At that moment, Sarah comes back and closes the door behind her. “They’re boiling the water now,” she says, heading over to another door. “They’ll bring it up in a bit. For now, I can help you undress in here.”
She leads me through a second door, into a smaller room with a white porcelain bathtub as long as I am. There’s a small white desk filled with lotions, soaps, and shampoos. I have no idea what is what but Sarah can help me figure it out, and it all smells so good, I really don’t care. I don’t think I’ve bathed since I got here—and it’s been practically a week—which means I probably smell worse than a hog rolling in mud.
As I take in the room, Sarah starts undoing my corset. I’m not sure how I feel about strangers dressing and undressing me, and I make a note of finding someone to teach me how to lace and tie my corset myself, so I don’t have to ask someone to help me.
“Considering you’re a woman and not from these parts,” Sarah says as she yanks the ribbon, “do you have any questions for me? Questions you might otherwise be uncomfortable asking Matt? Perhaps about the way to dress or the way to wash? What to do if you get your monthlies? Ways to please a man—”
“I know how to please a man,” I say, though I’m not sure why. “I don’t think it’s changed much through the centuries.”
Sarah makes a noise I can’t distinguish if it’s approval or not.
"It seems Matt is right about you," she says. "You aren't like any other woman I've met before. Save for myself, of course. Between the two of us, I learned how to please a man before I married. Before I ever met Billy, truth be told. My mother taught me. Was a whore in this very brothel. Had me work here to earn my keep when I was twelve."
"Like serving food and washing dishes?" I ask. I have no idea why I feel compelled to ask for clarification when deep down, I already know the answer. God, I must sound like an idiot.
Sarah's eyes cut through me and she doesn't answer. She doesn't have to. Her eyes go back to her window and she looks lost as she stares at the sight before her.
"I made lots of money, surprisingly enough," she says. "I was pretty and young and didn't have many reservations. How could I, with a mother like mine? Matt was too young to understand so he stayed home, or Pa would take him to work at the docks. He was a ship inspector. His job was to ensure each ship passed inspection, each ship was safe and could sail with a certain amount of men and supplies. That sort of thing." She shifted her eyes back over to me and I feel myself straighten under her stare, like a schoolchild. "You see, my father was honest to a fault. And, at the time, everyone was bribing inspectors to mark their ship safe under bad conditions because it would cost more to invest in the upgrade than a flat bribe would. My father never accepted a bribe and that ended up killing him. My mom, bitter at my father, sold herself because that made money fast. She never wanted to work but she was too poor and not pretty enough to transcend her position from her caste. My father became bitter at the fact that she would sell herself. He didn't know about me or he would have killed her himself. But we made enough money to get by. I got good at my job. Really good. And soon, I made more money than any other whore in the place. This was after my mother died, though. If she knew I was out-earning her, she'd find some way to sabotage me, the bitch. It wasn't long before I raised through the rankings until I saved enough to buy the brothel myself."
I can tell she's talking to herself now, and I wonder if she's ever shared this with anyone before. If Matt knows how she came to own the brothel. If her husband even knows. It makes me wonder why she's sharing it with me in the first place.
"Now, I'm a proper businesswoman with money in my pocket and control over this town." Her eyes slice to mine and it's like she remembers I'm here. "I have a husband and we want to start a family. I wouldn't be here, where I am, without fucking my way to the top. I learned how to play the game to get what I want. It's degrading and completely humiliating, but learning how to please a man got me exactly where I wanted to go, without them even realizing it." She clenched her jaw. "The reason I'm sharing this with you is because my brother is different around you. I've never seen him like this so I can't predict his behavior. I need to know your intentions with him, and I need you to be honest with me."
To put it plainly, Sarah scares the shit out of me. So much so I don't know what to say. But she's looking at me with her pointed stare and I feel myself squirm under its weight.
"I like Matt," I tell her, deciding my best option is to be honest with her. If she spills my secrets, so be it, but I figure she won't. Not after what she told me. I can use that against her if I need to. "I don't know how much, and I don't know how he feels in return. It doesn't matter. I'm fine being where we are now. I'm fine being friends or whatever this is between us. There's too much going on in my head right now to commit to anyone and I don't even know if I'm capable of doing so. But I want to, with your brother. Don't ask me why, because I sure as shit don't know, but I know that I want to. But I don't know how he feels and I'm somewhat familiar with his reputation; people have told me about him. I know he has a few regulars here. Whatever. I don't judge. Not my business. I just," I stop, catch my breath. "I just don't know anything anymore."
Sarah does not feel sorry for me. I don't think she will. She's not the type to tolerate self-labeled victims and even though it's not my intention to come across that way, there's a very good chance that may be happening. I press my lips together, waiting. For what, I don't know, but Sarah makes me feel like a deer caught in headlights and instead of running or fighting, I'm frozen.
"You have a strange accent," she finally says and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or not about the turn of the conversation. "Where are you from?"
I almost laugh. Instead, I shrug my shoulders. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I say.
Sarah narrows her eyes, curious. Intrigued. "Try me," she says.
