by Raine Miller
I did feel okay – thirsty, dry mouth, a slight headache, but I didn’t feel like I was dying. Perhaps I had overreacted. Maybe just a little.
“So … can I get something to drink?”
He handed me a glass of orange juice. I downed it all in one. That hit the spot nicely. He proceeded to feed me ice cream, something with fudge and caramel from Ben & Jerry’s. I felt like a little girl pampered by daddy. A handsome, sexy, well-endowed daddy. I can’t recall the last time a man fed me ice cream, maybe never. It was strangely romantic.
“Are you trying to fatten me up for the slaughter?” I poked at the lion again, but he took it good-naturedly.
“Of course, you’re too thin. We need to put a little meat on your bones before the ritual sacrifice of the solstice.”
“What, no sheep or goats?”
“That’s so Old Testament. Besides, I’m really not that kinky. Bestiality isn’t my thing.”
“And how am I to be murdered? Death by grudge-fuck?”
“Well if it’s really necessary I suppose we could use the ritual dagger. I happen to have one from Haiti, very authentic.”
“I think you have all you need right here, you could probably kill me with this.” I reach for the fly of his pants to unsheathe his weapon. He put a hand on my hand, stopping my advance with a few whispered words.
“I’d really enjoy what you’re about to do, but I think you need to take it easy. And I don’t want to be tempted further to feed from you tonight. Let’s take it slow till tomorrow night … Okay?”
He seemed so gentle, concerned. I took him at face value and backed off – a little disappointed, but strangely reassured by his caution.
“It’s almost sunrise. I must go, but I’ll return to you tomorrow night. And we will finish addressing your concerns.”
“But what are you going to do with me? I can’t sit locked up in this room day after day, I’ll go insane!”
“I have a couple ideas. We’ll discuss it tomorrow night. Get some rest, drink lots of fluids. Cuídate querida.”
He kissed me on the mouth and left me locked in my beautifully-furnished prison cell.
***
CHAPTER 10
I woke up at three in the afternoon and realized I’d forgotten to tell Enrique about my number one problem – Suboxone. That little strip wasn’t cutting it. I needed something stronger. Back at the Towers in Spanish Harlem I had known several girls – escorts – who were into pills, and I had no desire to go there. These girls would shoplift, steal, beg, borrow, and sell anything that wasn’t cemented into the ground for their next Oxycontin, Methadone, or Xanax. It was the withdrawals that drove them to it, fear of withdrawals. I could sympathize with them. I really needed something bad, right now. I felt like I was heading down that road – the Desperate Addict Lane. I had already developed a tolerance for the Suboxone.
I had plenty of time to think before Enrique arrived. Two and a half hours is a long time to think about your life when you’re hard up for a bite. I still didn’t trust Enrique had been telling the truth to me, yet lying to Lia. I mean honestly, who was I to him?
Sure, I’m a nice piece of ass, but so what? Those are a dime a dozen in New York. Why should I believe anything special existed between us? He’d been with Lia for twenty years, made her into a vampire because he loved her. That’s like a twenty year marriage, right? So what was I to him? A little side action? Little bit of strange? No wonder she’s jealous. I’m sleeping with her husband. He’s got me here in his home, all dolled up in expensive clothes.
What makes me so special? Sure I read minds, but that doesn’t exactly endear me to anyone. I learned that lesson at the age of fourteen. I learned to keep my mouth shut about the things I plucked from people’s minds.
Faustino found me exciting to fuck. I anticipated what he wanted, what he liked. I catered to him sexually. I can’t really do that with Enrique, I can’t read a single goddamn thing from him.
Faustino had thought it cute when I caught him or one of his Traquetos lying and called them on it. He often called me in to question people suspected of lying. Usually some idiot skimming a few dollars off the top of the business, cutting the coke with baking soda, or even using the product he was supposed to sell. Traquetos can be phenomenally foolish at times. All the drugs and illicit money makes them feel invincible.
