by Skye Warren
Pretty When You Cry
Skye Warren
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
–Anaïs Nin
Chapter One
So far, a city looks exactly how I thought it would—gutted buildings and dark alleys.
A den of wickedness.
This morning I woke up on my floor mat in Harmony Hills. Sunlight streamed through the window while dust rose up to meet it. The white walls somehow kept their color despite rough dirt floors.
A desperate trek through the woods and a series of bus rides later, I made it to a city. This city. Tanglewood. It could have been anywhere. They’re all the same, all sinful, all scary—and the only thing that makes this one special is that I ran out of money for bus tickets.
My shoes are made of white canvas, already fraying and black from the grime of the streets. I made these shoes by hand when I turned twelve, and the heel on the left side has never fit quite right. But the bamboo soles lasted for years in the hills. Now they’re cracking against concrete. I can feel every lump in the pavement, every loose rock, every rounded hump as the sidewalk turns to cobblestone and then back again.
That’s not the worst part.
There’s someone following me. Maybe more than one person. I try to listen for the footsteps, but it’s hard to hear over the pounding in my ears, the thud of my heart against my chest. Panic is a tangible force in my head, a gritty quicksand that threatens to pull me down.
I could end up on my knees before this night is over.
But I don’t think I’ll be saying my evening prayers.
Men are standing outside a gate that hangs open on its hinges. They fall silent as I walk close. I tighten my arms where they are folded over my chest and look down. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me. It wasn’t true when I was little, and it’s not true now.
One of them steps in front of me.
My breath catches, and I stop walking. My whole body is trembling by the time I meet his eyes, bloodshot red in a shadowed face. “What’s your name?” he asks in a gravelly voice.
I jerk my head. No.
“Now that’s not very polite, is it?” Another one steps closer, and then I smell him. They couldn’t have showered in the past day or even week.
Cleanliness is a virtue.
Being quiet and obedient and small is a virtue too. “I’m sorry. I just want to—”
I don’t know what comes next. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to pretend the past sixteen years as a disciple of the Harmony Hills never happened. None of that is possible when I’m surrounded by men. I take a step back and bump into another man. Hands close around my arms.
A sound escapes me—fear and protest. It’s more than I would have done this morning, that sound.
I’m turned to face the man behind me. He smiles a broken-toothed smile. “Doesn’t matter what you want, darling.”
My mouth opens, but I can’t scream. I can’t scream because I’ve been taught not to. Because I know no one will come. Because the consequences of crying are worse than what will happen next.
Then the man’s eyes widen in something like fear. It’s a foreign expression on his face. It doesn’t belong. I wouldn’t even believe it except he takes a step back.
My chest squeezes tight. What’s behind me? Who is behind me that could have inspired that kind of fear? The men surrounding me are monsters, but they’re backing off now, stepping away, hands up in surrender. No harm done, that’s what they’re saying without words.
I whirl and almost slip on a loose cobblestone.
The man standing in front of me is completely still. That’s the first thing I notice about him—before I see the fine cut of his black suit or the glint of a silver watch under his cuff. Before I see the expression on his face, devoid of compassion or emotion. Devoid of humanity.
“We didn’t know she worked for you,” one of the men mumbles.
They’re still backing up, forming a circle around us, growing wider. I’m in the middle. I’m the drop, and the men around me form a ripple. Then they fade into the blackness and are gone.
It’s just me and the man in the suit.
He hasn’t spoken. I’m not sure he’s going to. I half expect him to pull out a gun from somewhere underneath that smooth black fabric and shoot me. That’s what happens in the city, isn’t it? That’s what everyone told me about the outside world, how dangerous it is. And even while some part of me had nodded along, had believed them, another part of me had refused.
There had to be beauty outside the white stucco walls. Beauty that wasn’t contained and controlled. Beauty with color. Only apparently I was wrong. I haven’t seen anything beautiful—except him.
He’s beautiful in a strange and sinful way, one that makes me more afraid. Not colorful exactly. His eyes are a gray color I’ve never seen before, both deep and opaque at the same time. The building itself is beautiful too with its wrought iron gate around a large courtyard. The fountain in the center is broken, but that only adds to the mystique.
The marquee sign reads Grand, a flash of neon pink against the black night.
He steps closer, the light from the sign illuminating his face, making him look even more sinister. “What’s your name?”
I couldn’t answer those other men, but I find something inside for him. I find truth. “I’m not allowed to say my name to someone else.”
He studies me for a long moment, taking in my tangled hair and my white dress. “Why not?”
Because God will punish me. “Because I’m running away.”
He nods like this is what he expected. “Do you have money?”
I have twenty dollars left after bus fare. “Enough.”
His lips twist, and I wonder if that’s what a smile looks like on him. It’s terrifying. “No, you don’t,” he says. “The question is, what would you do to earn some?”
Anything.
My voice is just a whisper. “I’m a good girl.”
