Skin Trade

by Tonia Brown

  “My name is Jessie,” she said.

  “I’m Sam,” I said. (Old habits are hard to break.)

  “Sam, I’m here to get you out of those filthy clothes and all cleaned up. Would you like that?”

  I looked down at myself and cringed, embarrassed at my appearance for the first time in a long time. My workhouse dungarees were caked with mud and filth. I tried not to think of how I smelled. It was strange how the presence of a woman changed everything. “Yes. I would like to clean up.”

  Jessie pushed open a door, leading me into a muggy washroom. The place was very feminine, in decoration and toiletries. A soft hint of perfume lingered in the air. Roses, perhaps? A nauseating pink was the predominant color, right down to the clawed feet of the washtub. And speaking of the washtub, a bath was already drawn and waiting, I assumed, for me. A real bath! Steam drifted away from the water’s surface, hinting at the hidden warmth and driving me mad with the desire to plunge in, clothes and all. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a real, honest-to-goodness bath in a real, honest-to-goodness tub.

  “You can bathe here,” she said. “I’ll be just outside the door, so don’t worry about being disturbed. I’ve laid out a dress for you. I think it should fit well enough. Knock when you’re done.”

  As she moved toward the door, I found myself overcome by the need for company. Female company, to be specific. It had been many a moon since I had talked with another woman about … well … pretty much anything! (And how could I learn more about my captor if left to my own devices?)

  “Don’t go, Jessie,” I said. “Please. Stay. Talk to me.”

  Jessie hesitated as a concerned look flitted across her plump face. “I don’t know if I should.”

  “Please? It’s been so long since I shared words with a woman.”

  “Yes, but Dillon said-”

  “Pshaw! Dillon schmillon! What does he know about women? What would a little girl talk hurt? It’s just talk.”

  She smiled and nodded as she closed the door again. Pulling a chair from beside the armoire, she sat across the room, near the door, with her back to me.

  I shrugged off my clothes, hissing at the various nicks and bruises with which the wagon trip had left me. “You’re very beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” Jessie said. “You are as well. Under all the mud, that is.”

  We shared a girlish giggle while I eased into the tub, repressing the urge to sing out in pleasure at the warm caress of the clean water.

  “Is it warm enough?” Jessie asked.

  “It’s lovely,” I said. “I haven’t had a real bath in ages.”

  “I can tell.”

  We giggled again. Once I was settled in, I set to the task of scrubbing away the grime. The water warmed more than just my aching muscles. I fairly tingled from head to toe with a numbing satisfaction. I had forgotten what a simple joy it was to bathe.

  “I have to confess,” I said. “After all the talk about my value as a female, I didn’t expect to find other women here. Much less beautiful ones.”

  “There aren’t many of us,” Jessie said. “Women, that is. And all of us are beautiful in our own way.”

  “Why aren’t there many women here?”

  She scoffed, almost turning about to stare at me in surprise. “Are you joshing?”

  “No. I guess I can see why not. This is a terrible place.”

  “Newton is a haven,” Jessie snapped. “Dillon has given us all a second chance at a good life.”

  I sensed her good nature taking an ill turn. “I didn’t mean this town was terrible. I meant the Badlands. This town seems rather pleasant.”

  “Newton is pleasant. It’s a good place with good people.”

  Good people? She considered criminals good people? “If you could leave, if you could go back east, would you go?”

  “No,” she said with a gasp. “I have nothing left back there. I love it here. It’s a good town.”

  So she said. I wondered why she felt she needed to repeat it. “Do you mind if I ask what brought you out here?”

  Jessie fell quiet, and I realized I’d crossed a line. I didn’t know what to say to get back in her good graces, so I just let the whole thing go. The playful splashing of my bathing filled that empty silence between us until she surprised me by clearing her throat.

  “I’m here for the same reason most of us are,” she said.

  At first I was unsure just what she was hinting at. Was she referring to the townsfolk in general? Was she a criminal, marked for the gallows, only to escape to the punishment of the Badlands?