Faustino’s idea of questioning was basically an extortion of information at gunpoint, Arana on standby. Arana really got off on scaring people. Sometimes I think he enjoyed it more than sex. To Faustino it was just business, liars are an occupational hazard in the cocaine business. The worst liars were the fools hooked on their own product. I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen an addict get the shit kicked out of him for using too much product.
I quickly learned it did no good to lie to protect these idiots. They eventually confessed through the convincing methods Arana employed. All I could do was speed up the process of getting to the truth, which might save the poor fools some pain. A lot of guys learned of my reputation and wised up quickly. Once Faustino called me in, they started telling the truth rather than suffer the consequences of being caught in a lie.
Faustino and Arana used me, the other Traquetos feared me, but my status as a lie detector never made me any friends. I never once admitted to anyone I could read minds. They thought I had a heavy dose of women’s intuition. I was so careful. I never said anything too revealing. I never said anything that couldn’t be explained as acute intuition.
I spent all these years being careful, and for what? Enrique knew all about my dirty little secret and now I’m stuck in this trap, a prisoner of a vampire and his psycho bitch servant. I knew one thing with certainty, my telepathy does not endear me to anyone. It makes me special all right, but not the kind of special anyone wants to keep around.
Thoroughly depressing. To top it all off, Faustino and Arana were probably looking for me, pissed as hell. Faustino would not be happy his little lie detector had disappeared. He’d immediately assume I ran off. It wouldn’t be easy or simple to convince him otherwise. He knew damn well how much I wanted my freedom. Even if I found a way to break the bloodslave bond with Enrique, I’d be living on borrowed time until I cleared things up with Faustino.
With all this to think about and suffering through withdrawals, I had acquired a nice shitty attitude by the time Enrique arrived.
“There’s my knight in shining armor. Come to check on the princess in the tower? Need to change the food and water in my cage?”
He said one word, “Cálmate.” Calm down.
With that he bit me into silence. It’s hard to talk or complain in the middle of a multiple orgasm. I could barely recall what I intended to complain about.
He hadn’t wasted a second giving me what I wanted, what I needed. I didn’t trust him, but I couldn’t really hate him. He was too charming, too gallant. It’s impossible to hate a man who can bring you to climax several times a night without even taking your clothes off. Each passing night in this bedroom served to convince me there was no way in heaven or hell I’d ever escape this trap. I couldn’t stand to be away from Enrique, even for a few minutes.
Time to face facts. My life revolved around Enrique, he owned my ass. What to do … what to do. He must’ve been attuned to my mood. His words mirrored my own thoughts.
“What are we going to do with you?”
“We could start by getting me a laptop and a cell phone. I want to order calzones, and some patron tequila. I’m going loco in here with nothing to do. And we gotta talk about this Suboxone in the afternoon. It’s not cutting it. I need something stronger.”
“Hmmm…” He held me out at arm’s length. “Can you type?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I’m thinking you may be able to help translate some paperwork from Spanish to English and vice versa. If you can handle it, I’ll start you out at twenty an hour.”
“I’m to work here in my beautifully furnished cage?”
My hand swept out like a model on a ‘Price is Right’ showcase. I let my gesture pass over the smashed coffee table on the floor in a heap of fragments.
“No. I have an office you can work in.”
“Oh goody! I get to work beside the psycho. We can compare nails after she breaks them off trying to claw my eyes out. Won’t that be fun?”
“She’s leaving for Spain tomorrow.”
“But what about when she returns?”
“Let’s take this one night at a time. We’ll see about setting up your own private workspace when she returns in a month or so.”
“And what am I going to do before seven when you’re up and about? Am I supposed to sit in this room and climb the walls? There’s nothing to do and I need something stronger than Suboxone, it’s not working. Maybe if we double the dosage or something.”