He laughs, and I see that I was wrong before. That wasn’t a smile. It was a taunt. A challenge. This is a real smile, one with teeth. The sound rolls through me like a coming storm, deep and foreboding.
“I know,” he says gently. “What’s your name?”
“Candace.”
He studies me. “Pretty name.”
His voice is deep with promise and something else I can’t decipher. All I know is he isn’t really talking about my name. And I know it isn’t really a compliment. “Thank you.”
“Now come inside, Candace.”
He turns and walks away before I can answer. I can feel the night closing in on me, the sharks in the water waiting to strike. It’s not really a choice. I think the man knows that. He’s counting on it. Whatever is going to happen inside will be bad, and the only thing worse is what would have happened outside.
I hurry to catch up with him, almost running across the crumbled driveway, under the marquee sign for the Grand, past the broken fountain, desperate for the dubious safety of the man who could hold the darkness at bay. It’s the same thing that kept me in Harmony Hills for so long—fear and twisted gratitude.
Chapter Two
Harmony Hills is a place of purity, of paleness, and the city is black. Inside the building is something else entirely, an explosion of light and color. So much color.
The women are beautiful, skin flushed and painted and glistening with glitter. Their bodies are strong—and almost naked. Not completely. Satin straps and lace tie them up like presents as they swirl around a shiny silver pole.
No man is telling them to cover their bodies.
No man is making them sit down and be ashamed. Instead the men are looking up to
them, practically panting in their eagerness, desperate for a glance or a touch, holding up money for the possibility.
I’m so enraptured by the sight of the stage that I almost lose sight of the man.
He stops in the crowd, and I see the way other men look at him—with apprehension. I see the way they move aside to let him pass. Fear whispers over my skin. The other men are panting after the girls, but not this one. He’s too cold for that, too sure he can have any one of them with a snap of his fingers.
And that’s what he does—snaps his fingers like I’m a stray puppy who’s lost her way.
That’s what I am to him.
I hurry to catch up. I get curious looks from the other patrons, but I ignore them. I’m not sexy and beautiful like the women onstage. I’m still wearing my white shift from Harmony Hills, my hair long and uneven at the bottom. We’re not allowed to cut it.
There’s a stairway to the side of the stage, and I follow him down. A guard of some kind waits at the bottom. His gaze flicks over me, dispassionate, as if evaluating me as a threat. I guess we both know I don’t pose any, because just as quick his gaze returns straight ahead.
The room below is more basement than office, the ornate wooden desk out of place on a concrete floor. The man in the suit shuts the thick steel door, locking us in.
His footsteps echo as he crosses and sits behind the desk.
“Sit down,” he tells me without even looking at me.
Sixteen years of training, of scripture ensure that I do what I’m told. I perch on the old wobbly chair in front of the desk. This room scares me. It’s suited to interrogation…or torture. If that door can keep the noise out, it can hold my screams inside. No one would hear me over the thud of music anyway. And that guard waiting outside… I know without asking that he wouldn’t let me leave.
I’ve traded one prison for another.
The man pulls out a cell phone and dials. Alarm spikes through me. “Who are you calling?” I demand, my heart beating fast.
“The police,” he says, his strange gray eyes meeting mine.
Panic claws at my chest. “No,” I burst out. “Don’t.”
One eyebrow rises. “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll give you a lollipop before they send you home.”
“You can’t send me back there.” When I was five years old, I colored on the walls of the chapel. I had to write I am a sinner on my arm twenty times with a steel-tipped feather. You can still see the scar of the last r on my hand if I’m in the sunlight. The punishment for running away, for getting dragged back, would be much more severe.
That earns me a low laugh. “I can do anything I want with you. You seem like a smart girl. You already know that.”
“Then let me stay,” I whisper.
Pale eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Like those girls out there.” My heart is beating out of my chest. I don’t even know what I’m saying, whether I really want this or not. Whether I can even do it. “Let me work here.”
Frustration flashes across his stern face, so slight I would have missed it if I wasn’t staring at him—studying him. Learning him just like I learned Leader Allen for years. “Those girls,” he says, his voice like ice, “are grown women. Adults. Every one of them is at least eighteen years old, because my club doesn’t break the rules.”
He doesn’t seem like a man who follows rules, but I know what he means. He picks which rules to follow and which to break—and he has no reason to choose me.
I swallow hard. I know what’s coming, I just don’t know if I’ll survive it. “Please.”
He scans me from my loose hair to my ragged dress down to my fraying cloth slippers. “And you…well, you look all of twelve years old.”
Do I really look that young? Do I really seem that innocent? “I’m eighteen,” I lie.
He smiles as if we share a secret. As if we’re both lying. “Of course you are. And I’m only calling the cops to protect your pretty little cunt.”
I blink, the word a slap. I don’t even know what it means, but I know it’s bad. I know because of the harshness of the word, the hard c and guttural ending. I know because of the appreciation in his eyes when he says it—a man like this wouldn’t like anything sweet.
