Flawed

by Francette Phal

  Alexi smiles at me in a way that’s supposed to be sinister, but his missing two bottom teeth make it appear comical instead. I take another sip to stop myself from laughing. He brandishes a crowbar like a showman, twirls it around in the air as he approaches the crate in front of me. “You’re gonna love this.” In saying so, he jams the flat-head of the crowbar between the lid and the crate. It takes him a few tries, straining and contorting his face before he finally pries the lid open. The odor is repulsive. The stench of unwashed human skin mixed in with bodily fluids of so many days old is a stomach-turning bouquet of god awful. It’s like smelling the cow before it becomes your steak. I barely keep my lunch down. But I keep my expression neutral, hiding all disgust from my face. It has nothing to do with feeling bad about this, it just sickens me to have to deal with this part of my work. It’s a necessary evil. The point of stuffing them into crates and depriving them of a place to relieve themselves is the first in many steps to breaking them. Handing Alexi my empty glass, I edge closer to the open crate. I bring my hand up to cover my nose and mouth as I carefully assess my latest products. Six naked, dirty women are crammed inside the crate, each one facing the head of the next in fetal positions. Their eyes and mouths are covered with black tape, while a thick, silver chain secured around each of their midsections kept them linked to each other. Wrists and ankles were also bound and chained. They may smell like a sewer, but they were a beautiful sight to me.

  Six in this crate means that there were a total of twelve more in the other two similarly sized crates. I silently start adding up the price they’ll each fetch and if their hymens were still in intact like Alexi promised me. Then I’d make a substantial amount of money.

  “I want them sprayed down with bleach and scrubbed clean. Make sure they receive all the necessary vaccines before they are transported to the auction house. I will—”

  “Excuse me, ma’am…” The interruption is a hesitant one, but it efficiently cuts me off midsentence. Turning, I stare blankly at my red-faced assistant standing a little ways off from where I am. “You...you have a call, ma’am.” She nervously clears her throat and turns three shades redder as I continue to look at her like she’s vapor.

  “Do you see me talking?”

  She gives a sharp shake of her head. “You are not mute, Lynn,” I snap. “We have a voice so that we can express ourselves with words. I’m sure even a simple “yes” or a “no” isn’t beyond your vast capabilities.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am. It won’t happen again…” She trails off, taking a wise step backwards, falling completely silent once again; the reason why she’d interrupted me all but forgotten.

  “Do excuse, Lynn, Alexi, she doesn’t seem to have the same mental abilities that you and I share. In other words, she’s a slow bitch who needs to learn her goddamn place. Isn’t that right, Lynn?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m a slow bitch. I’m sorry I don’t know my place. I’ll do better.” If I demanded her to bow she would have, but I have business to finish.

  I return my attention to Alexi. “As I was saying, I will have someone contact you within a few hours with the transportation details. Also, make sure they are properly tagged with the auction house logo. White ink this time.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve done this enough to know how you like them, lady,” he grumbles, trudging to the next crate to pop it open. “They’ll be ready to go by midnight.”

  “Excellent.” That makes me exceedingly happy. “As always, pleasure doing business with you, Alexi.”

  I proceed to the nearest exit and Lynn scuttles behind me after helping me into my coat. Outside is an unmarked SUV waiting for me. I hold my hand out to the chauffeur who assists me inside the vehicle. I’ve done this enough times that I enter the car with poise, making sure to bend my head so that my perfectly-styled bun doesn’t catch the roof of the car. Once seated, I swipe my hands down my navy blue pencil skirt, ensuring there are no wrinkles before my hands move to straighten the blouse beneath my open jacket.

  “Interrupt me like that again and I’ll put my heel in your throat.” I keep my tone light, quiet, like I’m discussing the weather, but from the way she looks at me, I know Lynn sees the lethal glint in my eyes that conveys the gravity of my threat.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she whispers, shrinking even further into the seat.

  “Who called?”

  She jumps, but is quick to reply, “Your father, ma’am. He wanted to know when you would arrive for dinner.”

  I sigh in irritation. I can’t even begin to describe the amount of hate I have for these stupid Sunday dinners. I’ve hated them since the moment my father first suggested we start having them three years ago, and I detest them even more now. Bringing my fingers to my temple, I gently massage the headache I can feel building on the right side of my head. There is one fact that stands absolutely true for me regarding my father and that is how brilliant of a business man he’s been. He has accomplished a lot with the little he’d been given, using his ruthlessness and unsavory tactics to get to where he is today. That was as far as my admiration went with him.

  My father and I have never been close. I feel nothing for him; no emotional connection whatsoever. He did not raise me. He knows nothing about me and I know only what is necessary about him because he is my opponent, an obstacle I have to get rid of in order to take over what he has. He’s been cold and distant all my life and now that he wants closeness and warmth, I refuse to find any to give. I can pretend like I actually care. The doting daughter act isn’t a stretch from what I portray to the public. I can fake love, I can fake adoration because I know he’s going to die soon. His health has been failing these last few years, which is the real reason why he wants to get closer. He’s cut back on his businesses and although his illness has forced him to remain in bed, I’ve been told that he’s training Dmitry to take over after he dies. But that’s not going to happen. I have plans for my father’s enterprises that in no way involve my idiot brother. And if he is stupid enough to get in my way, he is going to end up on the same path I’ve been preparing for my father.

