Contract Renewed (Contracted Book 3)

by Aya DeAniege

  “I tried to tell her to wear a bra,” Nathaniel said. “It's cold outside.”

  “No, it's not," I said to him before I turned to my mother. "No, Ma, these are mine. I was born with them. Bound them every day, remember?"

  I squealed when she lifted my skirts to look at my legs. With a slap, I batted her hands away. The skirt wasn't lifted very high, only about to my knees. I had two problems with her looking up my skirt, the first being that I was wearing no underwear. The second being that I didn't want her to make comment on the shaved legs or anything else for that matter.

  “Ma!”

  “You shaved your legs, like a rich lady,” she said. “How'd you get her to shave her legs?”

  “I didn't give her a choice,” Nathaniel said, recovering himself remarkably well.

  “I didn't give her a choice either. She was still out in the mud with the dress and all. Unfortunately, it wasn't just mud that she rolled in and then tracked through my home."

  “Ma!” I protested again. “We're in the street. Can't you save the embarrassing stuff for when we get inside?”

  “I am,” she said.

  “I'm sorry, we haven't been properly introduced,” Nathaniel said.

  “Izzy forgets her manners often,” my mother responded, drawing herself to her full height of four feet, seven inches. “My name is Maria Martin.”

  “Some Spanish or Italian in your blood, surely,” Nathaniel said.

  “Don't know about that, unless your skin's a different colour, you don't learn much about ancestral heritage here,” she said. “You'd be the man who bought my daughter.”

  “God, no,” Nathaniel said. “I did offer a contract to anyone who could fill the position and she accepted that contract.”

  “We can discuss the terms inside," my mother whispered, glancing around at those who had come to a stop on the street to see who had come to visit.

  We weren't dressed like rich folk, more like Program workers. Except instead of grey my dress had a nice floral print all down it.

  “Certainly, my name is Nathaniel Edwards," he said, lowering his voice slightly for his name. The name 'Edwards' was never well received in the slums after the events of his father's trial. Nathaniel had to change the name of his company even, just so that he could find contractors to build for him. "Now, this may be rude, but another slum I visited had a tradition, let's call it. Where a guest was to bring his own food."

  “Goodness, I can feed the two of you,” my mother protested.

  “Ma,” I said with a shake of my head.

  My mother was very good with her budget. She bought when things were cheaper than normal and stored them for harder times. She also knew how to cook with the very most inexpensive staples to spread the food as much as possible. She was one of four women in the slums who would feed anyone who came to her door if only they did a few chores for her and kept up conversation during dinner.

  She would take it as an insult if anyone ever tried to bring their own food. We always had food, not a great deal, not enough to be fat little children like rich folks were, but we never went to bed hungry.

  Nathaniel walked to the trunk of the car and popped it open.

  “Well, I mean. I've got this food, and it'd just go to waste otherwise," he said.

  My mother edged around the car, peering into the trunk. I didn't know what Nathaniel had packed into the car, but I saw the stunned look on her face as her eyes fell on it.

  That must have been what he had discussed with the Program workers, considering they were the ones to bring us the car. We hadn't stopped anywhere else in between so the food must have been in the trunk when it had been dropped off.

  “It's also tradition to bring the fanciest fruit you can afford for the whole block when you're visiting from outside the slum,” Nathaniel muttered. “I didn't want to start anything too wild, so I settled for oranges. They'll keep longer and transport easily for those who don't plan on eating it.”

  “Who told you that?” my mother asked.

  “All right, it's a tradition I started and then told all the other rich folk I could about it,” Nathaniel said, reaching in to pull out a crate of oranges. “It's like them bringing wine to their friends, except we bring food of the same value. It goes further, and frankly, not enough rich folk visit the slums.”

  He set the crate of oranges on the sidewalk a few feet from the car and motioned to those who were still standing around gawking. They had been aptly pretending not to listen to the conversation, so they knew the oranges were a gift. It didn't take any amount of urging for them to line up to collect an orange.

  They weren't certain who Nathaniel was, but they also didn't want to be rude and cause a scene around a man who might bring them more treats.

  “That's the butcher's label,” my mother growled.

  Nathaniel pulled a large box out of the trunk and opened it. That was when my mother got the annoyed look on her face that she did when someone crossed a line.

  By buying from the butcher, Nathaniel pushed new money into our economy. The butcher might be out of meat for that day but would have placed an order the moment it was purchased, meaning that new meat would be back in pretty quickly. Orders were filled promptly, the last time a meat order was late there was a minor riot that turned into a peaceful protest.

  Our meat was never late again.

  “Relax," he said. "If I could stock you in meat for the rest of your life, I would, but I'm not stupid. It's just a few items, and then the bottom is filled with scrap bones."

  “Oh, you do know the way to a woman's heart,” my mother said. “Bring that up. Izzy, grab something and close the trunk. Your brothers and Nathaniel can bring the rest up. Come on.”

