Chapter 10 Thea
CHAPTER TEN
THEA
Icy water sputters around me. Fat drops land everywhere but on me, and I huddle under the cold spray, trying to recall the memory of the hot bath I soaked in last night. Anything to replace my current predicament.
I’m accustomed to spittle showers with tepid temperatures. Our house’s water heater was shoddy at best, and after my mom passed and my father’s drinking became more dire, he spent the money on booze and at the bar instead of on home improvements.
Congressman DuPont’s men dropped me back off at EV an hour ago, and luckily Edmond rode along. None of this is okay, but for a moment, it felt like I was supposed to be in the car and that Edmond was looking out for me.
It’s stupid—supposed to be there. I need to look out for myself. Though I can’t help but hear my mother’s words.
EV staff escorted me from the vehicle while Edmond stood beside the passenger door, head dipped and eyes cast down, resigned. I imagined the shadows hovering over his features were from the toll this takes on him. The constant drain must affect him, right? Does the congressman care?
According to the mumblings of the guard assigned to bring me back, I’m the first of the auctioned girls from last night to come back.
Meaning only three girls were here when I arrived, most of them lying checked out in their beds.
Someone had placed a fresh outfit at the foot of my bed, and I carefully removed the GHB vial from my bra and tucked it under my mattress. Then I headed for the showers.
I lick the water from my lips and finish lathering my hair.
I’m not even halfway done rinsing when commotion stumbles into the bathroom.
Frantic pleas and curt, whispered instructions.
Startled, I slip on the soap swirling down the drain and reach out to grab the plastic shower curtain of my stall.
When I catch my balance, I peek around the side of it.
Juliette and three other girls pile into the bathroom, each dressed in their crooked lingerie misplaced over their bodies.
Juliette’s eyelids are heavy and smeared with a mix of black and champagne-colored makeup from last night.
Beneath it all, faint bruises shadow their skin—some marks they don’t bother trying to hide and others that have been treated and hidden.
“Get her in the shower!” she yells, and the two girls push forward another who’s barely standing.
One arm is slung over one girl’s shoulder; the other hangs limp at her side. Her skin is pale, her eyes half lidded like Juliette’s but glassy and unfocused. They drag her across the slate tile.
My mouth parts, and my gasp reverberates off the three stall walls around me. I fumble with the shower handle, turn off the water, and hop out, quickly wrapping a towel around myself.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as they guide her toward the shower next to mine.
Ignoring me, they move quickly but carefully, like the girl they carry might shatter.
Hands clasped over my towel in front of my chest, I pad closer.
She’s one of the blondes I don’t know, thin and tall.
Her lips are cracked, streaked with red and purple where the skin’s split.
A large welt, the size of a hand, blooms deep violet across her cheekbone, and as I scan her body, finger-shaped bruises ring her wrists.
Cuts mar her thighs, spelling out the same word over and over again, but between the torn flesh and bloody streaks, I can’t make out what.
Intentional, my brain mutters. Someone did this to her, and not by accident.
I slap a hand over my mouth to keep the sickness down. They allow the men to destroy the Market girls, her, like this?
Juliette hisses as she yanks back the shower curtain and pulls the handle. A low sputter fills the silence, punctuated by random moans and whimpers.
In a better world, steam would unfurl, ready to help the aching pain she must feel. But it’s lukewarm at best and not comforting.
The blonde’s teeth chatter while another girl with dark skin removes her hoop earrings, tears spilling down her face. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” she repeats, brushing the sweat-slicked hair from the girl’s forehead.
She doesn’t resist, doesn’t speak as they haul her into the shower and allow her to crumple to the floor. Blood whirls and twists with the water, filling the drain and pooling around her, where she’s half covering it with her backside.
I stand there. Frozen.
I’ve seen things. Broken things. But this … this is different.
It’s the violent echo of evil, the hollow. The aftermath of being used.
Where was her GHB? Was she given any? Had Slade gotten to her before? Or was this her luck? Did I—
No. She wouldn’t be in this situation if she’d been bought by the congressman instead of me. Our roles could’ve been reversed, and for a second, relief seeps into the marrow of my bones.
Oh, God. Please, help us.
The moment extends on. Her head bobs as her shallow breaths push her chest to rise and fall. Lips parted, eyes barely open, she stares at herself—the red undergarments darkening to match the blood pooling around her.
