"I can't give you an answer right now. I need to think about this," Chris said, looking away from Shelly's disappointed face. "I understand. Will you meet me here in the morning?"
"I don't think so. I'll let you know." Shelly grimaced and then quickly covered it.
"Okay. Sure. Here's my number. Give me a call when you've decided." Shelly pushed a padded envelope across the table. "And watch this. It will show you that what I've said is true."
Shelly got up and threw some money on the table. "See you around."
Chris watched as Shelly strode from the coffee house, her head high, her shoulders back, and her ass perfectly framed in her jeans. "Fuck," she said, dropping her head to her hands.
Shelly stretched and padded through the living room to close the curtains, enjoying the feeling of the wood floors under her feet. She stopped and turned midway at the knock on her door. Looking through the peephole, she grinned and swung the door open.
"Well. I didn't expect you tonight," Shelly said, taking in Chris's black jeans and tight fitting T-shirt that showed her sculpted body to perfection. "I needed to talk to you. I have some questions," Chris said, blatantly looking Shelly over. "C'mon in. Beer?"
Shelly led the way to the kitchen, hoping that Chris's eyes were glued to her ass and the nearly see-through pajama pants she was wearing. She grabbed two beers, realizing that Chris hadn't answered. She turned around and watched as Chris's gaze moved from her ass to her hard nipples.
She cleared her throat and handed Chris the beer with a grin. "Did you come here for business, or pleasure?"
Chris blushed. "Business first."
"And then?"
"Maybe we can see what the night holds. Last time I nearly had sex with you, you left me handcuffed, alone, and wet."
"Well, maybe tonight it's my turn," Shelly said, lowering herself to the couch.
Chris paced in front of a row of pictures, her eyes scanning them as she talked. "I watched the video. I went home after we had coffee today and watched the whole thing. Where was it filmed?"
"A village in Kenya. I went with Domenic, a friend from college, and met the people there. I found out what they needed, how they were living. We made that documentary as we traveled throughout Africa."
"Okay. Fine. I can see why you do it. But why not go through regular channels? Like, build a charity or some shit. Why rob people?"
"I don't rob people. I take things that corporations have poor people in other countries make, who get barely enough to live on so the corporation can sell it at triple the price they've paid while paying minimal wages. Once, I even brought a shipment of clothes back to the people who had made them. They finally got to wear something they had made."
Chris liked that Shelly seemed more passionate, more agitated, so she walked over to the couch and leaned over Shelly, forcing her head back so she could meet her gaze.
"I'm in. I just want to know that you're not going to fuck me over somehow," Chris murmured, looking into Shelly's crystal blue eyes. "Over? No. I came to you, remember? Now, I've seen your bedroom. Let me show you mine," Shelly said, her lips meeting Chris's.
They stumbled to Shelly's bedroom, clothes coming off along the way. When they reached the room, Chris eased her onto the bed and lay on top of Shelly, their already sweating bodies sliding together as they fell into one another, moans, pleas, and cries resounding through the room for hours.
Chris gently caressed Shelly's shoulder as they lay exhausted and satisfied. "When did you get your tat?" Chris asked, tracing the skull and crossbones.
"After our second job. When I handcuffed the driver to his steering wheel, he called me a fucking pirate. It stuck. Most of the crew have it."
"And where do you propose I get mine?" Chris asked, her lips pressed against Shelly's hair.
Shelly traced a path up the inside of Chris's thigh with her fingertip. "I think I should investigate every part of you to figure that out. Doesn't do to be hasty in our business, you know."
"Bring it on, pirate. I'm ready for you this time," Chris said, closing her eyes in anticipation of Shelly's touch, as well as the future coming at her fast.
The Brahmapur Buccaneer
Matthew Fryer
Sambita's heart sank as she clambered into the back of Pradeep's truck and saw the battered, handmade crate. It was smaller than she expected—about the size of a chest freezer—and stank of mildew and urine. Rusty nails poked through the warped wood.