  Grumbling to myself, I went to the trunk, pulled out a fabric bag of something and slung it over my shoulder before I closed the trunk. With an extra hearty grumble, I gave Nathaniel a look and followed my mother into the building.

  There's always been a belief that the slums were like a shanty town, and that's not true. We had apartment buildings, and those buildings were kept up pretty well. When necessary they were torn down and replaced.

  Yes, we had to share bathrooms, and yes families could end up living six or seven to a two bedroom apartment.

  But that was because most poor folks didn't understand how the housing worked.

  It was explained in school several times—because the government wanted us to know—but after learning that we'd go home and listen to our parents tell us how it wasn't like that. Poor children got a clearer image of sex than they did their rights.

  Our parents were afraid that if they reported a leak, or asked for another apartment, debt would be added to their burden. They didn't want that, so they put up with an extreme amount of degradation. So much so that the Program, once poor folk started working there, petitioned the government to do spot checks for damages.

  That was, of course, after the riots. Everyone had thought those checks were to find illegal substances and that caused a problem until the first building was condemned and everyone was moved into a bigger, better building with more space. A building that the labourers of the slum had built without being told what or who was moving into it.

  The buildings weren't dirty, as some popular movies portrayed them. They had a line of dust all around, but they still weren't dirty. The women in the building, especially the new mothers, would clean almost every day. New mothers had paid time off to care for their children, but few poor folk were comfortable sitting around for six months.

  Up on the floor that my family lived on, my mother opened the door to the apartment, and all inside went quiet. I stepped in to meet the eyes of my oldest brother, Eddy. He was the one who had signed the contract all those months ago. He was the one who hadn't gotten the least bit of shit for selling me off to the Program.

  Oh, but I come home late one time and my hide is tanned so hard that I can't sit for a week? It had been the one exception to my mothers' rule for my fa
ther, and it had been a discipline that I had never forgotten.

  “Boys, go help Nathaniel empty his trunk,” my mother said, heading straight to the kitchen with her meat.

  “Why? Our food isn't good enough?” Eddy demanded.

  My mother walked back into the 'living area' of the apartment, wiping her hands on a towel.

  “What did I just tell you to do?”

  “Help Nathaniel,” Eddy growled, gritting his teeth.

  “Then get on it, boy.”

  Eddy pushed past me, my other brothers quickly following. Nathaniel handed his box to my mother and turned on his heel, headed back downstairs.

  With a resigned sigh, I went to the kitchen and set my bag on the counter as my mother opened the box and began separating the items.

  Three piles. One for the family, one for selling, one for donation.

  Some oldsters were abandoned by their families when they could no longer work. Other families had begun to take those oldsters on. Those who couldn't take the oldsters on donated food instead. A third of everything my family brought in went to the needy.

  Even if we were going hungry, my mother and father believed they should share.

  Because if we were hungry, those in need were starving.

  Forced volunteering was not popular when I was a child. I hated it, dealing with dirty, smelly people. It was one of those things that fell on women because they were seen as caretakers. Being a tomboy didn't mean that I could get out of it, either. I and my brothers all volunteered at the command of my mother.

  We couldn't work to pay off debt, she said, but we could damned well work to make the world a better place.

  “Where's Pa?” I asked.

  My mother hesitated, hands tightening on a bag of rice. She stared at the counter for a moment, then shrugged.

  “Your father doesn't approve.”

  “Of the contract?”

  “Of the rich person,” she said. “Your contract wasn't explained, only the trouble with his father that was had, and that the trial starts soon. What is that contract, anyhow? No one seemed to be able to explain it to us.”

  “I... uh... it's called a blank slate," I managed to get out. "All that was promised was no rape, no torture, and no murder."

  “Are the rumours true?” she asked, opening a cupboard to start putting items away.

  “Ma,” I said.

  “What?” she asked. “I'm a woman too. Is it true you and that gorgeous man are involved?”

  “It is, but rich and poor. They don't marry often," I said. "The church announces when it happens, and apparently it's like once in a very long time. They have to live in the shadows. They're shunned by their own kind."

  “And is it also true...” she trailed off and leaned on the counter. She sighed. “Rumour says he's into tying up and beating women, that you should have seen what was coming to you.”

  “It's called BDSM, and that's completely fucking voluntary, which is completely different than what his father did to me.”

  “What does BDSM stand for?” she asked.

  “Bondage, dominance, submissive, master, there are different words for each letter depending on who is talking.”

  “Which is he?”

  “Sir, Nathaniel is my Sir,” I said.

  For the first time in my life, while talking to my family, I felt comfortable in my skin. Saying the words out loud reassured me. Even if the visit went horribly wrong, Nathaniel was Sir.

  My mother nodded slowly. “Suppose I should have seen that coming.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she murmured. “You two have had sex, right?”

  “Of course, the two go hand-in-hand with most of the community.”

  My brothers entered the kitchen and dropped their items on the counter and floor before making a hasty retreat. Nathaniel entered a moment later and set his box by my mother's feet.

  “Boys!” my mother barked.

  My brothers returned to the kitchen doorway sheepishly.