  “Oh?” I asked. “What reason is that?”

  “We had nowhere left to go.” This time she did turn to face me, her eyes damp and sorrow dressing her pretty face. “I followed my husband here. They accused him of stealing horses, and they were going to kill him for it. Kill him! He didn’t do anything. The only thing he was ever guilty of was trying to feed his family, to take care of me and our little one, but the judge didn’t care. They banished him, so I followed.”

  All at once, I felt ashamed for thinking every man here was a sex-crazed, violent, thieving murderer. With all the descriptions of the Badlands I’d heard, with Mr. Theo stressing how there were no heroes, I didn’t stop to think that perhaps some folks who ended up here did so because they had no place left to go.

  Folks like me.

  I decided against asking what became of her child. “I’m sorry things went so bad for you two. But you say Dillon gave you a second chance?”

  She smiled and nodded. “He changed our lives for the better. We had nothing back east. A shack for a home. Never enough food. No work. No money. But Dillon saved us. He rescued us from the revenants. He took us in and gave us a real home.”

  “He did all that?”

  “Yes. He’s a good man, Sam. He might seem a bit rough around the edges, but he’s done so much. So much for all of us.”

  “Jessie, what is he going to do with me?”

  Jessie closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

  “Jessie?”

  When she opened her eyes again, they were filled with an emotion I had come to know so well.

  Pity.

  “He’s a good man,” she said. “But he is a man. And as you may know, all men have, well, they have needs, hon.”

  Which, of course, meant I was obliged to fill them.

  Jessie hesitated again, struggling to explain the facts of life to a young woman. I was tempted to describe exactly what was expected of me, in all the torrid details that I could remember from my past life. Dillon’s so-called needs weren’t new to my experience. I knew his kind all too well. In fact, I could probably teach this Jessie a thing or two about satisfying a man. But I withheld that last bit of myself. They already knew so much about me; I had a right to keep my past a secret. My secret, and one that I had no intention of ever sharing with another living being again for as long as I lived. (Look what it got me the last time!)

  “Can you give me a minute alone?” I asked. “I’d like to finish and get dressed.”

  Jessie smiled, pleased for the open window through which to leap away from the uncomfortable situation. “Of course. I’ll be outside.” She stood and went to the door, but turned to face me again before she slipped through. “It won’t be like this all the time. It will get better. You’ll see.”

  “Thank you,” I said, forcing a smile. “I appreciate your honesty.”

  She closed the door, and I sank into the tub until the water met my chin.

  There, I plotted and planned and made up my mind. Under the surface of the bath, I fairly boiled with hatred. It was as if the water cleansed more than just the filth. It washed away my self-pity, leaving behind nothing but firm resolve. I refused to lose everything for which I’d worked so hard. I refused to become yet another concubine. I had to get out of here. I had done it once, why not again? Last time, my escape took every ounce of strength I possessed and every trick I’d ever learned and almost cost
me my life more than once.

  This time wasn’t going to be nearly as easy.

  A fenced-in town. A well-guarded community. Dillon the merciless at the helm. I had a close caretaker, and was sure that anyone else in the house had been given instructions to watch for me. This would be tough, but there had to be a way to get out of this. Even if the only answer was at the end of a razor, I wouldn’t stay and live like this. (Of course, after a brief search of the washroom, I found no such easy answer.)

  I finished up my bath, put on the clothes laid out for me, then joined Jessie in the hallway once more. She nodded in approval, telling me how pretty I looked in a dress, and what a difference a little hot water and lace could make. As much as I wanted to sneer and gripe, I couldn’t, because I did feel pretty. The dress was a simple affair: a soft cotton in lilac—my favorite color—with a built-in bustier and adorable little silver buttons all down the front. There was also a pair of silk slippers that fit like they had been made just for me. It had been so long since I’d worn anything but workhouse blues, I found myself torn between enjoying the feminine feel of the things and despising the true purpose behind them.

