by Ray, Lexie
Daisy gave a sharp gasp and I turned to her, questioning.
“It’s blood,” she said, her face white.
“No way,” I scoffed, but I looked again. There was what looked like a belt curled onto that wet, red bed, the edges as red as the liquid coating the wall and carpet.
Cocoa came in, breathless and looking sick.
“It’s blood,” Daisy said, staring at her.
“Yes,” Cocoa confirmed grimly.
“It’s Jazz’s blood?” I asked.
Cocoa only nodded.
“Where’s Jazz?”
Cocoa shook her head. “I can’t find her,” she said. “She was hurt bad. I think she left.”
“But what happened?” Daisy whispered.
Cocoa shook her head again. “We need to clean this up.”
Perhaps Cocoa was only trying to spare us the gory details, but it was only too easy to let my imagination run away with all the gruesome possibilities of what exactly had taken place. We even found blood spatter on the ceiling, Daisy having to run downstairs to fetch a ladder so we could mop it up.
“Cocoa …” I began, but my voice trailed off. I summoned my courage and tried again. “I need to know what happened. My brain was just too good at concocting nightmarish scenarios.
“All you need to know is to always go through Mama when you want to take a customer upstairs,” Cocoa said sternly. “That’s it, Shimmy. Jazz didn’t and she got hurt by a guy Mama had banned from the nightclub. Listen to Mama, and everything will be okay.”
But nothing was okay after that. I couldn’t help but feel that, in one way or another, Mama had been responsible for Jazz sneaking that guy upstairs. Mama had been pimping Jazz hard since the time I’d arrived. Maybe Jazz was just looking for a way out.
I tried to keep my head down and my nose to the grindstone. I was here to earn money, to get my family back together. I didn’t need anything distracting me from that goal.
Letters from the Paxton’s—meaning news about my baby—were getting fewer and fewer. My letters to my son were becoming so pointed that I hated writing them.
“My treasure,” one such correspondence read. “Mommy misses you very, very much. Please tell daddy or your grandparents to send me a picture of you, or a couple of sentences telling me that you’re doing okay.”
The last picture that I’d received was on Trevor’s third birthday, which had been more than a year ago. The photo was creased on the corners because I couldn’t stop touching it and looking at it. My little man. He was wearing a tiny suit that had to have been specially tailored to fit him, as well as a matching bow tie. He was grinning cheekily at the camera and seemed to be a handful. It made me wonder who was raising him and how. I craved to hold my baby, yearned for even a couple of words of news about him.
The news—or lack thereof—about my baby, coupled with Jazz’s disappearance, made me extremely jumpy. Was I safe at the nightclub? Was I really doing the right thing? Maybe I should ask for my money and leave, telling the Paxton’s to go to hell and let me have my treasure.
But Mama was acting stranger, more on edge. Cocoa seemed distinctly uncomfortable, and that put the rest of us on alert. I got distinctly fearful whenever I had to ask Mama for money, and she became obviously suspicious of each and every transaction.
Things got so tense that I started taking comfort in my customers, enjoying the relative peace in the bedrooms better than the constant alertness on the nightclub floor.
I took as many customers as I could each night, earning tips upon tips. I was serious about my promise. I was going to get my son back even if it had been more than a year since I’d heard any word about him.
What did it matter that the money I was making came from selling my body? I could make men feel good, and they made me feel good, too, dragging the tips of their tongues from my collar bone to my ear, sampling the taste of my throat and lips with kisses, probing my mouth deeply, each kiss leaving me more and more breathless, pulling my hair until I screamed from the sweet edge the pain gave my pleasure, tweaking my nipples until they were utterly tender.
Who cared if I was taking pleasure in this? It was all going to be for my son, anyways. Couldn’t I have a little fun in earning the money that would bring us together again?
My clients blurred into one long night, me riding out over all my insecurities, all of my fears, all of my desperation. I just wanted to feel good for a while, and this was the perfect way to do that at the time.
When Cocoa left the nightclub, leaving behind bullet holes and a Mama none of us knew anymore, I took on even more clients. I was upstairs in the bedrooms more often than I was waiting tables, and I didn’t care. Anything to stay away from the drama of the nightclub and the horror it was becoming.
I sucked cock with gusto, moaned luxuriantly as customers paid to eat me out, rubbed scented oil into well-muscled backs, performed provocative strip teases for clients who remained fully clothed throughout the entire encounter. There was nothing that was too weird for me. It was all a big distraction from bigger problems—namely, Mama’s downward spiral and the growing idea that I wasn’t going to be able to earn enough money to get Trevor back before everything I had up in the air hit the ground.
It was the beginning of the end when Blue left. It was completely possible that it was the beginning of the end all the way back to the incident with Jazz. Either way, Mama stayed drunk and all of us girls stayed away. There were more than a few who’d started stashing their tips away, not trusting Mama to keep the funds safe in her nearly constant drunken stupor. I was too scared, not wanting her to be suspicious of me. Now was not the time to be on Mama’s bad side.
