7. Luka
7
LUKA
T he girl sits with a fresh shirt stretched over her pulled up knees on my couch.
She nibbles on a sandwich as she looks around, her eyes seeming to cross over every inch of my apartment except the chair that I occupy.
Something feels off about her. I stare at her while slouched in my chair, searching for answers to questions I don’t yet have. I can’t explain what is off, but I can feel it.
That brand… Somebody seared her flesh with a symbol on such an intimate part of her body, like they were marking it as theirs. If she wasn’t a virgin, I’d guess that she was somebody’s whore.
Abuse would be my first thought, but the image that conveys doesn’t quite fit. Her teeth are too nice. I noticed when I forced her mouth open that she had good dental work, like she came from a good home, or at least from money. She told me her father would give me a million dollars if I let her go… Was there truth to the wealth she let on?
If so, why come here? This is not the land of opportunity for a girl with no green card. I could understand if she was escaping something but not if she was running away from privilege.
So then … it must be abuse.
Then where are her scars? Other than her burn, her skin is flawless. I wouldn’t guess the girl has ever had a paper cut.
Why isn’t this making sense?
I stroke my chin as she rests the empty plate on the table and picks up her third bottle of water.
Do I need to know? Truly, do I?
Seconds pass while I consider it, although the answer is as fuzzy as the others I’ve gathered.
Yes, I do. Something doesn’t feel right, and it’s unsettling me. I could try to ignore it, but it would be there, tickling the back of my mind like a song stuck in my head that I can’t find the words for.
“I don’t have a favorite movie,” I say, placing my hand in my lap. Finally, the girl… Lucia … turns her head to me. Her brow is furrowed like she’s confused.
“If I’m being completely honest, I’ve never seen The Wizard of Oz ,” I continue, letting my fingers drum the armrest as I relax into my seat. “My papa was not too keen on allowing my siblings and I to watch movies or television when I was young. My mama, on the other hand, disagreed. She felt it allowed us to familiarize ourselves with American lingo so when we came here, we wouldn’t have as hard of a time blending in… My papa won, of course. When I arrived at seventeen, it was certainly a jarring experience. I remember thinking how strange it was to have Russian brothers with American accents. I assumed everyone would sound like me, but…” I shrug.
Leaning forward, I rest my forearms on my knees. Lucia’s expression doesn’t change. She doesn’t yet understand what I’m getting at.
“You know what’s odd to me? Despite my accent, you’ve assumed I’m American and that I call my father dad … You didn’t watch many movies growing up either, did you?”
Her lips part, but she hesitates to speak. She settles with shaking her head.
“Was your father strict like mine?”
After setting her water on the table, she wraps her arms around her knees.
“What’s he like?”
“Why are you asking me this?” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “A few hours ago, you didn’t even care to know my name.”
I let her question hang in the air for several moments, debating how to answer. I want her to tell me. I could pry it out of her. Hurt her.
Pulling my lips to one side, I sigh.
“Did your father abuse you, Lucia?”
Slowly, she faces me, her cheeks turning red as her eyes blaze. She just stares at me for several seconds with her mouth agape.
“If you classify not allowing children to watch television as abuse, then I’m afraid you’re the one who’s damaged. My father ensured his children enjoyed a love of books . That is how I learned the lingos of other cultures and how you could have had you not been busy drowning puppies in rivers, you fucking maniac .”
I blink at her. “Wow, that really pushed your buttons.”
After glaring at me a few more moments, she faces forward.
“Was it all a lie then? Did you even watch The Wizard of Oz as a kid?” I ask, mocking offense.
She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t imagine you could empathize with a favorite book.”
“Did you name your dog Toto?”
“I don’t have a dog ,” she says, exasperated that I wouldn’t already know that.
My head tips back as I laugh, my hand running over my eyes. I thought her attempts earlier were cute, but they’re even more adorable knowing they were manufactured.
Which means she probably lied about the extent of her father’s wealth as well.
A sobering thought comes over me, dropping my hand from my face.
What if she isn’t an illegal immigrant? What if she lied about that too?
What if there are people out there looking for her, right now, and tomorrow her face will flash across the news?
No. That doesn’t make sense. She would just say that.
“I have an idea,” Lucia says, her voice stronger than I’ve heard it. When I meet her eyes, she’s sitting up straight, her feet on the floor, her hands in her lap. Despite her newly brave voice, her eyes look scared.