  Jessie led me up the stairs, and along the way, I counted the guards and other staff, marking their places and memorizing their faces. I also asked a variety of questions about the house, such as how old it was, when it was built, how many rooms it had. If I were to escape, I would need to know all the strengths, weak spots, all the exits, everything. Jessie seemed oblivious to the nature of my questions, answering what she could and apologizing for what she didn’t know.

  We ended our journey at a large and comfortable bedchamber. Judging from the surroundings, the owner was clearly male. Therefore, this was my final destination.

  “Here we are,” Jessie said as she swept into the room. “I’m afraid we don’t have a room ready for you yet. We weren’t expecting visitors, you see. But you can wait here.”

  “It’s very nice,” I said. And it was.

  “Now, Dillon has quite a busy schedule, so he won’t be able to check in on you for a few hours, at least. So just make yourself at home, and I’ll have someone bring up some refreshments. Sound good?”

  “Sounds good,” I lied. It sounded horrible! Stay locked in my future rapist’s bedroom all day while he finished organizing his mad town filled with his mad people doing whatever mad things it was mad folks did? What sounded good was anything but this. A mouthful of revolver barrel, for instance. Or perhaps a dose of cyanide.

  “Good. I would stay and talk with you more, but I have some things of my own to attend to. You understand?”

  “Of course. Go. Don’t let me worry you. I can manage on my own.”

  “Yes, well … manage getting some rest if you can. That would be best.” She stared at me, hard, begging me with her eyes alone not to get into any trouble. Those eyes said, Just behave. Do what he says, and it will be over quickly.

  I thanked her for her hospitality and bade her a good afternoon. She slipped out of the room, the clear click of a lock setting in place sounding just after she closed the door. Looking about the room, I sighed, wondering how I would entertain myself for the countless hours stretching out ahead of me. The bedroom was neatly maintained—the bed made and not a stitch of clothing on the floor—save for a heaping stack of books near the desk in the corner. I poked around among the books, hoping to find a novel of interest to pass the time, but I had no such luck. The majority of the books were on drab subjects, bearing titles such as The Proper Use of Etiquette or Manners for the Common Man, while the rest appeared to be medical journals and textbooks. An unusual mix of reading material, to be sure, but nothing in which I was the slightest bit interested.

  Moving to the window, I pulled aside the curtain and sighed at the thick metal bars. Yet another obstacle in my path. Another problem in my way. I looked out over the town, surveying the various buildings. Most of them looked like businesses, but I assumed the majority of them now served as homes—or rather, barracks. The fence was a double-layered affair, just like Boudreaux’s, but I couldn’t see any undead wandering between the spaces. As I peered out of the window in silence, a faint groaning rose to my ears. My gaze drifted to the far end of the street, to the tall wooden fence and the many armed men. I was sure the noise originated there.

  It must be the stockyard.

  From the way Dillon wielded the mere mention of it like a weapon, I assumed it must be where they kept the revenants, and from what I gathered, it was also where they made new ones. I shuddered when I remembered Clinton’s sentence and poor Mortimer’s fate. I couldn’t blame the man if he broke down and worked on creating a cure. Suffering the infection was said to be the worst of all possible hells. The weakest it killed within hours, while a stronger person could suffer as long as a week. More often than not, folks weren’t given a chance to fight for their lives. They were put out of their misery rather than suffer that most horrible of fates.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door, not a request for admittance, because it was locked, just an announcement of the arrival of food and drink. I stayed at the window as an older man wheeled a tray into the room, parked it by the bedside, and left again without saying a word. He didn’t even look up at me. He simply pushed the cart of food into the room and left, looking quite downtrodden as he did. I thought about calling out to him, but I supposed that, much like Jessie, he had been instructed not to talk with me. Even though my stomach rumbled, I ignored the tray of food and returned to planning my escape.