And so when the NYPD busted down the front doors of Mama’s nightclub, it was simply what came next. We’d been flying under the radar for far too long, servicing way too many city leaders, and getting out of control. Maybe if Mama hadn’t tried to drown her problems in the bottle … no. It was pointless to think like that.
The truth of the matter was that all good things had to come to an end—especially if the good things were bad things.
The worst thing of all was that I left the nightclub without a penny to my name after years of earning thousands. All that work to try to get my baby back for nothing.
Chapter Four
“That’s quite a story, Ms. Crosby.”
I lifted my eyes to the suits sitting across the table from me and lowered them again. I’d been clutching an empty water bottle, squeezing it and straightening it for the duration of my story. It was now a twisted lump of plastic, unrecognizable from its original form.
“Every word of it is true,” I said. “And I think you guys are from vice, not internal investigations.”
Bash looked amused. “How do you figure?”
“You never asked me about the clientele,” I said. Mama had entertained quite a few of New York City’s elite, and I had personally serviced the chief of police on several occasions. I bet internal investigations would love to get a hold of me.
Bash and Snyder exchanged one of their special glances.
“Very astute, Ms. Crosby,” Snyder said. “Your story answered a lot of our questions, so that’ll be all from us.”
They both stood.
“So, that’s it?” I asked, standing too.
“From us it is,” Bash said.
“What happens now?” I asked. “Are you—are you going to take me into custody?”
Snyder actually looked sympathetic from beneath his moustache.
“Don’t you get it?” he asked. “That woman took advantage of girls in desperate situations. Some were more desperate than others, but you all had that one thing in common—need. You needed the boarding house and the nightclub, and that woman needed all of you to turn tricks for her.”
I knew “that woman” he kept talking about was Mama, but I still didn’t quite understand what he was getting at.
“You were sex trafficked, Ms. Crosby,” Bash said bluntly. “You
r ‘Mama’ took advantage of your situation to make money off of you. She never helped you. She only hurt you and exploited you.”
I didn’t want to push my luck, but I had to be sure that I understood.
“But I sold myself knowingly,” I said. “I’m at fault, too. I knew that prostitution was illegal, but I did it all the same. How am I not being charged with anything?”
“Desperate people do desperate things, Ms. Crosby,” Snyder said, reaching into his jacket pocket. “But at this time, we’re not leveling any charges against anybody except for Wanda Dupree.”
“Who?”
“Your ‘Mama.’”
I realized I’d never known her real name before this moment, and it was a strange revelation. Mama had been a caretaker, a businesswoman, and a force of nature.
Wanda Dupree was a criminal.
“If you feel like you’ve still done some kind of wrong, turn it around,” Snyder continued, producing a business card out of his jacket pocket and handing it to me. “This organization looks to help women in need, and I’ve heard they’re always in need of volunteers.”
I looked down at the simple rectangle of cardstock I held in my hand and read the tiny print.
“Jasmine King,” it stated. “Sisters Together.”
Snyder and Bash tried to walk out again, but I stopped them.
“Where am I supposed to go?” I asked, my voice breaking and surprising me. “I don’t have anywhere anymore.”
Snyder pointed at the card I held in my hand.
“That organization will help you,” he said. “And we’ll know where to find you if we have any other questions.”
I studied the address on the card for a while before throwing away the debris of my care package from Fitch. I kept the magazines he’d picked up for me, as well as a half-full bottle of soda.
The truth of the matter was that I didn’t have the money to get a cab to take me to the address on the card. I didn’t even have the money to use a payphone to call the number.
The door to the room opened again and it was Fitch. Even though he was a cop, and even though he’d taken me from the place I’d called home, I smiled to see him again, as if he were my oldest friend.
“Those two weren’t too hard on you, were they?” he asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
“They were a couple of old softies,” I joked.
“Well, you’re free to go until the NYPD decides it wants to ask you something else,” Fitch said. “Do you have somewhere to go?”
I held up the card Snyder had given me. “I do now.”
“Need a lift?” Fitch asked casually, and I could’ve kissed him.
“Not if you’re going to make me sit in the back of the squad car again,” I joked.
I knew from experience that cops could be bad news, but I counted myself lucky to have met Fitch. I knew that it was just luck that he’d been one of the ones to find me in the kitchen at Mama’s nightclub, but maybe it’d been a blessing in disguise.
When we pulled in front of the modern looking building at the address on the card, Fitch gave me his own business card.
“Call me if you need anything,” he said. “In fact, call me whenever they get you set up somewhere so I can know you’re safe and comfortable.”
“Thank you for everything,” I said, hugging him briefly before getting out of the squad car. By then, night had fallen, and I hoped someone was there to help me. All the lights in the lobby were still on, so I had hope.
Fitch didn’t take off until I was safely inside the building, which made me smile. Snyder and Bash were probably right—the cop had a terrible crush on me. He’d been nothing but sweet to me, though, and had given me more than he’d had to. I owed him big time.
I approached the front desk in the lobby, the attendant glancing up at my approach.
“Sisters Together is on the fourth floor,” he said, pointing at the elevator.