"What are you waiting for?" Pradeep asked.
"This isn't what I imagined," she said quietly.
"There's no first class on this trip. Either get in, or go home. Your choice."
Outside, the sun glittered brightly off the river, waves lapping against the grassy bank. Sambita peered at the bustling market farther down, vans and motorcycles trundling past, women laden with earthenware pots, bundles of cloth and baskets of fruit emerging from the hubbub of barter. That used to be her life, her routine. But no more. The mouth-watering scent of spices and salted meats was making her empty stomach gurgle. She'd starved herself for the last couple of days to ensure she didn't have to open her bowels during the journey. Six days, she thought. In that?
The heat inside the truck was stifling, and it would be intolerable once she got in the crate. A grubby blanket had been tossed in one corner next to a cardboard box containing a few bottles of water and limp packets of dried mangoes.
"I paid twenty thousand rupees for this," she said, fighting the lump that expanded in her throat. She'd used her husband's money, and saying the figure out loud made the theft seem monumental. But there was no going back.
Yesterday, Sambita had sneaked the box containing Kamal's life savings from his sheesham armoire while he dozed outside in the evening sun. It was a terrifying experience—even touching his precious armoire was strictly forbidden—but she had been spurred on by the fact that an hour earlier, he had struck her several times and chipped a tooth for overcooking the rice. If she'd been caught, especially as it was part of a plan to leave him, his wrath would have been murderous, and last night she hadn't slept a wink.
Most of the money had gone to settle Pradeep's bill and the remaining couple of thousand was carefully packed in her satchel. "Twenty thousand," she breathed. "For this?"
Pradeep shrugged his big shoulders and rubbed his acne-scarred stubble. "This is what you ordered."
"No, it isn't," Sambita said, trying to keep her voice firm, but it betrayed her and cracked. "You said the crate was spacious and comfortable."
"This is the best I have. If you didn't want to spend that much money, you should've taken the discount." He winked, naked lust animating his gaze. Gentleman that he was, Pradeep had offered to knock a quarter off the price if she slept with him. Sambita would rather die, not that she'd told him that. He had mean eyes and a powerful frame beneath the fat, and she wouldn't want to see him enraged.
He took out a cigarette and lit up, eyeing her contemptuously through the smoke. "No refunds. Take it or leave it."
Tears filmed her eyes, and Sambita blinked, turning away from the crate and swallowing hard. She wasn't going to fold, not now, not after everything she'd been through. Farther up the river, she noticed a small shrimp trawler moored at the dock, dappled with rust and sitting low in the water. Several men were loading it with crates and supplies. "Is that the boat?"
"Yes. And we leave in ten minutes. You'd better get ready. If you're still coming, that is."
"What about my catheter?"
Pradeep rummaged in the deep pockets of his salwar and produced a length of yellowed tubing with a plastic bag crudely taped to one end. "Do you want me to help you put it in?" he said with a shameless leer. "You told me I'd have an actual medical catheter. Inserted properly by a doctor."
"The doctor's busy."
Sambita felt a spark of anger. Pradeep had lied through his teeth, and now that he'd got her money, he couldn't care less. They'd met last week to discuss the technicalities, and it had see
med like a dream come true—a comfortable shipping container, catheterisation, supplies, and sedation to tide her over the trip. Once through customs at the other end, somebody was supposed to collect the crate and provide paperwork and contacts to start a new life, but now Sambita wondered if this person even existed. She'd been swindled. It was painfully obvious in hindsight. But what else could she do?
She swallowed hard. "That's bound to give me some kind of horrendous infection. And the bag would leak."
"Fine. So go without."
"I will."
That must be why the crate reeked of ammonia. It wasn't the first time it had been used for refugees, and the previous occupants had also declined Pradeep's grimy tube. He shoved it back in his pocket and looked at his watch, raising his eyebrows impatiently.