  This plan has been in the making for years now. I’ve methodically put people into place for exactly this purpose. It isn’t simply about kidnapping and selling girls to perverted men for thousands of dollars. I have aspirations far bigger than human trafficking and it’s all going to start the second my father finally dies, which I’m estimating will be any time now. Until then, I’m willing to play along, even if that means sitting through another goddamned family dinner. At least I’ll have Knox there. A genuine smile pulls at my lips at the thought of the brooding assassin. Knox is the only person in our family who genuinely makes me happy. I can’t wait to see him.

  Chapter Seven

  Lacey

  “God, baby, you feel so good…so fucking tight…” Greg grunts on top of me. Saturday night has rolled around far quicker than I anticipated. The usual spot where I meet Greg is a decent motel on the opposite side of his idyllic suburban home. He’s not much for adventure in the sack. But I’m not complaining. That’s less work for me. I’m on my back, as is customary with Greg, in the missionary position as he labors on top of me.

  I’m physically present, my naked body being used to Greg’s apparent satisfaction, but really I’m a million miles away. There are so many thoughts racing through my mind that I can’t focus on just one, but my mother’s continuing absence is one I keep coming back to. It’s going on four days since I last saw her. I pray she hasn’t overdosed. I hope Red is at least keeping an eye on her, even if he is selling her in the process. Time is the only thing I have on my side when it comes to my family. All I have to do is sit and wait. They always pop up sooner or later, in one form or another.

  Dante is another thought. He’s been infuriatingly silent about this new “business” venture after the little bit he told me Wednesday night. And again, there is virtually nothing I can do but wait until his problems come to light. It’s not that I
don’t believe in him. That I don’t think he is capable of achieving whatever success he wants. But Dante has a track record. Too many disappointments, too many failures, and too many incidences where I had to suffer for his mistakes made it impossible to believe in anything he says or does.

  My family worries aside, there is the inevitable approach of my college boards barreling toward me. It’s not so much fear of taking the tests that’s making me anxious. I knew the material and just as a precaution, I even signed up for some after-school SAT classes to help me in the areas I was shaky on. I took the test last year and I did pretty well. But pretty well isn’t going to cut it. I need to score perfect or near perfect in order to even be considered for my top school choices.

  Everything sounds good in theory, in my head I know exactly how I want the next few months to pan out. SATs, ACTs, college essay, college applications, along with a few stellar recommendations from my teachers, and then I wait for early acceptance. I have five safeties, colleges I know I can get into with no problem, but I’m aiming for my two reaches, Harvard and John Hopkins. But life as it has come to prove over and over again, never fails in derailing my plans, even the most uncertain ones.

  Greg’s subsequent groans and painful tugs on my hair bring my mind crashing back into my body. When he slackens on top of me, burying his sweaty face in the hollow space between my jawline and shoulder, I give his arm three rapid taps signaling him to get off. He rolls off without protest, ending up on the other side of the bed with his arms spread wide open as he tries to catch his breath. While I recover my clothes from the floor, hiking up my skinny jeans over my hips with a few hops, my eyes involuntarily trails to the bed. Greg is a family man. He’d revealed having a wife and kids, and I think he mentioned having a dog somewhere in our brief conversations over the last two months since I started seeing him, but I can’t remember for sure.

  We only ever talk briefly, a ritual he does to get himself comfortable before we have sex. He reveals tiny details of his life every time he sees me and I simply listen until he’s ready. I’ve contemplated cutting back on seeing him a while ago because honestly, despite that I fucked men for money, it irks me to know that I am somehow contributing to the further destruction of his marriage. I have a conscious when it was all said and done, and this would’ve been one less thing to burden it with. One less thing for me to feel guilty about. Nevertheless, Greg likes to vent and pays extra for the listening ear. This brings me to the reason why I can’t call it off anymore. At least not yet. With what happened at Pops with Dante, I can no longer afford to turn down paying clients. Giving up that two grand took a good chunk out of my personal savings.

  He rolls out of bed and stoops down to grab his jeans. “How much do I owe you?” He retrieves his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and flips it open, glancing at me expectantly.

  “Two,” I reply, removing the black hair band from around my wrist and gathering my hair up into a ponytail. I tuck whatever short tendrils that fall loose behind my ears as I slip back into my sneakers. I watch as he removes six crisp bills, folds them in half, and extends it out to me.

  “Can I get a kiss?” he asks, holding onto the money as I reach for it, refusing to let it go until I reply to a question he already knows the answer to.

  “No kissing, Greg. I told you.”

  The corner of his mouth flirts with a smirk, “Is that a rule from the Pretty Woman handbook for call girls?”

  I tug the money out of his hold and thankfully he lets it go. “The fact that you even know that movie is hilarious.”

  He produces the smirk this time. “It’s one of my wife’s favorite movies.”

  His quip is soaked with far too much irony.

  “I want to see you again,” he says, a moment later, serious now.

  “When?”

