Page 3 of Heathens
The men—in the metro stations. At the hotel reception desk. The taxi drivers. The couriers. The policemen. They all held the same truth in their eyes, the same cold, cunning stares. Money ruled the world. You could pay off just about anyone.
I was trapped.
“Maybe we should send you somewhere less glamorous. Russia, perhaps? Poland? Malaysia? I hear those Asian businessmen love redheads.” His voice is kind again. Like we’re lovers, and he’s suggesting where we should go for dinner.
I shake my head vehemently. I can’t—won’t—leave the city. As long as I’m here, there’s still a sliver of a chance that someone will recognize me. Find me.Lily.
She got away.
And I know she’s still looking for me. I can feel it. The thread that connects us is still taut.
Auguste removes his soft hand. I fall against the wall and look up at the metal device on the wall above us. There’s no chance the security cameras will save me. Auguste—or the men he works with—own this hotel.
“It won’t happen again,” I answer, my voice monotone.
“Give me your arm.”
I feel a tear slip down my cheek as I raise my right arm to him. He removes a syringe and vial from his pocket, tying the rubber too tight around my bicep. Tapping my vein, he doesn’t even bother with being gentle as he inserts the needle. Biting my lower lip, I wait for the sting to subside. I’m one of the lucky ones. Auguste rarely injects me. Most of the time, he hands me a pipe to smoke. I don’t inhale—and thus far I have yet to yearn for the drugs. The same can’t be said for the other girls.
“There you go,” he murmurs sweetly as the rush hits me all at once.
I feel myself smile. “There I go,” I joke, giggling. My cheeks warm and my limbs become heavy.
“Now,” Auguste starts, turning me around and pushing me towards my room, “go back in there and do your job.”
I don’t fight it. I don’t even want to.
And in that instant, between my muddled thoughts and drug-induced euphoria, I know I’ve lost the fight.
But I haven’t lost my hatred.
I hate him.
I hate what he made me become.
What he took from me.
And I’ll never forget it.
I
Morfran
Lily Damewood
Paris, Present
Something about orange peels sickens me. Perhaps it’s the texture, or maybe it’s the bitterness. I reach into the perfectly arranged pile, gripping one of the round fruits on top and clenching my jaw in disgust. It’s the exact shade of the macaroni and cheese Evelyn’s mom used to make when we were kids. When she was sober, that is. The cheap, boxed kind. I pull my hand away as if I were burned. As if the color and the memories attached are somehow offensive. I step back without thinking, needing to get away from the vivid picture, clear as day in my mind—of giggling, cold winters and orange powder spills, Evelyn dancing around with the bowl of macaroni in her hand—
I step back into a person, and when I turn around, a large man with black hair and chocolate brown eyes smiles at me.
Oh, my God.
It’s him—he has his father’s eyes.
“Sorry,” I mutter in English, shuffling back a bit and touching my fingers to my parted mouth.
“It’s okay,” he offers, his smile warm. His French accent is thick. “American?” I nod. He closes the distance between us, reaching behind me and barely brushing my shoulder. “Did you want this?” In his outstretched hand is a plump orange. He doesn’t bother to step away.
