Immoral

by Skylar Cross

  The heat is unbearable. I thought Florida was hot, but this place is like being in a hot tub on the sun.

  The taxi rises through a series of steep streets. The old part of the city is on a high hill overlooking a valley. Oddly, the air isn't any fresher up here.

  "Can you speak Spanish?" Damien says to me in Spanish.

  "A little," I say in Spanish. "Enough to get by. You sound good."

  "Yeah, I'm pretty fluent. Just ask if you need anything translated."

  The car stops on an old cobblestone street in front of a yellow building with brown stains all over it. Through windows without glass, I see people sitting at tables eating and drinking. Lots of loud talking and laughing.

  "This is our hotel," he says.

  My stomach churns a little.

  "This?" I say. "I thought you said you have a place here."

  "I do," he says with a smile. "This is it."

  Before I can respond, a man rushes out to greet him. Short with balding black hair. About thirty-five. Pink shirt. Black pants and shoes. But the biggest happiest grin I've ever seen.

  "My dear friend Damien!" he shouts in Spanish as he practically jumps up and down while hugging him.

  "Pedro!" says Damien as he hugs him back. "My good friend! So good to see you! Pedro, this is Annika."

  I put my hand out. Pedro takes it and kisses the back of it like they do in old movies.

  "Welcome, Annika! You are now my best friend also! This man is a prince!"

  Damien raises his eyebrows at me.

  "Come in! Come in!" says Pedro.

  I look up and around. The hotel is actually cute in a dirty sort of way, if that makes any sense. Little balconies look down at the street. There is a young couple standing on one. They wave at us. I wave back.

  We walk into the lobby, which fronts the restaurant. Pedro gets our room key from a hook next to a row of mail slots. Just like in old movies. Didn't think such a place still existed anymore.

  The strong cooking smell combined with the permeating heat should have made me sick, but instead I'm getting hungry. Smells really good.

  Pedro takes us up to our room. Plain. One dresser. Tiny bathroom with the oldest toilet I've ever seen. An even older bathtub. Running water, thank God. Don't know how I would have survived without that.

  I freshen up a bit, or at least attempt to. It may not be possible to truly freshen up in this place. I never thought I would long for Florida in the summer, but it's better than this.

  Once I'm looking semi-human, Damien takes me by the hand and leads me downstairs. In the hotel restaurant, he is greeted by fifteen or so people. They all hug him and kiss my hand. The men are covered in dirt and grime like they've been working in the fields all day. The women all wear basic one-piece dresses. Now I know why Damien insisted I pick out only dresses from his private stash.

  Soon we find ourselves sipping wine at a table where tiny tapas-like plates are laid down in front of us.

  "Eat!" says Pedro. "Eat!"

  Not gonna lie, the food is amazing. I'm not even sure what it is. Meat, chicken, some kind of bread I've never seen, tons of vegetables I cannot identify.

  Whatever.

  It's food heaven.

  The wine makes me giggly. I end up chatting in broken Spanish with some of the other girls. Some are here with their husbands. Others are single.

  Oddly, they pay very little attention to Damien. I'm so used to women fawning all over him, but here he seems on equal footing with everybody. Now I get why he must like this place so much.

  The hotel restaurant is actually quaint. No widescreen television sets, which is refreshing. And while there is electricity, there are lit torches with little black metal cages built into the stone-like walls at various points around the room. I'd bet those were here long before the electricity. In fact, I'd bet this town was built in the 1700s.

  I've seen American restaurants try to manufacture this effect, but here it is for real.

  Damien keeps looking over at me like he's checking on me to make sure I'm okay.

  I'm better than okay. I'm with him. I may be hot and sweaty, but this night is perfect.

  One thing for sure. Everybody here is happy. Even joyous. At one point, everything stops so everybody can sing along to some song in Spanish that I don't know. Everyone, including Damien, knows the words except for me.

  There are kids, but they're absurdly polite. They play with each other, but keep reporting back in with their parents.

