by Sophia Henry
My stomach drops. I’m totally screwed, but I keep the unease from reaching my face.
“I just try to keep clients happy,” I say, trying to sound neutral. It’s not hard to achieve, since I steel myself—almost like turning into another persona when I do what I do and talk about what I do.
“You do more than keep them happy, Katrina,” he argues. “You drive them wild. That Russian for instance, he’s is always calling for more. You must have a magical pussy.”
Bile rises in my throat, but I just shrug. “What can I say,” I ask, sliding my lips into a sultry smile. Though, I’m not too flattered at the idea of being North Carolina’s most wanted prostitute, playing it up seems like my best plan of action after being told I have a magic pussy. I assume that’s how he wants me to react.
“Oh, pardon my manners,” he says suddenly, pointing to the ceiling as if he’s just remembered something. “Please have a seat.”
He motions to a small table with one chair. I do as he says because being too uptight isn’t going to save me from these sharks.
“Drink?” he asks, looking earnest and polite—a thorough gentleman.
“Just water, please,” I reply, my voice suddenly hoarse.
Waylon tilts his head, arching one eyebrow as he studies me. Then he gestures to someone behind the bar who was practically within earshot. He lights a stucco cigar as the bartender pours water into a glass for me. It’s no surprise I know about cigars. When you hang around enough old men you get to know these things.
I lift the cup to my lips, but don’t drink. Waylon slipped something into my champagne the night I met him. I’m not falling for the same trap this time.
The second man, who Waylon hasn’t introduced me to, gets up and walks past me. It takes everything in me to not to jump up and try my luck at bolting out of this place.
As I contemplate turning to see what the man is up to, Waylon speaks up after a long exhale of smoke.
“I can tell that you and I are going to get along just fine,” he starts, his words sounding more like a warning than a business agreement. He gets up, flipping his Zippo lighter between his thumb and forefinger. He cradles his cigar in his left hand, accentuating the gold ring set with a huge ruby on his pinky finger.
“There’s just a little matter of insurance, you see?” he drawls walking into my field of vision, filling it.
My body tenses immediately. Hands grab me before I can react. My heart races so fast and hard it feels like it might burst before they have their way with me. Stan was right about this bastard.
I scream out and struggle but more hands hold me down against the chair.
“It’s nothing personal, darling, just business,” Waylon says, stepping back. “Don’t worry. You’re gonna feel real good after this.”
All I see is another person—the man who had been sitting with him when I arrived, I believe—coming toward me with a syringe in his hand.
“Please, please, don’t do this, please.” Those are the only words I can get out, as he stalks closer, holding the syringe up and flicking the needle.
I close my eyes and brace for the pain but instead, loud gunshots echo through the room and chaos ensues. I scramble off the chair and take cover under the couch beside me. Men keep shouting as the sound of rapid gunfire continues to fill the air.
“Katrina!” I hear the muffled sound of my name through ringing ears. “Katrina!” The voice calls out more urgently. When I look up, Stan pulls me into his arms. It takes a minute to clear my head, then I punch him on the chest.
“That was close, you jerk,” I complain, punching him on the chest again, but I’m relieved that he came through or my life would be taking a different turn right now.
Stan chuckles and leads me through the room, weaving around bodies on the floor twisted into funny angles with blood leaking out of them. The sight makes me want to vomit.
When I look around, I notice men here holding rifles, ready to shoot, but since they aren’t shooting, I assume they’re with Stan. I don’t know whether to feel relived or more frightened to be surrounded by what had to be more Russian mafia.
Then I see Waylon. He’s being held down in a chair looking like he shit himself. I’ve never been happier to see someone in distress. I break Stan’s hold on me and rush to Waylon, slapping him, punching him, raking my nails across his face—anything to inflict as much pain as I possibly can. No one stops me until Stan comes over and for the first time, I notice the big, heavy-looking pistol in his hand.
“For my sister—and my love,” he says before placing the pistol on Waylon’s temple and pulling the trigger. Bone, brains, and blood spray across the floor.
I scream and cover my eyes, dry heaving and hyperventilating as I try to regain composure. Maybe this is normal for Stan, but it’s not for me. I’ve never witnessed any kind of death—let alone multiple people murdered in a shootout right before my eyes.
I touched Waylon. What will I say to the police? I wipe my hands across my jeans repeatedly almost as if in a trance.
“Let’s go.” His voice is hard as he gestures at the bodies sprawled around the room with his pistol hand. When he pulls me toward the door, the only thing I can do is allow myself to be led away.
8
Cookie
I’ve never been a fan of surprises, maybe it’s because I’ve never had a positive one. So, when Stan breaks the news that he needs to return to Moscow, I don’t take it in stride.
“When will you be back?” I ask, praying that my voice won’t betray me as my eyes fill with tears. If I blink too quickly, the waterworks will start.
“As soon as I can,” he says, holding my face in his palms. I can feel the tears spill onto my cheeks and roll down. Stan wipes them off with his thumbs. His expression is almost as pained as mine.