  “Next Saturday night. My wife will be out of town.”

  “You have my number,” I murmur, slipping into my coat and tugging the zipper up to my chin. “See you.”

  The two hundred and eighty dollars I just made from Greg and the forty from last night’s ten-minute hand job from another john, still doesn’t make it enough to cover the back rent. I almost hate the idea of dipping into my college fund, but at this point it looks like I have no choice. I still have my mother’s Corolla, which is parked in the motel’s parking lot. I hop in and blast the radio. It’s a rap song full of bleeped-out lyrics that numb my mind as I mindlessly sing along, listening for a moment to someone else’s pain and anger besides my own.

  I make a pit stop at Vito’s Grab N’ Go for some groceries. I don’t want to spend the money, but I ate up my last cup of Ramen yesterday. There are only so many more days I can go without food. Twenty-five bucks and three grocery bags later, I’m chewing on a chocolate chip protein bar as I load the bags in the trunk and hop back in the car to drive home. The snow is falling when I park behind our building in the parking lot to head inside, but not before grabbing the groceries. My shuffling steps on the concrete stairs echo in the stairwell as I steadily make my way to the third floor. Life is happening behind the closed doors that I pass by, like Mrs. Rosenbaum’s quadruplets in 3E. Eric, Shane, Sandy, and Mia, who are hard at work proving who can be the loudest as the stampede of their little feet and their howling screams penetrate through the paper-thin walls. While I dig a hand inside the pocket of my jacket for my keys, I hear the muffled sound of a thumping headboard hitting the walls, followed closely by the sexual cries of CJ’s latest conquest in 3F just across the hall. It’s a soundtrack I am all too familiar with and in an odd way, I’m comforted by it.

  I turn the key, open the door and rather than being greeted by darkness, the light has been turned on in the hallway. I stop for a second at the doorway, my heart dropping to my knees at the thought of Red having returned with my mother. I’ve been staying at the apartment for the last few days, with my bedroom door locked. I haven’t exactly let my guard down, but it slipped my mind for a moment that I was supposed to be hiding from Red. The routine of the last three days has made me complacent, forgetful. I’m once again reminded of the threat that Red poses. My first instinct is to turn and run before I’m caught, before they notice my presence and Red comes after me. But I can’t convince my feet to move. I suddenly realize I’ve given this asshole way too much control over my life. There’s the very real possibility that he’ll kick my ass, but I’m tired of running. The fear of what he might do to me is still very real, but it’s no longer incentive enough for me to run. My hand instinctively goes to the back pocket of my jeans and I withdraw the pocketknife. If I was going to end up beneath the battering rams of Red’s fist then I sure as hell was going to draw blood on my way down.

  I leave the door open, just in case, and drop the grocery bags on the floor. I step further inside and quickly realize the sexual cries from the hallway aren’t coming from 3F but rather inside this apartment, my room precisely. Something has me stumbling but I catch myself before I can fall and look down to find a pair of woman’s boots slumped on top of a pair of very familiar gray and blue Nike high-tops. I’m bolting now, no longer seized by fear and dread but rather anger that has me twisting the knob to my bedroom door open, and pushing it with enough force that it bangs loudly against the back wall. The room is dark but the flood of light behind me is enough to illuminate the bodies scrambling on the bed.

  “What the fuck, Cece?” he roars.

  “You’re fucking bitches on my bed now?”

  “Get the fuck out of here!” He throws a pillow, which I manage to dodge before it makes contact.

  “You’re washing my sheets!” I say, turning around to leave, not bothering to close the door behind me. By the time they emerge, I’ve closed and locked the front door and put away the groceries. I’m adding water to the microwavable cup of mac & cheese when I spy the girl. I get a little déjà vu from the scene earlier in the week of my mother with her john, and a deprecating smile tugs at my lips at the prospect of my brother being a hus
tler. How fucking sad would that be if this was the family business?

  Neither one says anything to me but I hear their soft murmurs by the front entrance and I’m almost too curious to know what they’re saying. A sick part of me is hoping that she gives him money. The microwave beeps coincide with the slam of the front door and as I reach up to retrieve it, Dante appears.

  He’s fully dressed. Thank God. “What are you making?”

  I set the steaming cup on the counter, careful not to burn myself. “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask instead of answering his question, opening the drawer directly beneath the microwave to grab a fork.

  “I’m going to crash here for a bit,” he supplies, ambling over to grab my cup of mac & cheese, but a quick stab of my fork waylay his actions.

  “What the hell?” he cries with a glare while nursing his hand to his chest.

  “Make your own,” I say, evenly bringing a forkful to my mouth. “Why are you staying here?” I’m suddenly suspicious and stare narrowly at him, “Did something happen?”

  He fails to make eye contact as he goes about preparing his own three and a half minute cup of mac & cheese. “Why do you always think something bad has happened? Maybe I just wanted to spend some quality time with you and Mom. Did you ever think of that?”

  I snort, “Not sure who you’re trying to kid here, but I’m not buying it. You were ready to get out of here the minute you turned eighteen. You only ever visit when you need something, namely money, which I might remind you, I’m fresh out of after your whole poker flop thing.”