“I’m concerned you could become dependent on the opiates in Suboxone, and really, it’s not designed for your particular problem. There’s nothing that replaces my venom. I’m going to arrange for a dose of venom to keep you calm until I awake. It’s wise for you to sleep in longer. You’ll need to adopt a fully nocturnal schedule to match mine so you’re not awake too early in the day. You should try to stay awake into the morning, about eight or nine a.m. Then you’ll be able to sleep in till at least five or six in the evening.”
“What do you mean arrange for a dose? How does that work?”
“I can prepare a syringe of venom. You’ll have to administer it yourself.”
“How do you do that?”
“There is a way, but it’s not something you’d want to see or be involved in.”
“You mean you don’t want me to know how to get your venom without your direct involvement and control? Need to keep a firm grip on the bloodslave right?”
“Must you always assume the worst about me?”
“I’m a realist. I choose to see the truth.”
“Have you ever seen a viper milked for its venom?”
“Not exactly. But I have an idea of how it’s done. That’s how you do it? Like a snake?”
“More or less … yes. And I will do it for you. Not to control you, but to help you.”
“Okay … so does that mean I’m not locked in this room anymore?”
“I don’t know. Should I trust you?” He stroked his fingers over his devilish goatee and looked at me appraisingly.
“I’m not leaving. I can’t.”
He shook his head in denial of the simple truth. “How can I be certain?”
He was gonna make me beg. He wanted me to admit it. Aloud. The bastard.
“You know! I can’t stay away from you! I want you to bite me again! Right now! I’ll never be free of this addiction!”
He had me crying with the admission. I needed out of the room. I couldn’t stand to feel so trapped.
“I see.”
“No, I don’t think you do! You have me in here caged like an animal! All I want is you, all the time! I want you more than I want to eat. I go completely crazy till you show up every night. I hate you for doing this to me!”
I’d lost it. Tears, sobbing, snot running down my face – Academy Award stuff. I dumped it all on him with the intent of getting out of my cage, but it wasn’t really an act. I genuinely felt all these emotions. The only part I’d lied about was hating him. I couldn’t hate him, impossible to hate a man who makes you feel so good.
He held me as I sobbed and slobbered on his chest. He wiped my face with a tissue and said the magic words.
“Okay, querida, you are free to come and go throughout the penthouse. Please refrain from leaving the apartment without me. I will escort you anywhere you wish, with the exception of Spanish Harlem.”
He had me there, so I put in his lap to deal with. “Faustino might kill me if he finds me. He’s probably got Arana tearing up the city looking for me.”
“Are you really that important to them? Does he know of your telepathy?”
“Oh god no! I’d have been dead years ago if I ever told anyone!”
“Hmm … that would be a problem. So why are you so valuable to him? I’m sure he has plenty other girls, what’s one more or less?”
“I’m not sure to be honest. He used me as a lie detector sometimes … um … visited me about twice a week … you know … a freebie. I never really understood it. But he definitely doesn’t want to let me go. He wouldn’t let me renew my Visa. His way of keeping me under his thumb. He figured it gave him more power over me.”
“I have an attorney who can get your Visa straightened out. No worries there, but you must take care to maintain a low profile for a while, till Faustino loses interest. Perhaps a new look would be a good idea. A new haircut, some highlights.”
“You don’t like my hair?” I whined.
“Esta bien hermosa querida, en cualquier estilo, cualquier color.” How flattering, I’m beautiful in any style or any color. But I’m still a whore, a bloodslave, and I’ll never be free.
“Thank you.” I smiled as he petted my glossy black hair that would soon be another color.
“Get cleaned up and meet me in the hallway in a half hour. We’ll get you started tonight.”
And so my new life began. I was officially an employee with a real job working for Reguera Internacional S.A., a Panamanian registered shipping corporation.