  “Sort this out, your sister and I are going to sit and have some tea.”

  I had never been invited to tea before. Tea was private talk time, a chat with the matriarch.

  My brothers shuffled their feet, grumbling their consent. Nathaniel raised an eyebrow at me but smiled at my mother.

  “I'll stay in here and make certain they don't damage the more fragile items,” he said.

  “Good, if they do, give them a smack with my wooden spoon,” my mother said, motioning to the 'spoon' that sat on the wall.

  That spoon had always been a silent threat. She had never had to use it before.

  Nathaniel glanced at the spoon, then met my mother's eyes as he very calmly said, “That would break under the force of my swing. But I have a belt, and know how to use it.”

  I've never seen my mother go that shade of red before, let alone giggle like a young girl. She waved her hand at Nathaniel and then walked out of the kitchen. Knowing I was supposed to follow her, I didn't dally, just remained behind long enough to give Nathaniel a questioning look.

  His lips twitched upward, ice returning to his eyes.

  I got the feeling that Nathaniel had done that before. I didn't want to ask who he had made giggle like a school girl.

  Or how he knew that talking like that would make my mother, a woman of little laughter, giggle in such a manner.

  Leaving the kitchen, I went to the small table in the living area that my mother had claimed for herself. The table sat by a window, which was often open during the spring, summer, and fall months. On the table itself sat a porcelain teapot with silver-grey maple leafs around the top. It was a teapot from the old world, one that my mother's family had protected and carefully cherished throughout the years.

  She never used the pot, just had it on display.

  We sat at the table, and she caught me up on all the gossip from around the neighbourhood. We must have been talking for a good hour before the door to the apartment opened.

  My father stepped in. His eyes locked with mine and every bit of him stilled. His jaw tightened, eyebrows drawing down as he turned and left the apartment again without saying a word.

  I had seen that look before, we all had.

  My father reacted to our uncle in just such a manner. Neither of my parents ever told us what had happened between our father and uncle, but we knew what that look meant.

  Cold gripped my chest, clawing its way into my stomach. It was the kind of fear that only a parent could bring out in a child. I had done something wrong and didn't want to have to face him.

  I didn't understand why he would give me that look, what I might have done to deserve that.

  I don't know what compelled me to move. I don't recall thinking that I should go after him, only remembering after the fact. Leaving the apartment, I went down the steps and out of the apartment building itself.

  My father stood a little ways away from the door, a cigarette lit and between his lips. He lifted his head and looked away as I approached him. I knew that the lift and turn was an exaggerated eye roll.

  “You shouldn't be smoking,” I all but shouted at him. “Ma doesn't like that.”

  “Your Ma doesn't know a lot of things," he snapped back.

  “What's that supposed to mean?” I demanded. “That what, I'm wearing a dress now, so I'm the weaker sex? You think I can't still match you on the site, just try me, old man.”

  “I don't have a problem with you wearing a dress,” he said, flicking his cigarette away.

  “Then what's the problem? That I took a contract with a rich man?”

  “Lots of folks take contracts, they work hard and earn their money," was the growled response as his hands slid into his pockets. He headed towards the apartment building again, meaning to end the conversation.

  “And what's that supposed to mean?” I said, raising my voice.

  My father never believed in airing family troubles out in the open. The fastest way to bring out
his anger was to raise one's voice in public.

  Angry, my father would talk. He'd talk low, and he'd talk fast, but at least then he'd tell you what was bothering him.

  He spun on me as Nathaniel stepped out of the apartment building. My father approached me, towering over me but I gave no ground. It wasn't the first time I had been confronted by a man. My chosen profession had been in construction with my brothers and my father. While I had never had to stand up to any of them, I had stood against men bigger and stronger than I was.

  “There are good contracts, and then there are the ones that you shouldn't take," he said, gritting his teeth as people began drifting away from us. "You shouldn't have taken that contract. You should have known it would be trouble. I didn't raise you to be stupid."

  “I'm not stupid. I signed a blank slate contract."

  “Which almost got you killed!”

  “I'm sorry,” I said, raising my hands, showing him my wrists. Until that point, I had forgotten that they had fixed the skin on my wrists and arms. There were no longer scars on flesh, marks which my father had never seen before in the first place. “Did he not mention that that was kind of the fucking point? There was no job for me here, and there was nothing for me out there that anyone would have taken me for. I was offered two fucking contracts. One promised a slow death, the other gave me an option, a chance at life. So excuse me if I took it because I didn't want to die, I just wanted out!"

  “So you became a whore?”

  No one was told what the contract entailed. No one had been told because no one knew. No one except Nathaniel, myself, the Program, and the officers involved in the trial. The only reason the officers knew was because they had to, it was a part of the trial.

  “Where did you hear something absurd like that?”

  “The news is talking all about it. Your name and face plastered all over the television sets in every slum, you charging Albert Edwards for rape and torture, attempted murder. They have all the details of what went on. They even have video footage from inside his estate. All for the common person to view. Everyone knows that my daughter is a prostitute."