I’m not sure she knows where she is, or that we’re here, and it’s probably not my place, but I speak up. “Can—can I do anything?”
Juliette’s head snaps to mine, her own eyes red-rimmed and void. Like she’s on the verge of losing it, too. Her glare, almost destructive, is haunting, and I’m thrown by the ire in her look. I’m the last person she wants to speak to right now. “No. Get dressed. Actually, get her some water.”
I scurry from the bathroom, grateful for the command to do something.
I don’t bother with my clothes. Water. She needs water.
At the fountain, I grab a stainless-steel cup from the bin and shove it under the faucet-like tip. The stone is cold beneath my wet bare feet as I lean over, using my body to press the fountain’s push button, and watch the slow stream take forever. Come on. Come on.
My towel clings to me, soaking up the water slicking my skin, becoming heavier. It’s damp and loose—barely knotted—as I will the water to fill the cup faster. Disregarding the subtle tug of terry as it slips lower, I shift, popping my hip to the side.
The cup is only half full when the metal door groans open, and I jump, yanking up my towel. I glance over my shoulder and forget how to breathe. What? Why is the congressman here?
Dressed in a suit and holding a stack of papers, his broad frame fills the doorway and completely overshadows the man in scrubs next to him.
The man next to Slade is older, wiry, and freckled. A pristine leather bag hangs at his side, and a stethoscope dangles around his neck.
Medic, my mind shouts. His voice doesn’t reach me, and I stare at him talking. As if there wasn’t a girl nearly unconscious and bleeding out in the bathroom feet away from me.
Forgotten, the cup tilts in my hand. Water spills over the rim and cascades down onto the hard concrete floor, and I gasp.
Eyes, clinical and barren, snap to mine, drawn to my frantic inhale.
They widen as he takes me in, and I cling, unmoving, to my towel like it’s my lifeline.
More water soaks my fingers, tickling my wrist and jolting me to action.
“In here!” I blurt out, pointing toward the bathroom where the girl’s body lies half hidden in the shower stall. “She needs help!”
The medic doesn’t move. He just stares, lips pressed into a flat line, like I’m speaking another language. My stomach twists. Why isn’t he doing anything? Why aren’t any of them moving?
My hands curl into fists, and before I realize it, instinct kicks in. What the hell are they waiting for? This girl is in the bathroom and—
Rage, hot and bitter, gurgles in my chest and burns in a way I haven’t felt since my drunk father made it a habit to smack my mom at 2:00 a.m.
Something shifts, and I drop the cup. It clatters to the floor, garnering the attention of the medic and other girls in the room.
I hold Slade’s eyes as he catalogues me, and I march over.
Anger pushes me forward, but when I reach the door, my shoulders drop.
My bravado falters under the weight of their attention.
When the medical staff person backs up a step, a security guard rounds the threshold, keeping me from exiting.
My voice catches somewhere between my ribs and throat; I swallow and open my mouth anyway. “She’s b-barely alive. Y-you need to come in here!”
I don’t know if she’s dying or just badly broken, but there’s too much blood. They must’ve sent for this nurse or doctor, so why is he just standing there?
The guard, thick with muscle and dressed head to toe in black tactical gear, shoves me hard. I stumble back into the room, catching the edge of the doorframe with my hip. Pain flares, but I keep my feet planted.
Stay standing.
I taste the fear crawling up my esophagus, sour and bitter. Adrenaline chokes me from the inside out. Whipping back toward him, pulse pounding, and clenching the towel together around me one-handed, I open my mouth.
Say something. Demand help. Be louder than the part of you that wants to disappear.
But before I can say anything, Slade steps forward, quiet as always. He doesn’t spare me a glance. All his attention is on the guard. Rigid, he lifts a hand, slow and deliberate, then brings it down on the man’s shoulder with a dull slap. It’s not gentle, nor is it friendly.
His grip tightens over the padded uniform, and I suck in a breath as the guard freezes. Clamped down with silent pressure, his fingers dig in while the tendons in his partially exposed forearm flex. Still, he doesn’t say a word, and the guard … the guard steps back, avoiding the congressman’s eyes.
Slade removes his hand, nods at the guard, and then gestures for the medic to enter the room.
“Here! She’s in here.” Another girl in the room shouts. The medic follows her into the bathroom, and when he vanishes inside, I let out a trembling breath.