"No. Water yesterday.”
"Please,” I beg her. “Little more.”
Her lips tighten, her face showing zero sympathy. "Tomorrow,chernomazaya.If lucky."
She goes back up the stairs, locking the door. I stare at the tray, pick it up and eat slowly. The bread is stale. It always is. I chew every bite until it’s soft enough to swallow.
The rest of the day wears on. To pass the time, I make shapes out of the water stains on the wall. I try to remember scenes from my favorite books. When I get tired of that, I recite multiplication tables in my head. I wish I’d gottenbetter at them in school. Well, I wish I’d gotten better at everything.
I keep multiplying, trying my best even when I get stuck on the harder ones that I always forget like nine times seven. I figure out the answer, but it took a while. I wish math and other things came easier to me.
Like it does for Kayla.
I bet wherever she is, she’s making her new family proud. She was always smart. Smarter than me despite our age difference. I wonder if she’s doing the things I used to talk about. Things I wanted to do. I know it’s not nice but even though I miss her and want her to be safe, I’m also jealous. She’s probably in high school now. Learning to drive. Maybe doing cheerleading, which I loved. I bet she’s living such an amazing life she doesn’t remember or think about me anymore.
I don’t think she does. In fact, I don’t think anyone does. Not the way I think about them.
Or the way I’ve started to think about someone new.
Roman Ivanov.
It’s stupid, but I can’t help it. I don’t know why. I guess because he’s a new distraction from the same thoughts I have every single day. That has to be it.
As the day shifts into what I think might be evening or nighttime, I close my eyes, letting my mind wander again before falling asleep. I go back to my favorite fantasy. The rescue that will never come. The only difference is, this time the person who comes down those stairs has a beautiful face, wet-sand hair and deep blue eyes that are cold and calculating.
I should stop picturing him. I don’t know him and I never will. My brain, however, doesn’t care. Tonight, in my fantasy, Roman comes down the stairs and says, “I’m taking you out of here.”
And I go. Willingly with him. Not because it’s someone rescuing me, but because it’s him.
I’m just plain embarrassing.
I squeeze my eyes shut, shove the thought away and fall asleep. I wake the next day with my stomach already twisting itself into knots. It’s Tuesday. The Pakhan will come. I’m still afraid he might punish me really bad. All day long my body trembles. I end up dry heaving until there’s nothing left.
When the lock finally turns, I hurry to sit on the ground. I’ve managed to calm myself enough to seem normal. If he sees me shaking, it’ll make him suspicious. His footsteps on the stairs are heavier tonight. They sound angry. Oh no. I hear another set behind him now. They’re lighter, faster. It’s Madam Belova. I’m starting to feel sick again.
The Pakhan bursts through the door. His face is red with rage as he stomps down the stairs. Madam Belova hurries after him, her face paler than usual. They’re speaking in Russian. I can’t understand any of it, but whatever she's saying only seems to make him angrier.
He snaps something at her, shut up, I think, because her mouth closes immediately. He turns on the stairs, facing her, switching to English. "You run this brothel. You're responsible for the girls. That whore last week?—"
He’s doing this for my benefit. I’m sure of it. He wants me to understand and remember he’s always in control. Madam Belova answers him in her broken English, pleading. "Girl is new. Doesn’t know rules."
"I don't give a fuck if she's new," he shouts, arm flailing through the air. "That slut talked back to one of my associates. Refused his request.”
"Won’t happen again. Please. Was mistake. My girls do everything.”
"You should have dealt with her before she embarrassed me." He steps toward her. She backs into the wall.
"Do you know how that makes me look? My whores. Refusing service?"
"Forgive me. I beg you. Won’t happen again.” She clasps her hands together. “Another chance Grigori Ivanov. I beg."
"You're right. It won't again,” he sneers, “Next time, it’s your neck, Belova. I’ll find someone else to run this place.”
Her eyes bulge. He glares at her, turns, pinning me with that same look. "This is the problem with whores, little girl. They think because they spread their legs for a living, they have power. They don’t. They have nothing."
His gaze moves from Belova back to me, sitting on the floor at his feet.
"This one knows her place,” he huffs, before a slow calculating smile spreads across his features. “You should be grateful. Grateful you're not upstairs fucking drunk men every night. This—” he gestures to the basement, my prison, “—is better. You're doing something valuable. Those whores upstairs?” He snorts. “They’re holes waiting to be filled."