We both know marriage isn’t an option. Not only because we’ve only known each other for two weeks, but also because of his ties to the mafia. I’d be used as a tool to hurt him if the need arises for them and Stan refuses to let that happen.
“That’s not a time frame,” I reply, sniffling.
“I don’t have a better answer, my sun. I have work in my country. Once I get everything sorted out. I will be back. This I promise you,” he assures me but the realist in me doesn’t believe any of it.
“You’re leaving the mafia, right? No more crime? No more killing?” I ask, knowing that my hopes will most likely be shattered. Stan shakes his head sadly, and I know what that means.
“Katrina.” He takes a deep breath and lifts his eyes to the sky. “Is more complicated than this. You know.”
I swallow and nod, but a sob escapes my lips. I do know. It’s not easy to stop doing what makes you money—and leaving the mafia is almost impossible. Still, I believe he’ll come back to me.
“What am I going to do without you?” I whisper.
“What you have always done—live.” He brushes the feathery bangs out of my eyes, but the locks drop right back into place. It brings a gentle smile to his face. “They are as unruly as you.”
I’m surprised laughter is able to escape my lips through the sobbing.
“How will I contact you?” I ask, desperate for answers; stability, something.
“There is no way. Is too dangerous. You know this, Katrina,” he says. “But I have this for you.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a checkbook. It looks foreign to me; checkbooks aren’t something I’m accustomed to seeing regularly. Food stamps, on the other hand, are a constant.
“Do not go back to your mother. You must get a job as we discussed,” Stan continues, sounding more frantic by the second. “You will use this money to find place to rent and pay the bills. When I come back, I will buy the building and start my business.”
The certainty of his tone gives me hope, and the access to his account gives me even more.
“I can’t take your money,” I say, earning me one of those pained looks he usually has on his face when I do something
that hurts him.
The way he glares at me would scare anyone, but I’m not afraid. A menacing look is all he’d ever do to me; I can’t say the same for anyone else.
“You can take the money of strangers, but not money offered by someone who cares about you and wants you to get out of this situation?” The words pack a heavy punch but I know he is just trying to manipulate me into taking the checkbook.
“Yes. It’s completely different, Stan. I don’t care about the guys that give me the money or the gifts. They are nothing,” I start, keeping my voice as level as possible. “I don’t want to take your money. You’ve helped me and cared for me. I see a future with you.”
My heart beats faster. A reminder that it’s a lie, just like all the other lies. I’ll take his money—his help. Though I do feel more for him that I have for anyone I’ve been with, he’s a means to get what I want—just like all the others.
If he gets his rocks off thinking he’s saving me, let him think that way. If he wants to give me money to get me out of my mother’s house, I’ll take it. But I’m not a stereotypical damsel in distress that needs a man to save her. I can save myself.
My plan has always been to scrape up enough money to get out from under my mother’s thumb as soon as I graduate from high school.
Maybe he thought I was going to let her pimp me out forever. Maybe he still thinks I’m stupid like he told me I was on the day we met.
When I close the door on that nasty, roach-infested apartment for the last time, I will never, ever be back.
“You care for me, yes?” Stan asks earnestly.
“You know how much,” I nod, flashing him a sexy smile and curling my fingers around his neck.
“I don’t know this,” he bats my hand away. “You treat me the same way you treat all men.”
Rejected, I step back. I want to feel hurt by his words but there are no lies in them. “Then why give me money? Why keep the cycle going? Just leave and don’t look back!” I spit because he is driving me nuts.
“Because I don’t want you to go to other men for things. If you need anything, I will be the man who provides,” he replies sharply.
“You want to provide for me even though you think I’m using you?” This back and forth is giving me a headache, but I’m a fan of clarity so these questions have to be asked.
“Of course, you’re using me, Katrina,” he replies, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “It is all you know. Change take a longer time than a few weeks.”
The fact that he knows what I’m doing sobers me when I thought I was a master manipulator. What’s that old saying? It takes one to know one.
If he realizes I’m using him to get away from my mother and make a better life for myself and he’s okay with it, then I’m not going to argue with him.
“As long as you understand,” I say, plucking the checkbook from his hands.
He grabs my hips and pulls me toward him. Then he places one hand around my neck and lifts my head until our eyes meet.
“You can pretend that I am nothing, but I know better. I can smell your desire. I can feel your heart race when I’m close. I know your panties get soaked every fucking time I put my hands on you,” he whispers as he lowers his lips to my ear.
When I swallow hard, my throat presses against his hand.
“I guarantee I am the only man who has ever made you feel that way,” he adds. I would laugh at those words if they came from someone else but there are no lies in them.
He’s not wrong. I want his money, sure, but there’s an unbridled lust I can’t shake. I can’t deny the way he makes me feel. Or the longing in my heart when he’s not with me. Instead of responding with words, I rise to my tiptoes and press against him, reaching to cover his mouth with mine. He releases my throat and allows me the pleasure.
Our lips collide with bruising pressure and he slides his tongue into my open mouth, teasing and prodding until my tongue reaches out. He closes his mouth and sucks. When he lets go, his teeth rake across my lips and he bites the lower one, holding it until I whimper but even then, he doesn’t let up.