“How did you know?” I asked doubtfully. Was I wearing a big damn sign saying that I was desperately in need of help?
“I’ve been working as night attendant here for three years,” he said, looking more bored than apologetic. “You learn to look for certain things.”
I didn’t want to ask what those certain things were.
“Is somebody going to be up there?” I asked.
“Somebody’s always up there,” he said. “Mrs. King’s probably up there right now. I haven’t seen her leave for the night.”
Jasmine King, from the business card. I thanked the attendant and made my way to the fourth floor. In the elevator, I wondered just how many women had made the same journey I was making right now and what their scenarios had been. Had any of them been worse off than me?
The cops told me I was sex trafficked, exploited, a victim. But now I didn’t have any way to make the money I needed to be making in order to be reunited with my son. I was right back to where I started, but somehow it was four years later and I didn’t have shit to show for it.
By the time the elevator doors rolled open, I was sure I looked as desperate as I felt. There wasn’t anyone manning the desk at the front of the office, but the sign on a glass window told me I was where I needed to be. Sisters Together. I wondered who had come up with the name.
I waited for a few moments, but nobody ever came. Finally, I walked past the desk and toward a room with a light on. I hesitated just outside, listening to the voices within.
“Go home, baby,” a woman said. “You’re tired. I can see it on your face.”
“I’ll go when you do,” a man said. “You’re just as tired as I am.”
“There’s just a lot to do, Nate,” she said. “This nightclub thing is going to be huge. I’m trying to make sure we’ll be ready.”
Nightclub thing? Could it be possible she was talking about Mama’s nightclub? Maybe she’d heard about it on the news.
“Hello?” I called out tentatively.
There came the sound of rustling papers and the door was flung open wider, throwing light into the darkened office.
“Can I help you?” A woman stood at the entrance of the room, but the lights behind her made it impossible to see her face. She was petite and seemed to be dressed nicely, her voice professional but kind.
“I hope so,” I said. “A cop gave me your business card, said that this is the place to go for help.”
“He was right,” the woman said. “Please come in. I’m sorry there wasn’t anyone out front. I sent her home already.”
“That’s okay,” I said, stepping into the room. A man was sprawled out on a sofa in the office, a box of takeout balanced on his flat abs as he wrote furiously in a notebook. He glanced up at me and smiled, and I was taken aback by how handsome he was.
“This is Nate King,” the woman said, “my husband. And I’m Jasmine King.”
I turned back to her, holding my hand out, and stopped. She looked so different—older and stronger, somehow, but it was a face I couldn’t forget.
“Jazz?” I asked, hardly able to believe my eyes. “Is it really you?”
She looked at me, her eyes beautiful with her tasteful makeup but confused.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” she asked, trying to put it together in her head.
“I’m Shimmy,” I said. “I started at the nightclub just a little bit after you. You disappeared one night …”
I trailed off and quickly glanced at Nate. If this was her husband, maybe I shouldn’t be saying anything. Maybe she didn’t want him to know anything about her past.
Jasmine looked shaken up, but she opened her arms and hugged me.
“Shimmy, of course,” she said. “I remember now. I wasn’t—I wasn’t in the best state of mind around the time you came on.”
I took another look at Nate, who’d stopped writing and was simply looking at us, patting Jasmine on the back. Did she really want to do this in front of her husband?
Jasmine backed up and followed my gaze.
“It’s
okay,” she said. “He knows everything and, somehow, doesn’t seem to mind.”
“It’s what shaped her into the woman I fell in love with,” he said, and started writing again as if it were the easiest thing in the world.
“Wow,” I said. “So, you’re doing better, then.”
Jasmine smiled up at me. “Much better,” she said. “After I ‘disappeared’ from Mama’s that night, and after a few more twists and turns, I ended up starting this nonprofit. I needed help when I started living at that boarding house, and Mama’s nightclub was no haven. Sisters Together aims to solve that, to give women a place to go.”
“What happened to you that night?” I whispered, wishing her husband wasn’t here. “I saw the room afterward.”
Jasmine grimaced and Nate stopped writing again, sitting up on the couch.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “It’s just that—I’ve always wondered. Everything was different at the nightclub after that night.”
Nate held his hand out to Jasmine and she took it, allowing herself to be guided onto his knee. She seemed to draw strength from him, closing her eyes briefly before opening them again.
“I was tortured and raped,” she said finally. “And I believe that’s the night I contracted HIV.”
I blanched and sat down heavily in one of the empty chairs of the office. I knew that it’d had to be bad just from the sheer damage the room had sustained. How could the capable, professional woman in front of me come out okay from something like that?
“What’s your story, Shimmy?” Nate asked.
Jasmine had a faraway look in her eyes, and I knew he was asking to try to get her mind off of her past. I regretted bringing it up.
“You’ve probably heard that Mama’s nightclub got raided, then,” I said.
Jasmine snapped back to the present. “It’s all over the news,” she said. “You’ve been there this whole time?”
I nodded. “The cops took me out,” I said. “It was lucky—they let me get changed and take my purse. And they didn’t arrest me because I cooperated.”