I twirl my hand. “Let’s hear it.”
She clears her throat. “It sounds as though there are some things you would like to know… There are things I would like to know as well. For every question of mine you answer honestly, I will answer one of yours.”
My lips pull into a smile. “You want to play twenty questions with me?”
She raises her chin but doesn’t otherwise respond.
“There are some questions I won’t answer.”
She nods. “I understand. That’s why I’ll go first. If you don’t answer, you don’t get to ask me a question. If I think you’re lying, you don’t get to ask me a question.”
“And what if I think you’re lying?” I ask with a slight chuckle.
Lucia’s hands fidget in her lap for a moment, but she doesn’t take her eyes off me. “Then you will decide the consequence.”
My smile falters as blood flows into my cock, stirring something I’ve let die twice already today. I let several seconds pass before replying just to avoid sounding too eager.
“All right. Go ahead.”
She shifts, takes a deep breath, then, “Are you going to kill me?”
“Yes… Who is your father?”
Glassy eyes widen at me as her jaw falls with the weight of words she surely knew were coming. But still, she looks at me with shock. Then horror. Then sadness.
She drags her gaze to her lap as she blinks a tear onto the shirt I lent her.
“It’s your turn for honesty, Peach,” I prod, my voice so unfeeling it reminds me of my mother. I cringe slightly at the thought.
It isn’t as though I can’t understand the pain and fear she must be feeling. It’s that there isn’t anything I can do about that now. It’s already been done. She was dead the minute she pulled up with the whore to meet me. It isn’t her fault that it happened. She couldn’t have possibly known.
But neither could I.
And as my mother would say, we don’t get to fuss about the circumstances that are thrust upon us. We must accept and endure. Responding any other way would be weak.
“ Lucia .”
She startles before blinking more tears, then she clears her throat to speak. “He—he’s a businessman.”
“What kind?”
She shakes her head. “You only get one question.”
Sighing impatiently, I tap the armrest. “Fine. Ask me another.”
“When?” she says immediately, her voice croaking like the word was lodged in her throat. She coughs. “When are you going to…?”
“As soon as Arseni and I are bored with you.”
She lets out a cry and covers her mouth, like that answer was somehow more painful than the last. She should stop asking questions she doesn’t want to know the answers to.
“What kind of businessman is your father?”
She closes her eyes, takes several deep breaths, then lowers her hand from her mouth. “His interests are varied. He owns many different establishments, including a few high-end resorts, a horse ranch, and a chain of pharmacies.” She barely pauses before going into her question. “What can I do to…” Her eyes flick while she tries to word her question.
“Yes?”
Her head lowers as she hunches forward uncomfortably. It’s baffling to me that this question could be more difficult than the last two.
“What do I need to do to extend the length of my life?”
Why would you want to extend it?
I almost ask. The question sits on the tip of my tongue until I swallow it back down, relaxing into my seat. It isn’t my turn to ask a question, but more than that, I don’t want her to consider the answer. I want her to try to play me, to manipulate me, to show me all the ways I can’t trust her. Her attempts are cute, and not only that, they’re validating.
She can never be let go because she can never be trusted. It’s a fact I already know, but why not let her prove it to me anyway?
“Come here,” I say, gently patting my thigh.
Her eyes flicker before she lowers them to her lap, her throat visibly contracting as she swallows. It takes time for her to work up the courage, but I can tell the moment she does. A sharp breath slices through her nostrils, her palms flatten on her thighs, and she stands.
Her eyes don’t meet mine as she slowly makes her way to me, tugging my shirt down as if it isn’t already swallowing her. She carefully perches on my knee with her thighs pressed together, as well as her lips. She stiffens even further as I run my knuckles up her arm, lifting the loose sleeve of the shirt to her shoulder.
“Who will get bored of me first?” she asks with false bravery. The arm I caress trembles.
“It isn’t your turn to ask a question.”
“You never answered my last one,” she counters sharply, then stiffens as if she thinks I’ll react to her attitude.
I pull her hair back to get a better look at her face, so flawless, unmarked by even the sun, even laughter . Maybe it’s just her age. I can’t remember what my skin looked like at nineteen.
A breath skitters through her lips when I move my hand to her thigh and slide it beneath the shirt up to her pussy. I don’t pry her legs apart or even push too hard. I just leave my hand cupping the top of her thigh, her legs squeezing my fingers that tuck between them. “I didn’t answer you with words, but I think you get the gist.”