  After lots of talking, drinking, and eating Damien takes my hand and announces, "Walk!"

  Several people join us as we head out onto the cobblestone street into the night air. Which is exactly the same as the air inside. Hot. Thick. Steamy.

  But who cares? Arm in arm we walk around. It's late and dark but unaccompanied children run all around. Some are girls who stand alone in doorways.

  "See them?" Damien says to me.

  "Yes," I say.

  "Remind me to tell you about them later."

  After a full circle of the tiny city on a hill we find ourselves back at the hotel.

  There is lots of hugging, back-slapping, and kisses to the back of my hand. Finally, Damien and I go back up to our room.

  Damien goes into the bathroom and takes a bath. I had planned to do the same once he was done, but I put my head down on the pillow just for a few seconds. The next thing I know...

  Chapter 36

  ...the sun is streaming above the insect netting over me.

  I leap up. Damien sleeps soundly beside me.

  Holy fuck, I've slept with Damien Cage!

  And I didn't even know it!

  But dammit, we still haven't had sex!

  Oddly, I don't care.

  Lying there underneath the netting, I study him.

  God, he's perfect. His chin looks like it was carved from a block of stone. His face looks tough, even while sleeping.

  I'm the luckiest girl alive. Because how many girls has Damien taken here? If he's telling the truth, a grand total of one.

  Me.

  It's one thing to have Damien Cage's cock inside you. It's another thing to have shared his most secret place.

  I get up and crawl out of the netting. I must look a terrifying mess. Better get used to it. I'm going to look a terrifying mess every minute until I'm back in some South Florida air conditioning.

  Which is a long way from here.

  I go to the dresser on which sits a large flask of water. I don't see a glass anywhere so I drink some directly from the flask.

  Ack!

  Putrid.

  I cough.

  I need coffee. How am I going to get some coffee?

  I drift to the window and step out onto the balcony. The sun is out and the sky is clear. But the air is exactly the same.

  The view, however, is amazing. I can see all the way over to the tiny airport where we landed. The foothills and mountains in the distance are stunning. The valley below is lush and green.

  But here in this high little ancient city, everyone is busy starting their day. A horse-drawn wagon... no shit, a horse-drawn wagon!... pulls up to the hotel below. In the back of it are three dead animals. Goats maybe, but I'm not sure. Pedro and two other men come out and take the animals. Then Pedro pays the horseman who rides off.

  He catches my eye and waves with a big smile. I wave back. He goes inside.

  A horse-drawn wagon! Have we traveled back in time? If it weren't for the occasional car, I would almost believe it.

  As I look around, I understand Damien. I imagine how he must have felt after Marcellina. Helpless. Powerless.

  By finding a place like this where he could be anonymous, just a regular human being and not rock star Damien Cage, he found the peace to heal.

  Not that he is healed.

  He loves her. He's always going to love her. There's nothing I can do about that. I can never replace her.

  So what do I want?

  Stop thinking, Annika. Just enj
oy this moment. Just enjoy life, being here with this man you love. It's not perfect. It never will be. Marcellina will always be in the back of his heart.

  Before we left, I Googled "Marcellina Montero" and found a few thousand clips from her porn films. I couldn't watch any of them. Felt dirty. Especially knowing her life story. Not to mention the fact that Damien pulled her out of her old life. Only to watch her fall back in.

  As I look down at the morning people going about their work, it hits me. I love Marcellina too. I have to. I must. If she is loved by Damien, then she must be loved by me. I even make a decision to go visit her alone. Just her and me. I want to do it.

  "Morning," says Damien as he joins me on the balcony.

  "Morning yourself," I say.

  He looks around at the scenery.

  "So what do you think?" he says.

  "I think we're in the eighteenth century," I say. "Maybe seventeenth. But I'm not complaining. I'm glad it still exists somewhere."

  "I can be free here. Nobody knows I'm a rock star. Nobody even cares."

