Page 20 of Blue Velvet

“Special item?”

“You know...,” I murmur. “The one that I was allowed to bring with me. It’s a bracelet.”

“The one you were allowed to bring with you?” he repeats. “Allowed by whom?”

I fixate my defiant stare on him for a few moments, trying to figure out whether he’s messing with me. Why does he keep doing this? I was told that this assignment could only work if certain terms were agreed upon beforehand. It would destroy the whole arrangement if I was forced to verbalize the contract now that I’m here. He must know that, especially since he agreed to the terms?

“Please,” I repeat. “Just give me my purse. Or at least give me back my bracelet.”

“Bracelet?”

I sigh. “It’s my special item. I want to have it.”

The agency told me that I was allowed to ask for my bracelet at any time. I didn’t need to give a reason why I wanted it, I didn’t need to launch into a full discussion, all I had to do was ask for it. I wasn’t wearing it the night he took me because I was afraid of losing it during the struggle, the struggle I was expecting but never happened. It’s not worth more than twenty dollars from a monetary perspective, but the personal and sentimental value to me is priceless.

The bracelet was given to me by my friend Isabel, the only true friend I ever had, and the only person who stood by me the entire four years I fought my way through college. Isabel was also the one who introduced me to this line of work. More than that, though, she was the one friend who shared my desire to get an education, against any and all odds. We exchanged matching bracelets on the day we graduated from college, each one having two charms that mean the world to us, two little black hearts, just like our own.

It’s my one big reminder that I’m more than this, more than just a high-class escort, and that it’s okay for me to be both the only girl with a college degree in my family, and the person who likes making a living by selling her body to men. It’s two distinct worlds clashing, one never accepting the other, but yet my heart continues holding on to both.

“You still don’t understand,” he says, placing his hands firmly on my shoulders. The look in his eyes is unyielding and cold, but his touch feels warm and oddly comforting. “You don’t get to decide, and you don’t get to ask for favors.”

I gasp.

“This is not negotiable,” I insist. “That bracelet. I’m allowed to ask for it, no ifs, ands, or buts.”

He chuckles. “Says who?”

“It was in the contract!” I blurt out. I don’t care if I’m breaking the rules here, because so is he. He started it by belittling me like this.

He fixates on me through narrowed eyes. “We never signed a contract, toy.”

My heart feels like it stops beating for a few seconds as I process what he just said. Is this another game he’s playing with me? Does he get off on openly acting as if this was a real kidnapping and I’m being held here against my will?

“Get down on your knees.”

His command hits me like a slap to the face. My legs bend on instinct, but I fight the urge to obey. I can’t, I shouldn’t. This is not okay, and as much as I wish I could just ignore the fact that he’s obviously unwilling to stick to the most basic rules set up between us, I just can’t.

“No,” I tell him. “I want my bracelet.”

“Stop being ridiculous, toy,” he hisses, closing in on me. I’m torn between the desire to touch him, to please him, to be pleasedbyhim - and the knowledge that doing so would hurt my credibility and what little dignity I manage to preserve through all of this.

“If you’re not going to play by the rules, then neither will I,” I huff, and for once, my voice carries conviction.

12

Loran

Her words areas confusing as they are unequivocal, but then realization strikes me like a bolt of lighting.

She thinks I’m her client.

It all makes sense, especially if what she told me earlier is true. She never specified the conditions under which she was supposed to meet this client of hers, but it’s not out of the question that her client hired her forthis exact thing- to be kidnapped and turned into a slave—except it was to happen according to strict terms that had been agreed upon beforehand. Terms that she keeps refering to, but which are unknown to me.

I stand before her, confronted with her determined anger. She’s clenching her fists and pressing her lips together, still insisting that I abide by a set of rules that I know nothing about.

I don’t know what to do. If I tell her that I’m not who she thinks I am, would she even believe me? Is there any way I could use this misunderstanding to my advantage?

I need time to think, that’s for sure.

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