The Bronze Garza Read online

Diamond Girls are available only to the deep-pocketed big-wigs who demand “clean, healthy, and compliant” girls, and extreme confidentiality.

  How fortunate.

  The “regular” girls are on the floors below. The “low-value” ones that are pumped full of drugs and sold to anyone no matter their stature.

  Even in captivity, I’m still privileged.

  And at the same time, still not enough.

  All of us, who’ve been rudely ripped from our lives and smuggled here, have, at some point, come to the realization that no one was coming to save us. That juncture where we said goodbye to hope and shook hands with acceptance.

  And, with all hope gone and nothing left to hold onto, the Diamond Girls stopped seeing themselves as captives and began seeing each other as competition, wanting to be the one to win their master’s affections.

  Smug when they’re chosen.

  Flaunted when their master Igor praised them.

  Felt special when he took them off to fuck them.

  Of the fourteen Diamond Girls, Kristie and I seem to be the only two who are still aware of who and where we are. We haven’t lost sight of the fact that we’re women who were abducted and forced into prostitution.

  Kristie, though, doesn’t have the luxury of being as unpalatable as I do. She’s stunning. Tall, thin, and submissive. So she’s right up there with Zoey and Kimbella as the “clients’ favorites.”

  She told me she’s the daughter of some mega pastor in Canada, that she’d devoted herself to living a life of purity and doing God’s will. Yet this is where it got her.

  I’ve held her hair back while she puked each time she returned from a session. I’ve hugged her to my chest while she cried rivers of tears saying she couldn’t do it anymore and just wanted to die.

  “Kill me, Cola. Please, please kill me,” she would plead with wracking sobs. And I’d talk her down each time. Whispering promises I didn’t believe. That it would all be over soon. That help was coming. That she needed to trust that her God hasn’t abandoned her.

  Except her god did abandon her, didn’t he?

  At the sound of the telltale chime that signals when someone’s entering the penthouse, I sit up straight and suck in my stomach, plastering on a fake smile.

  When Dimitri, another of Igor’s men, comes into view, I drop the smile and exhale a silent breath of relief.

  Kimbella sashays in behind him, wheeling her small suitcase. With legs for miles, her white-blonde hair kisses her waist, and her blue eyes are bright and sparkling.

  Igor’s golden hen has returned.

  Kimbella claims she’s a princess where she’s from, though she doesn’t tell us where that is. Since she speaks with a strange accent and her English isn’t fluent, I assume it’s some obscure European country.

  Breezing past us, she flips her hair and smirks, and I wonder about her family. If her disappearance has left them mired in grief and misery. If she has a mother somewhere drowning in depression, not knowing that her daughter is having the time of her life here.

  As she and Dimitri disappear down the hall, I shift my gaze to Kristie. She’s sitting at the far end of the long S-shaped sofa, staring off into the fireplace with black, vacant eyes.

  Sucking in my stomach, I get up and hastily cross the room to go sit beside her. She doesn’t even blink. Gosh, I feel for her more than I feel for myself. As I run my fingers through her brown tresses and rest my chin to her shoulder, I don’t miss Zoey’s eye roll.

  All eyes are then drawn upward as The Bronze Man strides from the direction of Igor’s office, along the length of the interior balcony, then down the stairs. In a long, chestnut-colored coat with a black turtleneck sweater, black slacks, and polished leather boots.

  He looks so regal and dangerous at the same time. No-nonsense, but still...warm...in a sense. I wish I could crawl into that coat with him and let him smuggle me away.

  Let me be your slave.

  I remember the first time he came in, on a gust of icy November wind. With stern features and a perceptive gaze. As harsh as he appeared, he didn’t emit the same odious, reprehensible aura as all the others who prowled through here did.

  Still, I knew he wasn’t a good man. There can be no goodness in a man who supports forced prostitution. Knowing this, however, did not impede the inexplicable pull I felt toward him. A pull that made me want to smile at him, talk to him, be in his presence.

  But, alas, we aren’t allowed to speak to a client unless he speaks to us first.

