Page 37 of Volatile Waters

“His hair was too light for such dark, scary eyes.”

In the viewing room, I lifted a brow at Kirill. He shrugged while grabbing a chair. “You said to make it appear convincing.” He sat down, watching the monitor again. “Look. It worked.”

I grabbed a chair also. “He already cares. Well done.”

Father told me, “She is to be delivered in four months. Another boy is being trained elsewhere. Our customer likes to watch the young fornicate, then join in.” As if not just announcing a grim future for the two teenagers, he left the room.

On the TV screen, I studied the newly forming friendship while the girl studied Crash’s expression. She asked, “You know him?”

“Yeah,” he replied, still dabbing at her wound. “If it helps. I spar with him sometimes and hit him hard.”

She nervously smirked. “Can you hit him harder next time?”

Crash smiled for the first time in weeks. “Consider it done.”

“Do you know why I’m here?”

His hand fell from her face as he sat back on his bent legs, nodding in a gloomy manner. “How much did you see when you got here?”

She shook her head. “Didn’t. But I know I’ve been tricked. I was supposed to—” She glanced down in shame.

“What?”

“I can’t. I feel so stupid now.”

“Hey, I have a feeling you are far from the only one these guys have tricked into being here. I won’t judge you. I swear it.”

Her head leaned back to the wall behind her. “There was this guy I was talking with online. He seemed to get me. I believed he cared for me.” Her eyes welled. “He said he loved me.” She sighed. “I was going to run away with him. I snuck out my window. Waiting for me in the car was not the hot guy who loved me. By the time I realized what was happening, I was shoved in the car. I felt a poke.” She rubbed her arm where the needle had stabbed and drugged her. Choking on a whisper, she said, “Now, I’m here.” With hopelessness, she shrugged. “Where’s here?”

Crash’s shoulders folded in. “Russia.” She paled as her mouth gaped, and her eyes spoke of knowing she was in grave danger. He nodded and touched her knee. “I’m sorry they tricked you.”

“Who are they?”

Crash swallowed. “Traffickers. They sell… girls.”

“Oh, no.” Her eyes slid shut. “Sexual slavery. My teacher spoke of this in class.” A couple of tears slid down her smooth skin. “Running from one problem, I found a worse one.”

“Problem?”

“My stepdad—” her eyes opened then deadened “—likes me more than my mom.”

Repulsed, Crash cringed. “No.”

As if used to the truth of abuse, she replied, “I so wanted to believe Chris loved me.”

“Chris?”

“My boyfriend—online guy. I thought he was my boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Crash played with the shoelace of his sneaker then froze. “How long were you talking to him?”

“About three weeks. How long have you been here?”

“Over six months.” After a couple of lingering moments of silence, Crash asked, “What’s your name?”

“Sam.”

Sam was my last attempt at forcing Crash to become a trainer, a Master, in America. My father was able to desensitize me at a young age by taking away my very first pet. I was hoping to do the same with Crash. His father clearly wasn’t the material for the job—hence, fucking Junior. But, I guess, their father-son similarities ran deep. Harold Thompson fell for his first slave, too.