Page 16 of Release Me

Until now.

Until her.

I shake my head, refusing to follow that line of thought any further.

“Who are you exactly, Mr. Adler?” Nadia asks, her tone thick with condescension. “Some kind of local celebrity?”

“No, Miss Hendrix, I’m not a celebrity. I’m just a well known business man who comes from a well known family. I’m not famous, but most people recognize me, especially when they’re standing in one of my many establishments looking for a job.”

She uncrosses her legs and pulls down the hem of her dress. It’s shorter than the one she was wearing last night, and this time the fabric is a deep red instead of black. The color paired with her curves makes me think of a glass of wine, a full bodied Malbec that explodes on your tongue and demands everything while giving you nothing. Her hair is curled instead of straight, ebony tresses framing her face but doing nothing to soften the sharp edges of her frown.

“And you want me to, what? Congratulate you for being rich and somewhat well known? Apologize for not throwing myself at your feet and begging for a job at one of your many establishments?” She pitches her voice low at the end of the sentence in an attempt to mock me. “Or maybe I should?—”

“Come work for me,” I say, interrupting her.

“What?”

“Come work for me,” I repeat. “You have a specific set of skills I feel have been going to waste since you’ve arrived in New Haven. I’d like to be the first person here to benefit from them.”

My eyes are on her sparse resume—which doesn’t indicate that she’s in possession of the skills I’ve just attributed to her or is at all capable of performing the duties attached to the position I’m about to offer her—so I miss the moment this already doomed conversation takes a turn for the worst.

Nadia shoots to her feet, and the chair she was just sitting in screeches against the tile floor. It’s the sound that catches my attention, but the anger vibrating every inch of her frame is what keeps it. Is what sends the mildest twinge of worry through my gut even as I’m captivated by the sight of her looming over me in all of her furious glory.

“I knew this place was too good to be true.” She shakes her head, and I watch self-deprecation roll across her features. “God, I’m so fucking stupid for believing you were running some kind of safe haven for sex workers here. And the constant hiring at Cerros is what? A way to keep your roster of girls full? Do you lure them in with the promise of a normal job that actually pays well and then just pull the rug out from under them, so they’re desperate enough to say yes when one of your recruiters comes along. That’s what Desiree is right? She’s great at her job, so kudos to you for choosing so well. She’s that perfect blend of friendly and pushy. Did she tell you it only took one phone call to get me in here? Of course, she did. She probably tells you everything like how last night the only man who thought I was worth something with my clothes on was dragged out of here, leaving me ripe for the picking, ready for the boss to come in and sample the product before making a push for me to sell it.”

The surprisingly complex conspiracy theory spills out of her in between agitated breaths that leave no room for me to respond, to refute her allegations with facts and a warning about how watching an excessive amount of true crime documentaries can rot your brain.

“That’s not what this is, Nadia.”

“Of course it is. I know men like you. I’ve—” She swallows, choking down the words as she commits to the offensive line of thought that calls my character into question. “So, how do you want me, Mr. Adler?” Her hands go to the hem of her dress and begin lifting it up, agitation making her fingers shake. “Should I get completely naked or just hike my dress up and slip my thong to the side?”

Nadia is a beautiful woman, but there’s nothing enticing about the abrupt reveal of her skin or the vulgarity of her words. My stomach begins to churn at the same moment my blood starts to boil. Running Ludus and meeting women like Desiree who, as far as I can tell, has only been a friend to Nadia, taught me that the space I’ve created here is the exception in the world of sex work, not the rule. Most of the men in my position do exactly what Nadia is accusing me of.

That’s the ugly truth of this industry.

I know that. I’ve known that for years, so it makes no sense for me to be so affected when confronted with the reality of it. For me to want to break the hands of every man that’s touched her against her will, to end every person who has treated her like she’s something other than precious.

“Nadia.” I’m standing now, and I hate the way me rounding the desk to move towards her makes her lips quiver with resignation.

“Let me guess. This is the part where you tell me not to waste my energy screaming because no one is going to help me. You don’t have to say it. I won’t fight. I won’t scream. I already know help isn’t coming.”

She looks like she’s learned that lesson a thousand times over. God, her eyes are so fucking sad now that there’s no fire behind them. She’s still gripping the hem of her dress, and I note the presence of a long, jagged scar on the inside of her thigh as I step into her space. Tears crowd her eyes, but she blinks them away, maintaining eye contact.

“You think I’m going to hurt you?”

“Please don’t lie and say you’ll make it feel good,” she pleads as one of the tears breaks free, gliding down her cheek. “They always say that, but it never does.”

My next breath is a pained shudder because my mind has taken it upon itself to conjure hundreds of images to attach to that statement. Ugly, violent, horrific pictures. It makes me sick to have them in my head. What does it do to her to live with the memories? To believe that every man she encounters is a predator even when there’s no evidence to suggest otherwise?

I take a step back, accepting that we can’t have this conversation here because she doesn’t feel safe being alone with me. The distance between us doesn’t make Nadia relax at all, but I’m as far away as I’m willing to be. I sit down on the desk, gripping the edge with my fingers so she knows I’m not going to put my hands on her.

“Pull down your dress, Nadia.”

Finally, there’s relief. It’s tinged with caution, but it’s there, calming her features marginally. She hesitates to follow my instruction, glassy eyes searching my face to see if I’m tricking her.

“What? You don’t?—?”

She lets the question trail off, and I watch her come back to herself a little. Embodying the woman she was in the hotel lobby the day we met, the one she was when she walked in here, the one she was before my coded language made her back slide mentally.

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