I know him too well to know that he won’t let go until we’re a pile of limp limbs and forgotten dreams, broken and sweaty on the floor. He grabs my hair at the base of my neck and tugs on the roots, pulling my head back so I’m at the angle he wants to devour me.
My hands claw at his sides until my nails sink into the inked skin of his torso. I never knew what I was missing until him. I never knew sex could be enjoyable or that a man could take me in such a rough, demanding way and have it provoke excitement and desire, rather than fear.
These were the last things I remember before sliding into pleasure-filled bliss.
9
Cookie
Fall 1987
It’s been three months since Stan left for Russia, and even with the beautiful Carolina sun shining on my face every day, life still seems dull and colorless.
When he left, I started having nightmares about the day Waylon tried to inject me with whatever drug was in that syringe. Instead of try to fall back to sleep, I put all those extra waking hours into focusing on my studies. I ended up graduating as the salutatorian of my class. Which isn’t as great as valedictorian, but it’s a step up from being third place.
Suck it, Stan.
Mama and I fought all summer mostly because I stopped taking clients and got a job at the convenience store down the road, but also because I chopped off my hair. I went from sexy Farrah Fawcett waves to Princess Di posh. She wasn’t amused at my royal makeover, which means I made the right choice. Now she shuffles around mumbling about how ungrateful I am and how she wishes I were never born between hacking coughs. According to her, I ruined her life.
Funny thing is, I agree.
Stan still hasn’t come back—or contacted me. Sometimes, the thought of him crosses my mind without warning, and I can't help but feel depressed. I owe him my life, and he’s halfway across the world now. Sometimes I feel like ripping his checkbook apart but I can’t because knowing he’s getting me to NCU is the only thing that keeps me going and it’s the only thing I have left of him.
It hurts, but I’m doing what he told me to do. I’m living.
Which is why I’m roaming around Walkins Gymnasium in a daze trying to snag the classes I need for my first semester at North Carolina University. If I would have realized what a complete and total shit-show registration would be, I would’ve gotten here much earlier.
The only way to describe the scene is complete chaos. Thousands of students pushing and shoving, trying to get to tables lined up around the room to grab a slip of paper for the class they need. I would have thought a school this prestigious would have a much better system.
But here we are, rushing around frantically, throwing elbows, and praying a few kind souls trade for a class you need.
“What are you looking for?” A cute guy in a grey sweater calls out, disrupting my shuffling around with eyes as wide as a deer-in-the-headlights. For some reason he looks slightly familiar, but I can’t place him. He’s got his arm up, waving coveted slips of paper in the air.
“English Lit with Malcolm!” I call across the crowd.
“Got it! Hang on. Let me come your way.” He edges through the group.
“Hey,” he says as he reaches me.
“Hey,” I say, giving him a shy smile.
“English Lit with Malcolm is pretty popular. I grabbed a few when I was over there.” He hands me the paper I need.
“Thank you so much.” I hold the paper to my heart, so excited, I could practically kiss him. Instead, I scan his face again, trying to figure out how I know him.
“What’cha got for me, gorgeous?” He nods to the papers in my hand.
“What?” I ask, distracted by the compliment as warmth spreads in my stomach.
“Do you have a class to trade for that English Lit I just gave you. That’s kind of the way this works.” He flashes me a smile which reveals brilliant, stra
ight white teeth.
“Oh, yeah. Um, I have these.” I hand him the extra papers in my hand—the ones I don’t need for my schedule.
He riffles through them. “These are crappy classes, Sugar,” he says laughing. Even his laughter sounds like music.
“I got here late. Didn’t quite understand the process,” I say, shrugging.
“Yeah, it’s crazy. My brother went here, so he gave me the insider tip,” he says, adjusting the strap of his backpack.
“You look familiar,” I say, unable to contain the feeling that we’ve met before.
“Are you from Charlotte?” he asks.
“Born and raised.”
“Maybe wave crossed paths,” he offers. “Did you go to Myers Park?”
“No.” I shake my head, mentally trying to figure out how to avoid telling him which high school I went to when I suddenly realize how I recognize his face.
He was at Mangione’s having drinks with his brother the night I met Waylon. He was there right before Waylon took me to Stan.
My heart speeds up as flight mode kicks in. I’m never going to be able to keep any story straight if I tell him under this kind of mental duress.
“I, um, it was really awesome of you to give me that Lit class,” I say with a shy smile, averting my eyes and backing away. Despite my sudden retreat, I hope he understands my gratitude is genuine. “Thanks.”
“Wait! Can I get your name?” he calls after me. “Your number?”
I bolt away without looking back as my heart threatens to break free from my chest.
* * *
On Monday morning, I edge past a few people and settle into a seat in one of the middle rows of Professor Malcolm’s English Lit class. The auditorium is completely packed, which makes sense since it was so sought after during registration. Thank God for Harris.
After I grab a notebook and pen out of my backpack, I lean over and set it on the floor. When I sit back, there’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and find myself face to face with Harris.