  I put my hand on his face.

  He leans forward and kisses me.

  Best kiss of my life, by far. Just a soft, sweet touching of lips that communicates a thousand different things.

  "Remember what I said last night when we passed the kids standing in the doorways?" he says as he points down to the street. "See down there? Those are prostitutes."

  "They can't be! Those are just kids. Oh my God, the youngest looks like she's twelve!"

  "Even younger," he says. "Disgusting, isn't it? When Eon Sphinx did our first world tour, I saw shit like that all over the world. I vowed I was going to stop it. I was going to become the richest rock star ever and use all my money to change the world."

  "Which you have."

  "I'm on the board of the Foundation for Exploited Children, the Sex Trafficking Awareness Committee, and three other organizations. Like any of that does shit. The girls are still here standing in doorways. Here and all over the world. I'll be long dead and gone and they'll still be here. See, in order to change the world you need to change people. And the hardest lesson I ever had to learn is that you can't change people. Like the old lightbulb joke, they need to want to change. And most never will."

  "Makes me think of my mom. She's always going on about Miley Cyrus being immoral. But that down there is true immorality."

  "Not to mention all the places in the world where people are being tortured and killed."

  "No shit."

  A brown taxi similar to the one in which we arrived pulls up. Pedro runs out and welcomes a middle-aged couple with the same enthusiasm he showed us. He grabs their bags and follows them inside.

  "I think I get why you like this place so much," I say.

  "Do you?" he says.

  "Yeah."

  "Tell me, then."

  "It's Pedro."

  He looks at me and smiles.

  "That's part of it," he says. "Go on."

  "And the people around him," I say.

  Damien nods and sips his coffee.

  "Look around you," he says. "These people have nothing. But the truth is they actually have everything. They have each other. Did you hear how much laughing was going on last night during dinner?"

  "I know," I say. "It was ridiculous."

  "That happens every night. That wasn't because I was here. That's life to them. Good friends. Family. Fantastic food. Wine. Singing."

  "Terrible water, though."

  "True, but compare this to everyone back home. Always fighting, griping, whining they don't have enough. Always miserable. Here, they have nothing. But they're incredibly happy because they have each other. They don't need anything else. I love that."

  "Wait a minute! I thought you were all Mr. Success. Go out and make millions of dollars by carving your own path."

  "Oh, I definitely am. But my only point with this place is that you don't need millions. The fancy house and the fancy cars don't bring you happiness. Your ass can't tell the difference between a gold-plated toilet and that antique back there. Trust it from someone who has all those things. I'd give them all away to bring back Marcellina for just one minute."

  He pauses and looks down at the street. I put my hand on his forearm.

  "The other thing about this place I love," he says, "is the strong work ethic. I respect that. These people don't live off the hands of anyone else. Each person performs a task in the community. They don't question it. The baker bakes his bread. The butcher chops his meat. The hotel owner runs his hotel. Everyone works. There is no welfare. Because there are no ultra-rich people to whom to whine that they have too much and we have too little. And notice, please, the lack of drug use. With the possible exception of the wine. Nobody needs heroin to escape from the realities of life. Life itself is joyous enough that they don't need a high. Bottom line is that we're spoiled. The United States created great wealth and it trickled down to a point where we became a nation of crybabies. This isn't right. That isn't right. Waa-waa. And if it's not just right, then we have to turn to drugs so we get high enough that we don't care."

  "But I'd bet that medical facilities here suck," I say. "Not to mention there are twelve-year old prostitutes in doorways. You don't see that back home. We have laws."

  "I never said this place was Paradise. It has its faults, and that's a pretty fucking huge one."

  "When did you first come here?"

  "A few months after Marcellina went into the coma. I needed to get away from everything Damien Cage. So I put on a disguise and went traveling on my own. I asked myself 'What's a country that likely is too poor to know Damien Cage?' A little research and I was here. I landed in the city and took a bus to the small towns out over the hills. Everywhere I went people took me in. They were friendly. Spent three weeks doing that before I met Pedro. Once I got here, it was like I had found a new family. I became a different person. I could think. I didn't have to be me."