“That isn’t an answer,” Lucia says, her voice raised several octaves. “And that makes me think you don’t want to answer. Because there isn’t anything you think I can do to prolong my life, so… If you won’t tell me the truth, then I get a new question or the game is over.”
I chuckle. “You seem very convinced of your authority. How come you get to make all the rules?”
“Because I’m one of the players, and these are my terms,” she grinds, much more evenly.
I let my eyes trail the path from her pretty face down to my hand between her legs. I can’t tell if I think she’s intelligent or not. She’s brave, and I do like that. I definitely like that she’s cute.
But smart ? I don’t know. Surely, she understands if there were things I truly needed to know, I could get them without her silly games. And yet, I’m playing them anyway.
“Well,” I start, tipping my head to the side. “You’re right. There’s nothing I can think of that you could do to prolong the length of your life. I can only tell you what would end it quicker. There, question answered. My turn. Did?—”
“ No .”
My brows arch at the defiance in her voice. Finally, she looks at me. “If you can think of nothing, then that is a non-answer. You also lied to me to begin with, therefore, you do not get to ask me a new question until you answer one of mine truthfully and definitively. Those are my terms.”
My hand on her thigh squeezes as irritation floods, but other than a small flinch, Lucia doesn’t respond to it. She stares at me intently, waiting to see if I’ll comply.
Is it still cute?
I chuckle half-heartedly before rolling my neck to loosen tension. “ Fine . Ask me your next question again.”
“Who will get bored of me first?”
I shrug. “Impossible to say.”
“Then I get a new question.”
My eyes narrow. “It feels like you’re cheating at this, Peach.”
“It feels like you’re not even trying.” Her voice holds an accusing tone to it, like this shit really matters to her. Like she isn’t asking me meaningless things.
She’s going to die. There’s nothing she can do to stop it. Her questions could have stopped there. Who cares about the rest?
I remove my hand from her thigh and rub it over my forehead while I break eye contact.
“You understand I’m not a fortune teller,” I say, dropping my hand and peering at Lucia. “I cannot with one hundred percent confidence answer questions like that.”
She nods. “I want your full consideration and best guess. I’ll be able to tell if you blow it off or lie.”
I huff and roll my eyes but then look away as I think about it.
Who will get bored first?
How the fuck should I know? I can’t read Arseni’s mind. I don’t know what he thinks of the girl, how interesting he finds her. It isn’t as though we do this often or have ever shared a woman for that matter. Already, I can tell I don’t like it. Jealousy flares at the mere mention of it, and although it’s obviously not her fault, I resent her for even bringing it up.
So perhaps I’ll bow out first. Maybe even after handing her over after tonight. The idea of taking her back after Arseni has had her spreads heat through my ears and causes the muscles in my arms to tighten.
I don’t know how I thought I could ever share a woman. Not one that I actually want.
“I will,” I say without even considering Arseni. His short attention span isn’t good news for her if she’s hoping for longevity, but I don’t tell her that. That wasn’t her question.
She lets out a sigh and nods, her eyes half-hooded like she’s relieved. Relieved . Goddamn it, that bothers me.
“Did you run away from home because of abuse?”
“No.”
I raise a finger. “Hold on, I’d like to rephrase. Why did you?—”
“You can’t rephrase. You asked a question, and I answered. If you’d like to ask another, you may do so when it’s your turn.”
I laugh, not a ha-ha laugh, not a you’re so cute laugh, but a laugh that makes Lucia’s shoulders raise and her brave face soften. “Okay.” I nod while pinching her ear between my fingers and thumb and dragging her toward me. Lucia yelps and tries to twist her body to lessen the strain but is smart enough not to put her hands on mine.
“Go ahead, Peach. Ask your question.”
“You can rephrase,” she whines.
“Hmm?”
“You can rephrase your question.”
As soon as I let go of her ear, she bolts upright and cups the sensitive flesh, her eyes diverted from mine, her back hunched.
“Wow, thanks, Peach. How kind of you to bend the rules for me.” Clearing my throat, I cup the back of her neck and pull her against me. “Why did you come to the US? Please, feel free to elaborate on any pertinent information you could guess I’d want to know.”
Her arms wrap around her stomach while she shifts on my lap, stiff as a board against me. “My boyfriend and I ran away to be together,” she says, her voice low and scared. “My father is protective and would never have approved. He has too many contacts in Mexico for us to stay there, so we came here in hopes that he wouldn’t find us.”