Sambita stepped from one foot to the other. The prospect of actually getting into the crate hammered home the enormity of what she was doing. Her chest tingled and she felt light-headed, in danger of losing her mettle, but she couldn't return home. During the fifteen years of their arranged marriage, Kamal had slowly morphed from a quiet but occasionally grateful man to an irritable brute, quick to administer punishment for any slights, no matter how unfair or imagined they might be. It was probably because she had never borne him a son, even though he claimed he hated children. Perhaps the violence was his way of reclaiming his manhood in the absence of virility. Whatever. If he'd discovered that his savings were gone, her life could well be in danger. No, she couldn't go back. She had left her husband, and whether she got in the squalid box or not, that much was final. Her only other option was to strike out into the blistering summer sun for another village, but she knew Kamal and his brothers would track her down. She had stolen his hard-earned money and poured shame upon his family, upon his very name. She daren't even imagine the wrath she would face. Just do it.
Sambita clambered over the edge of the crate, snagging her sari on a crooked nail and wincing as splinters scraped along the underside of her thighs. Trying to ignore the sweltering heat and the stink that prickled her sinuses, she arranged the blanket over the coarse base of the crate, noticing an iron-coloured stain at one end of the fabric that looked suspiciously like blood. She sat down at the opposite side, wondering if the crate was long enough for her to fully stretch out when the inevitable cramp set in. She held her satchel protectively against her chest. There wasn't much inside. As well as the rest of Kamal's money, she had a photograph of her deceased mother, a small china teapot that was the only thing the dying woman had left to give her, and a children's book of folktales. It had been awarded to her at school for exemplary attendance and hard work, almost twenty years ago today. The only other things she owned were the cheap sandals on her feet and the faded sari on her back. Kamal said she only needed one, and she had to wash it at night and leave it out to dry for the morning. "What about my sedatives?"
"I didn't think a good little girl like you would be interested in the drugs."
Sambita usually avoided them unless they were a medical necessity, but didn't fancy the prospect of lying in the claustrophobic darkness for six days without any distractions. "They were part of the deal."
Pradeep passed her a tiny, clear bag containing a few pink, spherical tablets.
Sambita frowned. They looked like mass-produced confectionary, and she suspected that's exactly what they were. "What are these?"
"Tranquillisers. What do you think?"
Sambita tucked them into her satchel. "How many do I take?"
"One. Then when you wake up again, take another." Pradeep glanced at his watch and peered outside the truck. "We just need to wait for your companion."
"Companion?"
"This is a two-person crate."
"What?" Sambita put her satchel to one side and stood up. "You never mentioned that."
"Sorry." Pradeep smirked.
"Must've slipped my mind."
"No." Sambita gripped the rough lip of the crate to stop her hands from shaking. "No. That's not fair. You can't expect me to share this with someone else. There isn't room."
He just shrugged and blew smoke in her face.
Sambita felt the frustrated tears rising again and fought them down. "So who is it?"
"Her name's Riya. That's all I know."
"I want some of my money back. Half of it."
"Doesn't work like that. But if she's not here in two minutes, you'll be going without her anyway."
Sambita sagged against the side of the crate, reminding herself why she was doing this. While the wretched journey would be a trial—especially with two of them crammed in the urine-marinated darkness—there would be no more beatings, no more misery. She was free of Kamal at last.
Pradeep coughed out a bitter plume of smoke. "Here she comes."
Sambita squinted into the bright sunlight as a woman approached from the direction of the road. She had an angular but attractive face, her thick hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore faded jeans and a loose, purplish-blue kurta, the rich colour of kudzu petals. Her slim frame was tightly muscled, lending her a sturdy, boyish appearance. A heavy-looking sports bag was slung casually over one shoulder.
"Hello, Pradeep." She dumped her bag in the truck then hopped effortlessly up, noticing Sambita standing in the crate. She turned to Pradeep.
"Who's that?"
"Sambita. Your companion for the journey."
"In the same crate?"
Pradeep nodded.
"So why am I only finding out about her now?"
Pradeep gave a trademark shrug, but Riya wouldn't be ignored.