  Twice a month he came in. Always on a Monday. And he’d pick either Kimbella, Zoey, Kristie, or Simone. Take them to a room upstairs and would return exactly fifty-eight minutes later, with two minutes to spare from his hour—yes, I count them. And apparently so does he, because how else could he be so precise and exact each and every time? Does he calculate his thrusts beforehand? Allot a quota of minutes to each sexual act?

  Control freak.

  By April, he’d stopped taking girls upstairs and instead started leaving with two or three of them at time. They’d be gone for anywhere between two weeks and a month.

  Once, one of the girls had whisper-asked Zoey, “Where does he take you for so long? I mean, what does he make you do? Does he fuck you every day?”

  Zoey had flipped her hair and giddily replied, “To his strip club. We dance on stage, but the men aren’t allowed to touch us.” Then she’d dropped her voice to whisper, “Best of all, no sex. But he makes us promise not to—” She’d stopped abruptly and straightened up, refusing to say more.

  Now, as he descends the stairs, the Diamond Girls preen. Even Kristie, her blank stare sparking to one of hope, of earnest.

  But The Bronze Man just walks right out without sparing any of us a glance.

  “I don’t understand,” one of the girls whines. “If Kimbella is back, why didn’t he take any of us?”

  As they all begin to trade suppositions, I nudge Kristie and ask in a whisper, “What’s it like with him?”

  She sags, as if trying to disappear into herself, and replies in a voice so wispy it’s as though she’s responding to herself rather than to me, “Not like the others.”

  Frowning, I ask, “What does that mean?”

  Before she can answer, the chime sounds, and two men stroll in. Oh, this duo. Two twenty-somethings who always come together.

  Kristie glances up at them and her face crumples, gripping my hand and squeezing my fingers so hard it hurts. But I let her, because I understand.

  The lanky Russian on the right is obsessed with her. Chooses only her. And I don’t know what on earth it is that he does to her once he takes her upstairs, but she always gets trembly and petrified when he walks in, then dissolves into a tearful mess after he leaves.

  As he strides up to us with a deceptively charming smile and holds his hand out to her, Kristie gives my fingers one last squeeze, sucks in a deep breath, and stands.

  The man settles his hand at the small of her back and leads her toward the stairs.

  His friend does the same with one of the others.

  Oleg and Viktor watch us from the interior balcony like angels of hell, chatting and snickering. Viktor, leaned against the railing with one hand rested readily on his ever-present gun. Oleg, slicing a pear with his switchblade and eating the pieces directly from the sharp edge.

  No one is paying attention to her.

  Not even me.

  She’s the quiet one, the meekest of us all. Daughter of a pastor. The most compliant and well-behaved of all the Diamond Girls. The complete opposite of me—the defiant svin’ya.

  That’s why no one could’ve foreseen Kristie stopping with an abrupt halt, then pivot to push the lanky Russian with all her might. She pushes him so hard that he crashes back into his friend. The friend crashes into Oleg, and Oleg loses his balance at the same time he starts choking.

  His pear and switchblade clatter to the floor and his hands fly up to his throat.

  The friend catches his equilibr
ium and tries to help Oleg. But Oleg is wild with panic, eyes wide, so both lose their balance and end up flipping like coins over the interior balcony, bodies crashing to the checkered marble floor.

  While Viktor and the lanky Russian are distracted by the fall, Kristie lurches forward and rips Viktor’s gun from his waist.

  “Suka!” Viktor growls, and lunges at her, but halts when Kristie points the gun at him.

  “DON’T!” Kristie shrieks. “Come near me and I will shoot you!”

  Viktor laughs derisively, then sneers, “How do you think this is going to play out, glupaya suka?”

  A small, shaky smile pulls at Kristie’s lips as she replies, “Even better than I imagined.”

  Before I can scream, “Kristie, no!”, she presses the gun under her chin and pulls the trigger.

  She’s dead before she hits the ground.

  Until now, I’d had no idea blood could splatter so far and so wide.

  It. Is. Everywhere.

  Around me, the Diamond Girls are screaming like banshees.

  Igor comes barreling out of his office, face twisted with rage, demanding to know what’s going on.

