being kept."
Both eyes open now, and he turns his head to look at me. "You're not being kept."
"I'm not being kept, but I also can't leave. What do you call that?"
"Complicated." He closes his eyes again. "Ask me something else."
I look back at the pool.
"Who are you?" I ask.
“Maksim Sokolov.”
“Okay, but who are you. You’re somebody.”
"I own clubs."
"Why are there always women here?”
“Jealous?” he teases.
“Are you one of those guys with ten wives? I watched a documentary about that kind of thing.”
He chuckles and holds up his bare left hand. “Not even one wife.”
“They’re all very pretty. Are they your girlfriends?”
"They work for me."
“That seems like a lot of housekeepers.”
“It’s a big house,” he jokes. “But no, they are not housekeepers.”
I wait.
“They work for me in other ways,” he says. “Technically, they don’t work for me. They work for themselves and offer me a percentage of their earnings.”
“You’re a sex trafficker.”
“No. Women who work in my clubs or my houses do so by choice.
They are under my protection. They have security, regular health care, the ability to leave whenever they want, and a financial cushion when they do.
What happens to them is their business. My business is making sure no one hurts them for it. "
I stare at him.
He meets my eyes. "Go ahead."
"You're a pimp."
"That's one word for it."
"What's your word for it?"
"Protective services."
"Wait. Am I living in a brothel?”
“The women don’t live here,” he says as if that clears it all up. “I own other homes. The ones who need a roof over their heads live in those houses.”
“So, your other homes are brothels?”
“Men don’t visit the houses unless they are regulars, and the women invite them. Even then, it is a very rare occasion.”
I think I knew what he did, but I’m still a little bothered by it. “It’s all prostitution.”
“Yes, but the women choose what they want to do. Does that bother you?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. It feels wrong.”
“Oldest profession in history,” he replies.
I’m not a prude. My mother gave it away, and I hated that about her.
I think she was so lonely that she just wanted to feel loved.
The men who came home with her were usually there a few days and then gone.
These women make men pay for it. In the grand scheme of things, they’re the smarter ones.
I don’t think I could ever do it, but I’ll never say never.
"Will I have to do that?” I ask.
"No."
“What if I want to leave tomorrow?”
“No.”
I don’t want to leave, but him telling me that I can’t pisses me off.
"Excuse me?"
He sits up and looks at me properly now.
"I’m in this now. I pulled you out of that club, and now, Bekir's boss has a grievance with me that he didn't have before.
Arlind Derveshi is turning his attention to me, and he wants two things: you and revenge.
" He holds my gaze. "So, no. You don't get to decide you're morally uncomfortable and walk back into the city alone. Not yet. I would never put you to work. I don’t want anything from you except your compliance to let me handle this. "
The fury that rises in me has nowhere to go, and that makes it worse.
I've been taking care of myself since I was old enough to hold a fence post. I've baled hay in hundred-degree heat, driven trucks on roads that weren't roads, and patched wounds on animals twice my size because there was no one else to do it.
And this man—this stranger who runs women and calls it protection—is sitting here in his swim shorts and telling me I need him.
I stare at the pool because I can't look at him right now.
If I do, he'll read all of that on my face.
"Come on," he says after a while.
He gets to his feet.
"Where?"
"A tour. You've been in this house for days. You should know where you are." He picks up his towel. "Get some shoes on. I'll meet you at the back door in ten minutes."
He meets me at the back door wearing black slacks and a blue button-down that matches his eyes. Why am I disappointed that he’s wearing clothes? Because it means he’s leaving. He’s going to work, where he’ll stay until the wee hours of the morning.
He walks me through the garden section. Tomatoes, peppers, and a variety of herbs are being maintained by a man named Felix, who nods at us as we pass.
Maksim is easy to walk with. He talks when there's something to say and lets the rest of it just be. The man exudes power and strength, but it isn’t scary. It’s comforting, and I hate that he puts me at ease.
Then we come to the east side of the property, and I stop walking.
"You have stables," I say.
"I have stables."
The smell hits me before we're through the door. I almost cry at all the familiar scents. Horses. Hay. Alfalfa. I can smell the grain as well.
I push through the door. There’s no hiding the tears in my eyes when I see the beautiful space.
It’s one of those fancy places with cement floors.
Big fans moving the air and a mist line at the end.
A tack room that is perfectly organized.
Lights that fill every corner. I’ve only seen these setups in magazines.
“You have horses,” I whisper.
“I do. They’re probably out in the pasture.”
I nod. I’m dying to get my hands on them. I want to bury my face against the strong neck of a horse. But I don’t know these horses. They could be mean.
“How many?” I ask.
“Three. One’s pregnant.”
“Do you ride?”
“No.”
I frown. “Then why have horses?”
His phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks the screen.
“Shit. I have to go.”
I look around. I’d be happy to sleep in here, but I follow him back to the house.
“Can I visit the stables later?” I ask.
He stops walking and turns to look at me. “Lila, you are not a prisoner. You are free to do as you please. I’m simply asking you to stay on the estate for now. I will never make you do anything you don’t want to do. I want you safe; that’s it.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be late, but I’ll check on you tomorrow. If you’re not eating because you don’t like the food, tell the cook. She’ll make you whatever you want.”
“The food is fine. I’m fine.”
His phone buzzes again.
I can only imagine the emergencies he must deal with. “Go.”
I go into the kitchen to get something to drink and see the cook. She’s a Cuban woman who doesn’t speak much English. She’s kind, and she is always trying to feed me. I know for a fact she isn’t one of Maksim’s women. When I first saw her, I thought she might be his grandmother.
I leave the kitchen with a sandwich that requires me to unhinge my jaw to take a bite, with layers of pork and ham and enough pickles to make my eyes water. She wasn’t taking “not hungry” for an answer. Apparently, everyone is making sure I eat.
I carry my plate to the solarium. I love sitting in there. It’s warm, but I like the smell of the earth and the foliage.
I take a bite and stare out the window in the general direction of the stables.
A cowboy named Earl, who taught me everything I know about horses, once told me that you can tell everything about a man by the way he treats his horses.
Those stables say a lot about the horses I haven’t met, but I know they have luxurious lives.
He hasn't hurt me. That's a low bar, but it’s important. He could have. He could have raped me. Killed me. Thrown me out.
He didn’t, despite me being pretty awful to him.
I'm not ready to call Maksim Sokolov a good man.
But I'm starting to think he’s one of the best men I’ve ever met.