So I do. I tell her everything about me. I know Matt told her something, but she must not know the details so I make sure I don't skimp on anything. At this point, I don't care if she thinks I'm crazy or delusional. I don't care if she wants to commit me to an insane asylum. I've just had it with everyone and everything and I need to tell someone else just to prove that my old life is still real. It may not be my current reality and it may not ever be a reality for me again but it's still real to me. And that matters. That means something.
By the time I finish, the bath is ready for me. I'm more than ready for the bath. Sarah still hasn't said a word to me, but she helps undo the buttons on the back of my dress and I unlace my corset. I feel light and relieved, getting that burden off of my shoulders, because I told Sarah about Becky too, and my family and friends and job and my education. I told her everything, including my feelings and it's just so nice to get them out that I'm more than ready for my bath and don't plan to get out of the water for a long while.
"How do you know Becky?" I ask when I'm finished. I haven't given Sarah much of a chance to speak and I want to pick her brain while she gives me the opportunity to do so.
Sarah shrugs and she offers me her hands to use as balance while I step out of the skirts. "Some of my girls swear by her," she says. "I'm not sure if I'm a believer, but the woman is odd, I'll tell you that." She gives me a sideways glance and helps me step into the tub. I grin because I've never been in a tub as big as this one and I'm excited to test it out. "So, you were supposed to be born here, then?"
I shrug, sinking into the water. It's the perfect temperature where it pinches your skin pink but doesn't overwhelm you with heat.
"That's what she says," I say. "It's ridiculous, isn't it?"
"I've heard of dafter things," she says, and I believe her. She juts her hip and narrows her eyes and suddenly she's tense as she stares at me. "Listen, lass, I want to make something very clear. My brother is the most important person in the world, second only to my husband. If I find out that you're using him or that there's any funny business, I don't care where you're from, I'll break your n
eck myself. I have no idea who you are, but I appreciate your assistance in my rescue, and you seem like you have a good head on your shoulders. But understand that I have no idea who you are, and my brother isn't acting like his typical self around you. I'm not sure what's going on between the two of you and as much as I want to know, I understand that it's not really my business. But don't lead him on. Matt is good at hiding what he's feeling. I can't bloody tell if he's ever been hurt before because of a woman because he internalizes everything, and it drives me absolutely crazy.
“As I was saying, don't lead him on. Because I think there's a good chance that you have the power to do more damage to him than you realize and I want it known to you just what the consequences would be should you hurt him in that way." She pauses so she can catch her breath, and I blink because it's a lot to take in and I'm not sure how to handle it, how to react to it. Her eyes find mine and they're sharp and to the point. "Are we clear?"
I nod my head. I want to look away from the intensity that is her stare. but I find I'm unable to. "Crystal," I force myself to say.
She nods as though this is sufficient and leaves me alone to my bath. I roll my shoulders back and try to get comfortable. I intend for this to be a long bath. And more than that, I want to forget all my problems and pretend, for the moment, that this is just a dream. After that, I need as much relaxation time as I can get because I have this feeling that things are only going to get harder from here on out.
Chapter 11
I sleep well in my room at Sarah’s brothel. My room is on the smaller side, a similar size to my apartment back home. It has sweeping curtains and high ceilings, a vanity mirror, and what I would have thought was an antique desk if I found it at a Goodwill back home. But here, it’s current and modern. It’s ivory and smooth, the material reminding me of marble, but I know it’s not. The floor is wood, with brightly colored rugs so when I wake up and put my sockless feet on the floor, I’m not shocked out of slumber due to the cold. I have one window in my room that overlooks the town center and I pad over to it so I can open both the curtains and the window. Bitter cold air hits me like a slap in the face and I actually take a step back. I can hear the groaning of the carriages, the snorts of the horses. The air has a slight hint of salt and water, and if I close my eyes, I can hear the bells and the ocean hitting the docks.
Port Royal is waking up slowly. It’s not a bad way to wake up, if I’m being honest. There’s no sound of a nearby freeway, no cars, no sirens. No fighting from my next-door neighbors who really need to separate, if not for me then for themselves. It’s peaceful here. It’s nice.
When I think of home, when I make these comparisons without trying, I find that there’s no real longing filling up my thought process. I don’t miss home as much as I thought I would.
But here’s the thing.
I’ve been here for about a week. I’m not sure if this lack of feeling stems from being in a new place with new people and once I get used to this, I’ll go back to missing where I’m from, or if it’s because I genuinely don’t miss home. I haven’t thought about driving my car or going to work. I haven’t thought about my TV shows. I miss music. Man, I miss music. And my phone. And podcasts. But not terribly. Not the way I would miss Matt.
Because I would. Miss Matt. It’s not exactly something I like admitting, just because I am so not this person but, at least, to myself, I can.
I would miss him.
Because I like him. I like him a lot. I like the sound he makes when he breathes and the way his eyes sparkle when he’s talking about something he’s passionate about. I’ve never been with a guy who has this kind of passion. It’s something I didn’t realize I was attracted to. Until now.