Oh. Of course .
I want to smack myself in the forehead for my naivety. The boyfriend . She ran away for the boyfriend.
She’s a rich girl with a cliché possessive father, probably went to a private school, met a preppy boy, fell in love, and ran off into the sunset. The brand is a bit weird, but everything else clicks into place.
She’s just a spoiled, sheltered, rich girl in love. I could vomit.
“What’s your father’s name?” I ask, just to verify, but already I feel at ease.
“It’s my turn to ask a question,” she says weakly in response.
My hand wraps around her throat, and I squeeze lightly while pulling her against me. “I think you should just answer my questions from now on. I believe I’ve humored you enough. Do you agree?”
When she doesn’t answer, I squeeze her throat tightly enough to cut off her air supply. Her hands go to mine in panic while she struggles against me, and after a few moments, she tries to nod. I count to ten before letting go.
She gasps and rolls to face me, her head hiding against my chest as she sucks in panicked breaths.
“Do you agree, Lucia?”
“Yes,” she croaks immediately through a sob.
She continues crying, her head buried in my chest not for comfort but for shelter, an illusion of safety. I pat her back when too much time feels like it passes. “There there,” I mock.
She tenses against my touch then sits up, her cheeks wet with tears. Wiping hair out of her face, she seems to prepare herself to speak. “His name is Emmanuel Garcia. He’s fifty-six years old and lives in Tijuana, Mexico…” As she speaks, going on about useless facts I don’t care about, she shifts back on my knee, gaining distance from me. I let her. If for no other reason than to reward her for good behavior.
“What else would you like to know?” Lucia asks when she’s finished giving me her father’s future obituary.
I shrug. “That’s plenty for?—”
Pain crackles like thunder in my balls as Lucia’s fist connects through my athletic shorts, square on, like she spent half her life preparing for this, practicing her aim.
All that comes from my mouth is a startled wheeze for a moment as my stomach flips, pushing bile up my throat. The wheeze turns into a groan by the time Lucia is feet from the door. My hands cup my aching balls, but it’s far too late to protect them.
“Help!” she screams, tugging at the metal. “Somebody help me! Help! Help!” She pounds her fists on the metal then tugs, searching for the lock in the process.
I climb to my feet and stumble, a wave of nausea trying to force me back into the chair. A growl barrels out of me as I storm to the door and arrive just as she gets the deadbolt unlatched and mistakenly believes that’s going to solve all her problems. She didn’t see the bolt up top.
She screams when I spin her around and slam her into the wall by the door but is silenced a moment later when I slap my hand over her mouth and wait. For minutes she struggles against me, kicking her legs, screaming pointlessly into my hand, yanking her arms that I have pinned to her chest.
The pain in my balls subsides, but it’s replaced with lustful fury. I stare into Lucia’s eyes, waiting for what I know will come. Another minute later, it does.
A knock sounds on my door. It has to be the woman down the hall, the one with the art studio. I’m the only other person who inhabits this floor of the building, and the only person with an apartment. If anyone hears things on other floors, I wouldn’t know it. I’ve never met anyone who uses the rest of the building, only seen the occasional person in passing. People mind their own business here, for the most part.
My hand presses firmly against Lucia’s mouth to trap any sound in when her eyes widen and she tries mightily to get the attention of the person outside my door.
“Hello?” the art lady calls. “Is everything okay in there?”
Lucia kicks the wall and whimpers into my palm.
“Is somebody in there?” the woman asks.
Lucia looks so hopeful. So desperate as she tries her hardest to make noise. She doesn’t get it. I would never have brought her here if it wasn’t safe. If it would be a problem.
The art lady is playing a dangerous game right now, but I’m certain she knows it. I’ve seen her discomfort the few times we’ve passed. The way her steps pick up when she notices me. She won’t call the police. She doesn’t have the courage. If she does , I’ll possibly have to answer to the Bratva, but the police wouldn’t fuss over an illegal immigrant.
The woman knocks once more, but after another minute, her chronically sticky shoes squeak away.
“See?” I say to Lucia. “Nobody is going to help you. If you scream, you’ll become a nuisance , not a victim. People are too big of cowards to even try to open that door.”
A muffled cry collects into my hand as Lucia deflates, her back sliding inches down the wall.
I press my lips to her ear, my grip on her wrist tight with wrath. “You really should not have done that.”