  Oleg is rolling around on the floor, choking to death.

  As all hell breaks loose around me, I just stand in the midst of it all, arms loose at my sides, not shocked or stunned as I should be. But…jealous.

  I feel jealousy toward Kristie.

  Envious, even.

  If only I had the fucking guts, if only I was as sure of the purity of my soul like Kristie was, that could’ve been me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “You two?”

  Lyra

  THE DOOR BURSTS OPEN AND LIGHT floods the room.

  “Get up!” Igor growls. “Pack some things. You leave now.”

  Sitting up in the bunk bed, I yawn and rub my eyes, but don’t bother moving because I know he doesn’t mean me. I’ve not been out of this penthouse since I was brought into it, dizzied and incoherent.

  As the other two girls in the bunk across from mine starts to clamber out, he tells them, “No, not you two.” Then jabs a finger at me. “You.”

  I blink from momentary shock. Me? Leave? To go where?

  “Move, svin’ya. Now!”

  Igor’s bark jolts me from my stupor into action. As he stomps away, I jump down from the top bunk, then halt at the sight of the empty bottom bunk.

  Although it’s been over a week since Kristie left me behind, it still hits me like a ton of bricks each time I jump down from the top bunk and find the bottom bunk empty. I know she’s at peace now, free, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss her. She was the only one I connected with here.

  With a wistful sigh, I pad to the front of the room and grab a backpack from the communal bin next to the dresser. I’ve never had to use any of these bags before, because, again, I’ve never been chosen to leave. Whatever “leave” even means right now.

  I toss in several lingerie sets and my heels. Two lip-glosses and a face powder. Everything is free use for all to share. As I go to throw in one of the hairbrushes, Tessa snaps, “You can’t take that one. It’s the only brush that works for my hair.”

  “Whatever,” I mumble, and pick up a wide-tooth comb instead.

  I change out of my nightgown into one of the two skank dresses that were given to me, then pad into the bathroom and freshen up before packing my toothbrush and moisturizer as well.

  Once I’m done, I start to leave the room but then stop and turn. Tessa and Danielle are sitting up in bed, watching me with strange expressions.

  I pad over to their bed, lower my voice, and ask, “Any idea where they might be taking me?”

  Tessa lays back down and pulls the blanket over her head.

  Danielle shrugs, and there’s pity in her voice when she replies, “First floor, maybe. Kimbella said she overheard Igor telling Oleg that he was thinking about moving you and Simone down there.”

  I suck in a sharp breath, then exhale on a wave of acceptance. Of course. It was bound to happen. I’ve been here sixteen months and still haven’t proved myself “worth the investment”—Igor’s words. I’d been hoping to be offered back to my family for a ransom, but seeing as I’m far from being “used up”, being a low performer and all, of course he’s not going to let me off that easy. Imagine being in a situation where being “used up” increases your chances of survival.

  Nodding, I turn and plod dejectedly out of the room.

  As I shuffle down the hall, I can hear Igor’s harsh voice, growling at someone. He’s been in a violent mood since Kristie’s death. I’ve been staying out of his way and complying without backtalk. I may be the most unmalleable Diamond Girl, more trouble than I’m worth, but I do know when to act out and when to fall back.

  The last time Igor was in a mood like this, he slammed a girl against the wall and strangled her until she turned blue and went limp. We’d thought for sure she was dead.

  Fortunately, she survived.

  Entering the main area, I see Simone waiting with a backpack of her own, flanked by Viktor and Oleg, and my stomach sinks. A small part of me had hoped against hope that Danielle’s “first floor” assumption wasn’t true.

  Judging from her scowl, Simone isn’t happy to see me either. Anyone would’ve imagined that Simone and I would be the ones who bonded, considering we’re the only two Diamond Girls labeled as a “bad investment,” and are constantly glowered upon with resentment and disappointment by Igor. We’re the black sheep. The low performers. The rarely chosen.

  But, just like the others, she’s desperate to please Igor. To gain his approval. As far as she’s concerned, I’m her competition.

  The girl disappoints me.