Matt is not the sort to settle down. I can gather as much. Sarah pretty much told me as much. But I swear, sometimes, when I catch him looking at me, there’s something more…
Because I can’t be the girl I used to be. Not with Matt. Not anymore. If Matt and I ever get together, it has to be completely and just the two of us. Anything else would not be acceptable, at least not to me.
I pad over to the wardrobe and dress for the day. I always liked dressing flirty and casually—boyfriend tees that dipped low in the front revealing a hint of cleavage and a pair of tight skinny jeans. A tight long-sleeved shirt paired with a miniskirt. Shorts with a blouse and maybe, if I'm feeling particularly mischievous, a pair of pigtails.
I don't know how to dress flirty here. I don't know what's acceptable and what isn't, and I definitely don't want to offend anyone. As such, I prioritize comfort and pull on black pantaloons and a soft tunic the color of the sky. I wear a loosely tied corset just because I can't go braless in this place and would rather have some support for my girls than nothing. Especially since this brothel has a tendency for getting drafty.
I take a seat in front of my vanity mirror and start to brush my hair. Back home, I used to run a brush through my locks a couple of times and call it a day. If it was particularly messy, I would throw it in a messy bun. But since I have the time, I curb in my urgency and take the time to really appreciate my hair and try and slow down and really brush it. It's cathartic, which is weird, I know, but it centers me way more than meditation ever could. I tried that a few times, but I can't quiet my brain no matter how hard I try. Maybe I need more practice, but I just don't have the patience for it. This, on the other hand, is much more doable.
When I'm satisfied, I slip on white stockings Sarah gave me when I first arrived—they're super cheap, apparently, and really easy to get here—before slipping on these badass pair of brown boots. They're an old pair she never wears anymore and the love of my life. They reach my knees with a cool diamond cut and there's a small heel on each one. They have this worn-in look without actually being worn in. The brown color is light, like the brown labeled on a crayon, and go with every outfit I own here, even the dresses. Plus, they're so ridiculously comfortable… I seriously feel like Cinderella if Cinderella was a pirate and didn't have a ball to attend or a prince to impress.
From there, I walk over to the window once more. The sunlight is fast and sudden, like lightning, and it's no surprise to find that the town is already awake and bustling. I see carts trotting down the dirt road pulled by tired horses. Men and women are selling trinkets, yelling their prices over each other, not caring if they wake anyone up. A man is passed out in the middle of the road with a jug probably filled with booze still clutched in his hand. A couple of women give him a sneer as they're forced to walk around him. If I close my eyes, I can hear the water hitting the shore. New ships are coming in while old ones are leaving. There's never a dull day here which, strangely, I find I like.
My family has always lived in the suburbs. Which I also like. I like the quiet, the feeling of safety, the green parks and areas to walk your dogs and take your kids.
This is different, to a degree. Obviously, things here aren't as urban because the technology hasn't been developed yet. But this little port is crowded, and businesses are mixed with residences and it's not as quiet as the suburbs by a long shot. There is still a divide between the classes, which I find interesting. The governor's mansion, as well as wealthy farm merchants, live in the hills, overlooking the downtown area, which is where we are. I've heard some of the girls who work here whisper about Brooke Cunningham and Charlie Colt running away together just before I got here. A merchant's daughter and a pirate—how scandalous. There are other names that get tossed around. Apparently, the governor is going to resign and someone else has been named in his place. I wonder if he's going to be as corrupt as the last one. Only time will tell, I guess.
A scream interrupts any other musings that may have crossed my mind. I pause and wait. Home has conditioned me not to go running. Isn't that messed up? I've heard people scream before but because we, as a society, are so worried about getting in people's business, we don't investigate. We don't go ask if someone is okay because, for whatever reason, we feel like assholes because w
e care. Because we said something.
However, the scream could be some sex thing one of the johns are into, so I let the sound register and try to decipher it. It didn't sound sexy and it didn't sound fake. It sounded like genuine fear.
I decide to do something. If that makes me an asshole, then I'll be an asshole. I'm from the future after all, and that's a pretty asshole place. I throw open my door and try to decipher where I heard the scream come from. There sounds like commotion downstairs, so I start to head down the staircase two steps at a time, keeping one hand on the rail so I don't get overeager and fall to my death or damage parts of my body.
By the time I get downstairs, I'm out of breath and make a note of attempting to get into better shape here, regardless of any impediments. I look around and it would appear as though someone cleared out the floor of the brothel—where customers can interact with potential whores before finally deciding what he (or she) wants and taking their leave upstairs. Something big must have happened if Sarah closed up shop for today. She is the only person to have that level of authority and Sarah wouldn't have done so unless it was really important.
"Isla!"
I hear Matt's shout and I snap in its direction behind me. I see a crowd of people—the majority of them white, with tears in their eyes, hands clamped over their mouths. A couple of them have backed away from the crowd, shaking their heads. One is keeled over, clutching the wall for balance as she empties the contents of her stomach onto the hardwood floor. I notice Sarah staring downward, her face paler than usual, the look she wears stoic. Billy is next to her, one hand on her shoulder as though he's offering her comfort in his own way. His lips are pressed so tightly together they're white, and he's shaking his head like he was some kind of antique bobble-head doll.
To Ruin a Rogue: Page 9