He stands, and it seems like he’s ten feet tall. I shrink against the wooden chair, but there’s nowhere to go. “The truth is,” he says, his voice smooth as water, “I’m calling the cops to get you out of my hair. And the only reason I follow the rules? Is to keep the cops from sniffing around, disrupting business. My real business. Understand?”
“Not really,” I whisper.
The corner of his lip turns up. “All you need to understand is that you can’t stay here. This isn’t a boarding school or a sweatshop. There’s no place for you here.”
The words hit me harder than they should. I’ve only been in this building a few minutes. It should mean nothing to me. He should mean nothing to me. But it’s more than this building—more than him. It’s like he’s speaking for the whole city. Like he’s speaking for everything outside of Harmony Hills. That was the only place I’ve ever had, the only place I belonged. And it was going to kill me.
All the air sucks out of the basement, and I can’t breathe. This is worse than torture. I’d rather he hit me than tell me I don’t belong anywhere. Tears fill my eyes, making everything seem murky, underwater.
Through the haze, I see him come to stand in front of me. If he was my mother, he would hug me. If he was Leader Allen, he’d slap me.
Instead he just watches me.
He leans back against the edge of the high desk and crosses his arms. When I was a kid, there was a boy who would drop water onto an ant and watch it drown. That’s how the man is looking at me—curious, as if he wants to see what will happen next.
I clench my fists, squeezing my fingernails into my skin until the physical pain is worse than the pain inside. “What’s your name?” I demand, my voice shaky.
“Ivan,” he says softly, still watching. Still waiting.
“Let me work here, Ivan,” I say, hands clenched, body ready to fight. It’s not fighting he wants from me, though. Not exactly. I may not know the word he used, but I know how he thinks. It’s not that far off from the men outside who surrounded me.
It’s not that far off from Leader Allen either.
I stand up and meet his gaze. “I’ll do anything.”
Chapter Three
I know what will happen to me if I let him touch me. I know because every sermon I ever heard, every scripture I’ve ever seen promises the same thing. Eternal damnation.
That’s what I’m offering him—my soul on a spit.
He doesn’t look impressed. Instead he leans close, close enough that I’m forced to sit. He braces his hands on both arms of my chair. It occurs to me then how he’s advanced on me since the conversation started. He was behind his desk at the beginning. He stood and circled it. Now he’s inches from my face, his breath warm and soft against my forehead when he speaks.
“What could you possibly give me that I couldn’t get from any one of those girls out on the floor tonight?”
My eyes shut tight. I can still see her clearly, the woman onstage. Her power in the form of bared breasts and a bold smile. She could please Ivan so much better than me, and without even asking, I know she would do whatever he wanted.
“My virginity,” I whisper, trembling inside.
He’s a stranger to me, but I know what he wants. He looks at me the same way Leader Allen looked at me. That’s why I had to leave. It turns out men are the same everywhere I go. They only want one thing from me.
He cocks his head. “Why would you give me that?”
With only a few dollars in my pocket and men waiting on the street outside, I don’t have a choice. “I need…a place to stay.”
Something dark flits over his expression. “Surely you want more than that, for something so precious.”
I want freedom. I want safety, but I can’t ha
ve that. “A job,” I whisper.
Money is a form of freedom. Dancing and nakedness and music are freedom too.
He crouches in front of me, and something about our positions now makes me feel young. He’s still holding the arms of the chair, and my hands are clenched in my lap. His eyes meet mine, but he’s down low. I feel small and helpless. Trapped.
“You could ask me to pay you,” he says, a strange note in his voice. It’s like he’s coaxing me. Like he’s telling me what to do. “If I gave you enough, you’d be able to get a nice hotel room. Maybe you could keep me coming back for more.”
There are too many shadows here, too many vines ready to grab me. If he paid me for sex, I’d be just like my mother. And I have no faith in my ability to keep him coming back for more. “I want to work.”
He puts his hand on my knee. Just his hand. Not very high. It’s an innocent touch. Any one of the elders might have touched me this way. Leader Allen definitely has.
It doesn’t feel innocent. It feels dangerous, a snaking vine.
His expression is severe, but his voice is soft. It’s a contradiction, just like him. “I would give you pretty jewelry and pretty clothes. My own little doll to dress up.”
My breath comes faster. His words don’t sound like an offer. They sound like a warning. “No.”
“You’d rather fuck a hundred men than just one?”
I flinch. I’d rather keep running so that nothing can ever tie me down, no one can hold me down, ever again. “I don’t want to…don’t want to fu—I just want to dance.”
Surprise flicks through his eyes, turning them almost silver. He draws back, considering me. He has me trapped, but he’s no longer in my face. I sit very still under his regard. I have sat for hours during prayer, unable to move, unwilling. If I even stretch or look up for a second, it would prove my unworthiness. I would have to start over and face my punishment after. I can wait forever for him to decide.
“No,” he says softly.
