Page 2 of Heathens
Whenever I’m with a client, I try to zone out. Everything else—my body, my voice, my movements—they’re intact, going through the motions, but my mind is far away. It’s always been this way. Ithasto be this way. To maintain some semblance of sanity, I have to sever my heart from my job. As long as I’m yearning, as long as I’mdreaming, the possibility of escaping keeps me going. Lily keeps me going. My body—my hands and the disgusting things I do to disgusting men, the way they touch my mouth, my body—I keep those things separated. I can read men so easily. They’re all the same. It requires almost no effort anymore.
The slapping.
Home.
The grinding.
Home.
The fondling.
Home home home I will go home.
“Harder,” he yells, grabbing the flesh on my hips as I ride him. His accent is French. I wonder if his wife has any idea how much money he pays for an hour with me. He didn’t even bother taking off his wedding ring. Not for this whore. He finishes with no regard for me. I am merely a sex toy.
If I leave, it has to be while I’m with a client. It’s the only time I’m not adequately monitored.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he says, grunting as he lifts me up and plops me onto the bed. I don’t say anything as he walks away. They never force me—they never hurt me. They all know Auguste, or if they don’t, they knowofAuguste, and they know he’druin their livesif they did anything to mark me. Auguste is the most well-connected man I’ve ever met. This client is nice—if nice equates tobasic and ordinary.
I estimate I have five minutes to myself. He’s humming in the shower, and the song just started.
Now. Go now.
I don’t have time to clean myself up. I grab the luxurious silk robe and tie it tightly around my waist. The shower shuts off just as I reach for the door handle. I guessed wrong.
“I paid for twenty more minutes. Get ready for round two,” he says, walking out of the bathroom as he towels himself off. His body is unremarkable. Not too much hair, not too many muscles, but enough of a build not to repulse me—unlike some of them. His dark hair hangs down and drips onto his chest as he walks toward me. “Going somewhere?” He grins and pulls me into him. I widen my rehearsed smile.
“I was going to get some ice for water,” I lie, giving him my innocent, doe-eyed smile. He’s harmless. Like a puppy. Only wants a little fun.
And he has to think the same thing about me.
They all think I’m doing this willingly. They all think I entered this lifestyle on my own accord. If they make any connections between the girl who went missing a few months ago and me, they never say anything. It’s all fun and games for them. Party time. Plus, I saw myself on the television screens. I remember the words they used to describe me—poor, lost,hopeless—it’s easy to assume I wanted money and notoriety. A different life.
Pretend.
Pretend.
Pretend.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I add, pulling out of his soft grip and winking over my shoulder. Pulling the door open, I let out a relieved breath of air and close the door behind me.
Home.
“Going somewhere?”
Auguste’s voice makes me freeze. I look over my shoulder and turn to face him. I never knew he stood outside of my door. Never realized I was that watched. He’s leaning against a wall down the hall, looking at something on his phone. He locks the screen and pockets it, crossing his arms and staring at me.Think, Evelyn, think.
“I—I wasn’t feeling well,” I stutter, shrugging. “I think I need to call an early night. I was looking for you,” I add. Not my best lie, but he might buy it.
Walking over to me, he stops two feet away. I feel my heart throb in my neck and I wonder if he can see it. “Evie, you must complete your job,” he says, reaching up and stroking his smooth face. His voice is harder now, less gentle. Frustrated. Assessing me. He can’t read me. I flinch. “I think you were trying to run. They all do in the beginning. Give it a year, American Princess. Your family will stop looking for you. The drugs will take over. The lifestyle will normalize. You’ll realize it’s your second Christmas with us. The novelty of running gets old. You start to appreciate the routine. The food. In your case, the luxury. Be grateful—not all the girls are so popular. The sex. The men. In fact, I bet you won’t even want to fight by this time next year.”
I tilt my head up and jut my chin out. The only response he’ll get from me.
He rushes forward and cups my mouth roughly with his hand. “You are never going anywhere. Do you understand? If you try to run, if you eventhinkabout it again, I will know. This is your life now. We have people watchingeverywhere. Our network runs deeper than you can even imagine.”
I remembered that night four months ago. It started normally. By the time the fireworks went off on New Year’s Eve—by midnight that night—my mouth was taped shut, my hands behind my back as Auguste and his men took Lily and me to an abandoned warehouse. The drugs they shot into our necks took the edge off. Of course, I knew what had happened.Human trafficking. It was such a foreign concept back then. The reality of it was so far away.
But I was here now, and I remembered.