  "How long did you stay here?" I say.

  "Three months," he says. "Jasmine was getting worried. I got word to her that I was alive but never told her where I was."

  "Why not tell Jasmine?"

  "Not sure. I just didn't want to share this place with anybody."

  I smile inwardly.

  "But you came back," I say.

  "I have duties and obligations," he says. "Nobody will ever say that Damien Cage doesn't do what he says he's going to do. Had to record a new album, do a new tour."

  "The Unbroken tour."

  "Yes."

  "Which turned out to be your biggest. The one that really put Eon Sphinx over the top, getting the attention of Simon Reed who hired you as a judge on America's Top Voice. Don't you think that maybe you're too big now to quit?"

  He stares off at the foothills.

  "I know," he says. "But truth is, I can't uphold the lifestyle anymore. And I can't get Trent and Ace to stop doing drugs. It's hopeless. Both have been to rehab several times. The music is starting to suffer. When you're young and in your twenties, you have enough creative oomph to be able to handle lots of drugs and still play. But they're losing their edge. They can play the old songs well but coming up with new shit is like pulling fucking teeth. And besides, the message is all wrong."

  "What message?" I say.

  "Sex, drugs, and rock n roll. I'm sick of it. It's inspiring when you're fifteen and you're rebelling against the world but the people I find inspiring nowadays are different. Like Pedro. He's top of my list. Works his ass off but loves his life. Never complains. Happiest man alive. I see too many kids whining about nothing. Their parents drive BMWs and Volvos. They've got nothing to complain about. The people here have a lot to complain about. But they never do. See the difference?"

  "Yeah, I do."

  "I want to inspire more Pedros. I want people to see that they do have the power to take control of their lives. They can be happy. They don't need to reinvent the wheel or become CEO of a conglomerate. It can be as simple
as becoming a baker. Or a candlestick-maker. Anything that has a market and moves product. A butcher. A tailor. When people came to the United States in the old days, they weren't looking for anyone to take care of them. They just wanted a place to work in freedom. That's all. A place where they're left alone so they can work and feed their family. Like here."

  "Have you thought about what it is that you want to do to inspire people?"

  "I ponder that question every day. How do you get people to want to live their lives doing work with purpose instead of whining for handouts? Then, on the flipside, you've got shysters out there selling 'biz opps' and motivational tapes at a hundred bucks a pop telling people they can get rich. Nothing wrong with that per se, but there are people shooting heroin in abandoned buildings who are never going to spend the hundred bucks on that. My dad always said the cream rises to the top, even if the entire world is against you. But let's say you're born into a slum in India. You might be a genius but you never get the message. You don't even see the ad for the hundred-dollar motivational webinar. It all comes back to you can't save everybody."

  "Who would you like to save if you had the choice?"

  He fixes on a spot on the street.

  "Marcellina," he says. "She was incredible. She had a brain. Seriously, she beat me at Jeopardy! A girl from the streets. They call it an eidetic memory. She sees something once and remembers it forever. I can't do much for truly dumb people. But there are a million Marcellinas out there right now. People with potential who just don't know they have potential. How do you reach them?"

  "How about inspirational music with lyrics that convey your message?"

  "No, songs don't sell to the masses unless they carry certain messages. I was at a Christian pop festival a few years back and there was this band that blew me away. They made Eon Sphinx sound like toddlers playing with Fisher-Price instruments. But all they sing about is Jesus. That works for their target people but they're never going to reach a massive audience."

  A lightbulb goes off in my head.

  "I know what you're going to do to save the world," I say.

  "You do?" he says.

  "Yes indeed," I say.

  "What?"

  "Can't tell you yet. It's just an idea. Got to let it incubate. One thing's for sure. I need some coffee."