  I eyed the town and the inhabitants, as well as the guards and numerous fences. The place was a veritable fortress. No entrance unmanned. No exit unwatched. And with this realization, I knew I was in it for the long haul. I wouldn’t stay here a second longer than necessary, but it wasn’t a simple matter of just walking away. As much as it sickened me, I was going to have to dig in my heels before I could pull myself out of this one. I would have to make friends, convince the townsfolk I was one of them, and seek an exit through that false confidence.

  I was going to have to gain Dillon’s trust, and that revolted me most of all.

  ****

  return to table of contents

  ****

  Chapter Seventeen

  In the end, I took Jessie’s advice and had a good rest. I didn’t mean to fall asleep completely, just to make myself comfortable for a few hours, but I suppose I was more tired than I thought. I stretched out, dress and all, across Dillon’s bed and fell asleep before I knew what had happened. I am unsure just how long I was down for, but when I awoke again, the room was darkened, with the flickering shadows of candlelight dancing across the ceiling. A soft pop sounded to my right, followed by the chug of liquid escaping a bottle. I sat up, rubbing my tired eyes, and discovered Dillon near the window, standing over a well-dressed table complete with covered dishes and a softly glowing candelabrum.

  Speaking of well-dressed, my host had changed his clothes. (In here? While I was sleeping?) Gone was the simple workaday outfit, replaced by a black suit. Black slacks, black shirt, black tie. He looked up to me with that smug grin, and against my better judgment, my heart actually fluttered! I couldn’t help it. Damn but if—for a murderous maniac—he didn’t look very handsome.

  “You’re up?” he asked. “Excellent. I didn’t want to wake you, but I didn’t want our dinner to get cold either.” He tipped his head to one side and thought about this a moment before he added, “Or is it supper? It’s always been dinner for me, but I know many of the men call it supper. I think it might be a colloquial thing. Regional, as it were. What is it for you? Dinner or supper?”

  “S-s-supper,” I stammered, confused by his casual conversation.

  “Fine. Supper it is.” He pulled a chair from one end of the table and motioned to it. “M’lady, your supper awaits.”

  In a cloud of bewilderment, I rose from the bed and joined him at the table. The picture of refinement, he pushed in my chair as I sat. Onc
e I was made comfortable, he offered me a glass of wine. I accepted, unsure if I trusted him enough to drink it but, at the same time, thirsty enough not to care, while he lifted the covers from the plates. The undeniable smell of roasted rabbit met my nostrils, and I began to salivate. I regretted not eating earlier, for now it would be hard to turn down the offer of food. A variety of vegetables accompanied the main dish, leaving me curious as to how the town got their hands on such things. Salvaging equipment was one thing, but salvaging fresh vegetables?

  Dillon settled in across from me. There he waited, picking at his napkin and watching me in silence.

  “It’s always good form for the guest to start eating first,” he said.

  “Actually,” I said, “proper etiquette demands that the host begin the meal. Then the guest follows.”

  “Ah.” He gave a boyish grin, his eyes twinkling in the candlelight.

  I had every intention of hating him in secret while I gained his trust, but my heart betrayed me by thumping faster with untoward affection. Only a few hours ago, I’d dreaded the very thought of aligning myself with the madman, even for a few days. Yet my host surprised me by doing the one thing I didn’t expect. He acted civilized. (Ah, the etiquette books made all the more sense now!) Even if it was just that, an act and nothing more, I wasn’t sure where this was going, and that lack of foreknowledge left me uneasy. It was hard to stay one move ahead of someone when you didn’t know the rules of the game you were playing.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t have much of an upbringing,” he admitted as he helped himself to a healthy portion of meat. “You probably see me as a bit of a bull in a china shop.”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  He grinned wider, pleased with himself. “You should really eat something. I understand you didn’t touch your afternoon meal.”

  “I’m not hungry.” My stomach exposed my lie by choosing that exact moment to rumble, ever so slightly.

  “You’re not a very good liar. I promise it’s not poisoned.” He took a bite of the rabbit, chewing as he said, “See? It’s good.”