Page 7 of Release Me

In the silence her presence has caused to settle between us, I study her profile and Vince’s statuesque features, trying to determine if I’m about to be put in the middle of a lover’s quarrel because of a man I didn’t want to talk to in the first place.

“Vincent,” she says, her voice dripping with sweetness as she places a hand with nails so long they can only be described as claws on his arm. “Are you harassing this poor girl?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer, turning to me to get her answer instead. “Is he harassing you?”

I don’t hesitate to respond. “Yep.”

“Oh, come on!” Vince exclaims, glaring at me like I’ve done him wrong. “I was just asking you how your interview went.”

She ignores him, keeping eyes the color of honey trained on my face.“Please don’t tell me he used the line about his hands on management style on you.”

Judging by the way Vince is shifting in his seat, I can tell my honest answers are digging him into some kind of hole with this woman, but I don’t care. “He sure did.”

With my confirmation, she swings her head back in his direction, sending more of her citrus and saccharine scent floating up my nose. I watch with undisguised interest as she leans towards him, placing her lips at his ear and whispering something that makes his eyes go wide and his chestnut skin take on a slight blush. When she pulls back, Vince slides off of his barstool and leaves without so much as a glance my way. The woman takes his seat and angles her body in my direction with a triumphant smile on her round face.

“What did you say to him?” I ask, wishing I had those magic words five minutes ago.

She shrugs and gives me a half smile. “Does it matter? I got him to go away, which is what you wanted.”

“How did you know I wanted him to go away.”

“Because no woman ever talks to Vince willingly.”

Her tone is so matter of fact, it surprises a laugh out of me. “I can see why. He’s a creep.”

“A total creep,” she agrees, lifting her hand to get the bartender’s attention. “Can I have a Jack and Coke, please? Make it cherry Coke if you have it, and get us another one of whatever?—”

She glances at me, and for the second time today, I supply my name. “Nadia.”

“Nadia,” she repeats. “Another one of whatever Nadia is having.”

The bartender nods his confirmation from the other end of the bar where the rest of the women who came in with my own personal Wonder Woman are keeping him busy. Now that I’m no longer stunned by their looks, I’m able to take in their outfits, noticing that they’re all dressed like her, tight dresses or skirts, sky high heels and nails long enough to make you question how they function on a daily basis. My heart thumps in my chest as the group of strangers, including the woman next to me, becomes familiar. Known to me in a way that only the women I left behind when I escaped my old life are known to me.

It doesn’t take a sex worker to know a sex worker. Anyone can spot them if they know what they’re looking for, but it does take a sex worker, former or current, to know a happy one. To know one who chose this life and who was forced into it. Out of all the girls Beau—my abuser, my trafficker, my own private hell right here on Earth—had working under the escort service he built on my back, I was the only one who didn’t choose the path we were all on together. I’d watch girls get ready for their dates, jealous of how empowered they felt while I came back from every outing feeling small, dirty, used.

Much like the girls I left behind, the ones in front of me are in the life by choice. It’s evident in the way they carry themselves, in the easy conversations they have with each other and the absence of shame in the air when they pay for their food and drinks with money they earned doing things that make me cringe when I think of them.

“I’m Desiree,” the girl beside me says, sliding me the glass of Chianti she bought for me.

I accept the glass with a brittle smile. “Thank you, Desiree. For the wine and for whatever you said to Vince to make him go away.”

“You’re welcome.” She clinks her tumbler against my wine glass, her red lips curving up into an endearing grin. “Cheers, to alcohol and empty threats!”

“Cheers.”

I take another sip of my wine and try not to look like I’m wondering when she’s going to leave to go back over to her friends. It’s not that I want to be rid of her, I just don’t want her to feel obligated to spend any more of her time or money on me.

“So, Nadia, where are you from?”

“Oh, um, all over.”

She takes a long swig of her drink, swallowing before pulling a face that tells me how unsatisfactory she finds my answer.“Wow, what a specific answer.”

Her sarcasm makes me think of Bianca. The only one of Beau’s girls I actually thought of as a friend. She was a smart ass too, and the memory of the first time she called me out on my bullshit is the only reason why I offer Desiree a small bit of truth.

“Texas. I was born in Texas.” But not raised. I leave that part out because she doesn’t need to know I’ve spent more time in New Haven than the state I was born in. Desiree studies me over the rim of her glass for a long while, like she’s deciding if she wants to spend any more time with a liar.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re kind of elusive?”

“Nope. Everyone I know says I’m an open book.”

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