Page 99 of For a Price

I sit back down in the chair and try to tune out of the moment. Disappear into my head. Go somewhere in the past or in my imagination.

But it feels impossible when reality is so suffocating.

The very act of thinking becomes difficult.

The only thoughts I’m capable of forming are about Roman.

Where is he? Does he know I’m missing? Will he be coming for me?

Please… please let him come for me…

The stylist eventually gives up altogether and resorts to a wig that’s an off black and has loose waves.

My makeup comes next. I’ve never been a glamorous woman or the kind who wears a lot of makeup. Living on the streets has meant keeping things minimal. Survival has always trumped being a girly girl.

But today I’m not given the choice.

I’m forced to sit obediently as she paints my face in several layers.

Foundation. Contour. Highlight. Fake lashes. Bold lips and smoky eyes.

Once she’s through with me and I stare in the mirror, I hardly look like myself. Will Roman even recognize me if he comes looking?

“Put this on,” she snaps, shoving a clothes hanger at me.

I blink at the skimpy little scrap of fabric dangling from it. “I’m not wearing this.”

“You’ll wear this or you’ll be punished. You will be spending the night on stage or in the infirmary. Choose now!”

It’s a matching set of sequin-encrusted bra and panties.

A g-string.

Embarrassment sears through me as I wrap my arms across my front, trying to shield myself.

There’s no use when no privacy exists. The henchmen remain in the room. The stylist is in the room.

She said I’ll be onstagelike this.

Tears prick my eyes, though I blink them away, refusing to let them fall. What’s the point when it seems as if it only pisses them off more?

It annoys them that I’m upset. That I’m being difficult.

“Come. It’s time.”

I’m strapped into six inch heels I wobble in and then led out of the dressing room. It’s as we enter the hall that I set eyes on someone else in the same situation for the first time. Another woman scantily clad in heels and a g-string being led down the hall like a pet on a leash. Her eyes are dim and she doesn’t even bother glancing in my direction.

As if she knows she’ll be punished if she does.

We trail behind them, winding down another hall. It ends with a set of stairs that the stylist prods me toward.

“You will be given direction. Go.”

I’m passed off from her to a bald, hook-nosed man on stage. He pinches at my elbow to escort me.

The stage is huge, the rest of the lounge designated for the audience even bigger. Dozens of tables and chairs are arranged for guests to fill.

Hovering across the stage are… cages.

---