Chapter 14 #3
Of course, Consuelo had never meant anything to the men who bought her, she knew that.
But this was one level down from the horror of the Meteor Club.
And they were all going to stay deep down at this level, since the Russians were here to stay.
Word had it that they were pumping so much money into the Club, they could kill her and her friends and use the skins for coats, for all Sands cared.
She rose shakily, hand slipping in the water, landing face down on the floor again. Getting up seemed impossible, something beyond her.
She was broken inside.
Often after sex sessions, she was left hurting in some way.
Most men went to prostitutes because they could treat a woman exactly as they pleased.
A wife, a girlfriend expected certain attentions which some men found difficult to give.
Something built up inside them they had to release during sex for pay.
Consuelo was used to feeling used and thrown away, brought low by lust and coldness. But this was something else again. This was a level of darkness and cruelty she’d never even suspected existed, and she knew she’d touched rock bottom. Any further down and she would die.
Consuelo had felt the dark wings of death brush her. The long-forgotten teachings of the nuns in the Tijuana slums when she was a tiny child, before her mother abandoned her, suddenly rose in her mind. She had a soul, and it had just been touched by the Devil himself.
Consuelo knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she had to get out. For her life. For her soul.
She couldn’t stay one second longer.
The ground was slippery and she was shaking, weak. She had to get up, get up now. She had to get away from this place as fast as she could.
Sands treated the girls relatively well. Consuelo knew that when he’d found her, an abandoned girl living on the streets, he’d saved her life. God knows he’d told her often enough.
And he’d waited until she was fifteen to turn her over to the life.
She recognized now that it wasn’t his goodness of heart, but a cold-eyed business decision.
First had come intensive English lessons, deportment, long talks with the older women.
He’d turned her into an upscale prostitute who earned him much more money than she would have on the street.
She’d been so grateful. It shamed her to realize that she’d been a little in love with Sands all these years. She’d wake up having dreamt that they got married and had children. The dreams left a lingering warmth that lasted until the first trick of the day.
Fool. She was a fool. And if she didn’t want to be a dead fool, she was going to have to move fast.
The core of chill was still there but her muscles felt stronger now. Able to bear her weight. Fear and dread and determination fuelled her as she placed the palms of her hands on the slick floor.
She looked around for a second to see what she could cling to if her legs wouldn’t bear her up and that’s when she saw it. A small metal object on the floor behind an armchair. If you weren’t lying with your face on the floor you wouldn’t see it unless you were behind the chair, looking down.
It belonged to him, to the ruso. She had an almost tactile memory of him carelessly flinging a dark leather jacket over the chair back, not paying attention because there was work to be done. A woman to torture.
She slithered through the water, pulling herself along by her elbows, reached out and picked it up. A small object with a removable cap. A thumb drive.
Nothing about the outside of the small metallic object gave any indication of what it was, what was contained within it. Consuelo only hoped it would be something that could harm the ruso.
She lay on the cold, wet floor for a while, panting, clutching the thumb drive in her fist until it warmed up, the only source of warmth in the entire world.
Finally, she pushed with her hands and sat up, head swimming, nauseous. After another minute she pulled herself to her feet with the help of the chair.
She looked down at herself, naked and shivering.
There were faint red marks across her chest, her shins, wrists and ankles where the restraints had bitten her skin.
Other than that her skin looked pale and colorless, with an underlying gray, like that of a dead person.
As a child, she’d seen lots of dead people, shot in the streets like animals by the narcotraficantes.
As a child, she’d thought death to be the most horrible thing that could happen to a person.
She’d been wrong.
She dressed. Just the bare minimum, panties and the linen shift dress she’d had on. The bra and shoes were beyond her. As she made her way to the door, she glanced at a mirror and stopped, shocked.
She looked like the living dead.
Consuelo brought a hand to her mouth and watched the woman in the mirror do the same thing. It was like watching someone else. If she looked any longer, she’d lose her courage. There were things she had to do and little time to do it in.
She peeked out the door, saw no one and slipped out.
The corridors were mainly empty. Life at the Meteor Club didn’t really start until 10 pm.
Consuelo knew she looked like a ghost as she made her way to her room, a wild-eyed ghost with messy hair and ruined make up.
The few girls she met looked downward as she passed and Consuelo realized how many times she’d seen the women of the Meteor looking abused since the arrival of los rusos They’d all learned to let it go, avert your gaze, pretend nothing was wrong.
This was the beginning of a road that shot straight to hell.
In her room, Consuelo went to the closet and took out her one pair of jeans and a white shirt for tomorrow.
She stared for a moment with loathing at the clothes in her closet. Bright colors, plunging necklines, clothes meant to entice men, clothes easy to get out of so the men wouldn’t have to work for their sex.
Her hand fisted in a blue satin gown that looked good on her.
Made her skin glow, highlighted her breasts.
She hated it. There was at least $50,000 worth of evening gowns and fine lingerie in her room and her hands shook with the desire to rip all that satin and silk and lace to ribbons. Slash it all then burn it.
But she didn’t dare. If she had any chance at all, it would be because nobody would sound the alarm until tomorrow evening. Her first client was at 9.
She would be far far away by the time the client, a famous attorney who had gotten out of control a few times lately, showed up.
So instead of ripping her clothes up or tossing them to the floor, she left the closet as it was, neat and organized.
All of this was easy to walk away from.
Her hands started trembling again as she pulled a card out from a hidden pocket in the lining of her purse. Most of the girls had the number memorized and so did Consuelo, but she loved the card so much she kept it because it was so beautiful.
A normal visiting card, cream colored, with only a number and a stylized bird in flight.
Freedom.
She punched the numbers in and waited, trembling. When a quiet female voice answered she said, “I’m in trouble. Can you help me?”