  Igor marches into the room and waves his hands dismissively, impatiently. “Take them. Go. Go! Worst investment I ever made, these two. Worthless. Just worthless!”

  As Viktor and Oleg start to lead us out, Igor grabs my upper arm, digging his fingers into my flesh as he snarls, “Try anything like your glupyy friend and I will slit your throat myself.”

  I don’t know what glupyy means, but coming from him, it can’t be anything good. And since I don’t appreciate anyone talking bad about Kristie, I hiss at him like a snake, baring my teeth and jerking my arm from his grip.

  Then, I brace myself, expecting him to backhand me.

  I’m shocked when he doesn’t.

  He just growls “urodlivaya svin’ya” under his breath and stomps off.

  Exiting the penthouse feels so strange, so foreign, that I pause at the threshold, feeling crippled, like I’m committing a grave sin.

  A sharp poke at my back from Oleg nudges me forward. “Move.”

  I do, shuffling alongside Simone to the elevator. When my arm dares to brush against hers, she elbows me and I sigh. If she knew where we were going, she wouldn’t be so haughty.

  The elevator ride is quiet, and I watch the illuminated “G” with a frown. That’s ground floor, not first floor. I exhale slowly, quietly. Maybe Danielle was wrong.

  When the elevator stops and the doors slide open, Viktor says, “We know this is yous’ first time out in public, but we do not need to remind yous’ how to behave, do we?”

  “No,” Simone says quickly.

  When I don’t answer, Viktor nudges me and prompts, “Do we?”

  Refusing to answer, I bite my lip and fight back the urge to tell him to go to hell.

  Oleg glares as he throws his heavy arm around my shoulders, which comes off as casual as he leads me out of the elevator. A control move. As lax as his arm around me appears, there’s no escaping it if I dared.

  The upscale look and feel of the lobby surprises me. It’s like…a luxury hotel. Lofty. Sumptuous. There’s even a concierge desk.

  Two men with suitcases are being “checked in” at the reception desk.

  Two women lounge in the sitting area, laughing and gabbing over coffee cups.

  It all looks so real. Legit. Innocuous.

  The exc
ess in security, however, is a dead giveaway that this is all staged.

  There are about eight different men in security uniforms just prowling in the lobby. I’ve been to a lot of luxury hotels in my short life and I’ve never seen this level of security in just the lobby, in addition to the security cameras covering every inch of the area.

  This is how they get away with it all.

  I’m forced to keep up with Oleg’s wide strides as we move through the lobby and out the tinted glass doors.

  Frigid air bites into my skin like teeth of ice.

  But as glacial as the air is, I want to weep from just being able to feel it.

  Fresh air.

  I’m outside.

  I’m. Outside.

  I inhale deeply, appreciatively, filling my lungs and fighting back tears.

  It’s somewhere around six in the morning. We had all just gone to bed after another long, torturous night when Igor later burst into our room. Sunsets are late in Russia—sometimes not at all—so right now it’s dark, wet, and cold.

  Still, there are people everywhere, moving at hurried paces in either direction. Bundled up in thick coats and scarfs, winter hats and gloves.

  Across the street are two police officers, one sticking a parking ticket under someone’s windshield wiper. I almost snort. He really thinks he’s doing something, doesn’t he? When right across from him is a ritzy brothel, packed with abducted and imprisoned women.

  There’s a black car waiting on the curb, breaker lights on. Oleg urges me toward it when I lag.

  Furtively, I try to catch the attention of someone, anyone, to plead for help. But that’s the thing about busy cities; people are forever in a rush, too caught up with their own running thoughts to see what’s right in front of them. Igor couldn’t have picked a better location to run his sordid business.

  Simone and I are prodded into the waiting car first, then Oleg and Viktor get in on either side of us, sealing us in. In the front seats are Dimitri and Pavlov, another two of Igor’s trusted men.

  The car merges into traffic and all four men proceed to gab in Russian. I gaze out the windows at the passing lights, at the buildings, at the moving cars with new appreciation. Should, by some miracle, I survive this, I will never, ever take my freedom for granted.