***
CHAPTER 11
Reguera Internacional S.A. was Enrique’s personal company, no stockholders, no partners, and technically Enrique’s name wasn’t even on the corporate registry anywhere as owner or officer. Well, it did have his name, but what’s a name? Panama allows their Sociedad Anonimas – Anonymous Societies – Corporations to function via proxy officers. These S.A.’s also allow for ownership in the form of bearer shares. Whoever holds the physical bearer share document in their possession is the actual owner. It’s a privacy thing. Enrique was fanatical about privacy. That’s why I’m a bloodslave and not out roaming the streets as an escort anymore.
Enrique’s proxy officers managed all transactions, contracts, and banking, everything – at his direction, of course. It seemed to me they had total control of his business. When I asked him, he snapped. “The last corporate proxy who crossed me was found dead on the beach, his body parts missing. The fish nibbled on him before he washed up on shore.”
Not smart to mess with Enrique. He scared me just listening to him talk about it. He commanded an intense ferocity when he became serious.
Reguera Internacional S.A. was only one of several entities Enrique controlled through a convoluted set of secretive mechanisms and proxies. His puppet-master routine remained obscured from the public eye and governments. Enrique had mastered the corporate shell game. I became his Padewon learner, marveling at his corporate Jedi skills.
My part, initially, was unglamorous. Like a mailroom assistant starting at the bottom of the corporate ladder, my translation duties were tedious and time-consuming. The work robbed me of any illusions I held about my language proficiency. I had actually thought my English decent, and I’d been certain I had excellent Spanish. I was so wrong.
For conversation and general use language, no problem. My escort clients never complained about my vocabulary. Corporate contracts and emails were another story altogether. Memorandums of understanding, minutes of the meeting, powers of attorney, corporate resolutions, joint venture agreements, consulting contracts, fee agreements, all Greek to me. I had a Spanish-English dictionary that weighed five pounds, a Black’s Law dictionary, and several translation websites, and I needed every last one of them. Most people don’t realize the Spanish spoken in different areas of the world is vastly different. I worked on Spanish contracts from Panama, Spain, and Mexico City, and they each used their respective dialects and terminologies. I underwent a crash course in technical and legal Spanish and English by immersion.
I struggled through it to the best of my ability. I felt proud of my progress. In one week I completed fifty pages of joint venture with
inventory lists. I worked my ass off.
He came into the office to check on me as I typed away diligently. “Why do blondes wear underwear?”
“Ahhh, because momma said so?”
“To keep their ankles warm.”
“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny. I think you made me dye my hair just so you could unload all these shitty blonde jokes.”
Yep, I’m a blonde now with a slightly shorter haircut.
“Oh hush, it looks good. You look so different now. You’re a new woman, no one would recognize you.”
“Yeah sure, I look like some Traquetos’ puta, like Natalia Paris!”
Natalia Paris, the most famous bleach blonde, big titty model in Colombia. Thousands of Colombian women aspire to become her: beautiful, blonde, voluptuous, the former girlfriend of an infamous Traqueto. For women without money or education, marrying a Traqueto is one of the only ways to escape the severe poverty.
I’d been forced to live and work with the Traquetos in Rubin’s cartel. But I never really wanted that life. There were tons of women who saw me on Rubin’s arm – or on his lap – who envied my relationship with him. Though forced to sell my body, I lived a relatively comfortable life compared to many Colombian women.
I’d avoided the ‘narco-babe’ look, the bleach blonde, breast implant trend promoted by Natalia Paris. I had been perfectly happy with my black hair worn straight as a board. In his desire to change my appearance, Enrique transformed me into the very thing Traquetos desire most. All I needed to complete the package was an oversized rack. Breast augmentation is so popular in Colombia that Medellin is jokingly referred to as ‘Silicon Valley’ due to the number of cosmetic surgery clinics. The Spanish television stations are loaded with novellas – soap operas about Traquetos and their women.
So, there I was, the butt of every blonde joke ever written. I think he bought a book of blonde jokes, or he Googled it. He had new ones for me every night.
“Why shouldn’t blondes be given coffee breaks?”
I shook my head.