"I get it. You thought you'd double your money, and to hell with the fact that we won't even be able to lie down without being all over each other like page one of the Kamasutra. I think you should give us ten thousand back. Each."
"No refunds," Pradeep repeated, but with less smug gumption than when he'd snubbed Sambita. She noticed that he refused to make eye contact with Riya, almost as if he was nervous. "I never promised you an exclusive crate."
Riya glared at him, grinding her teeth, then shook her head wearily as she apparently realised—as Sambita had done—that she didn't have any choice. "Bastard," she said quietly, the word so loaded with threat that Sambita's mouth fell open. How did she dare?
Pradeep didn't even react to the insult, just sucked on his cigarette as Riya turned to Sambita. The ice-cold daggers vanished from her gaze, and she beamed a cute, slightly crooked smile. Her melting, brown eyes seemed warm. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. It might be cramped, but at least she would have some company and she sensed that Riya would be a reassuring asset if they ran into any trouble. "Hello, Sambita. I'm Riya."
"Nice to meet you."
"Never mind all that," Pradeep interrupted. "I need to get you two packed and on board."
"You could've at least swabbed it out," Riya said, glancing into the crate and wrinkling her nose. "It stinks like a Mumbai brothel."
"Nobody's forcing you to go."
"Not good enough, Pradeep. You've ripped us off . Twenty thousand rupees to share this festering heap of lashed-together driftwood with somebody else?
No way."
"As I said, nobody's forcing—"
"No way."
"It was the only way I could get you both out quickly," Pradeep said, and Sambita was stunned that he was being forced to backpedal by someone who was not only half his size, but a woman. She felt awe mixed with pride, silently urging Riya on. "You're telling me you couldn't find a second crate?"
"That's not the problem. I only managed to arrange the shipping for one. You both wanted to do this as soon as possible. This is the best I could do."
"Okay, okay," Riya said, hoisting her bag and dropping it into the crate, where it landed with a weighty, metallic thud. "Anything but having to stand here and listen to more of your fascinating lies." She leapt over the edge and landed in the box with the agility of a cat, and squatted down at the opposite end to Sambita.
Pradeep hefted the lid. "You'll be on the trawler until we get to the coast, then your crate will be transferred to a cargo ship at the port. After that, you're on your own, but until then, keep quiet in there. The trawler captain, Bala, is a seriously nasty piece of work. If he finds you on board, he'll kill us all." With that, he slammed the lid down and began hammering the nails into place.
Riya sighed as the baking heat closed in on them. "So, what's your reason for Pradeep's budget cruise?"
"Kamal, my husband."
"He gave you that black eye?"
Sambita nodded, touching the swollen tissue above her cheek. "Last night.
And chipped a tooth. My rice was too soft."
"Sounds like a real catch."
Sambita exhaled. She'd never even mentioned her abuse to anybody before. "So, are you running from something?"
"No. There are cats and mice in this world, and the cats always win. I don't run from anything."
Sambita got that impression. This woman oozed confidence like sweat. It was obvious from the way Pradeep hadn't once spoken to her suggestively, and even let a terrible insult slip without retaliation. She doubted he'd even dared offer her the discount and felt a twinge of jealousy, almost shame at her own submissiveness.
"I can't believe he's put us both in here," Riya said, and punched the lid above her head where Pradeep was hammering. He struck the next nail with added malice in response.
"Well, at least we've got company."
"Not the point," Riya said, raising her voice to be heard. "I should've given that fat bastard a good hiding. In fact, I'm going to."
Sambita was shocked yet exhilarated by Riya's words. They hung in the air, punctuated by the angry slamming of Pradeep's hammer. She'd been punched enough times by Kamal, but the concept of a woman hitting a man was completely foreign to her.
"Please don't antagonise him," Sambita whispered, hating herself for being such a victim, but worried about Pradeep's escalating temper. "He might just decide to shove the crate into the sea."
Skulls & Crossbones Page 19
