The Orchid Tattoo, page 13
“Lily,” Gunner said, as though she hadn’t spoken.
“Lily?” He circled her, his gaze like fingers on her skin. She stood taller, angled her face so that her hair fell across her shoulder. “Not Lily. Maybe Lillian.”
“What do you think of her?” Gunner asked.
“She’s luscious. Leave her with me.”
Gunner didn’t even tell her goodbye. He fished his keys from his pocket and headed out the door, not even looking back. It pissed her off. Not that she was attached to him. She no longer saw any use in attachments. But she’d lived in his house for four weeks and did whatever he asked—and he asked a lot. How dare he treat her with so little respect.
Jefe moved to the bar beside the mammoth fireplace and poured himself a dark amber drink. He didn’t offer her any. Lillian stood perfectly still, assessing. Should she run? But go where?
“Sit,” he said.
She took her time walking to the sofa and perching, her long legs folded beneath her. He sat beside her; the drink cradled in his hands. “You haven’t said anything,” he commented.
“What would you like me to say?”
He placed the glass on a coffee table and touched her, fingers skimming up her arms, her neck, her cheek. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
He smiled at that, his teeth straight and as white as copy paper. Expensive teeth. “When I ask something, you always tell the truth.”
“I’m sixteen.” She didn’t feel that age. She felt much older.
“Where is your family?”
She shrugged. “I don’t care.”
“Ah. A tough chica.” He smirked. “Where did you last see them?”
“A trailer north of here. My stepdad was between jobs—” She flicked her hand. She was done with them, with that life.
“They aren’t looking for you?”
She thought about the last time she’d seen them, the fight with her mother about a stupid pair of boots, her stepfather slapping her so hard she nearly fell to the floor. How she jerked away from them and ran, though she needn’t have, they didn’t come after her. They never did. “No. Why do you ask?”
His hand sifted through her hair. “I want you . . . unencumbered.”
“Yes. I’m . . . unencumbered.”
He lifted the glass again and sipped. “I may have plans for you, Lillian. If you prove yourself.”
She eyed him with a hint of disdain. She didn’t like being a pawn in a game with no rules.
He cuffed her lightly on the chin. “Ah. Feisty. I like that. To an extent. Though it would be unwise to take it far.”
She softened her expression, not wanting to push him. She didn’t know him and didn’t know what he was capable of. She would though. If she were to stay here, she would study him. Learn him. Understand what drove him. There had to be power in knowing.
Lillian settled into her life with Jefe. He liked sex. He gave her videos to watch, telling her to be a good student, to learn what it took to please a man. She thought that was funny because she’d found him quite easy to please. She didn’t like the films—the girls were too passive, too under the thumb of the men. When she asked for different ones, he handed her a catalog. She ordered six and found four that suited her because the women took the upper hand. Some did it with subtle manipulation, with postures and approaches, others with more overt forms of domination. She preferred the former.
As did Jefe. He liked it so much that he decided she should please one of his business associates, a man who’d come from New York. She hadn’t prepared for this possibility. “Why should I do this? Don’t I give you enough?” she demanded.
He grabbed her by the chin, squeezing so hard it felt like his fingernails might slice through flesh. “You will do what I tell you, or you won’t like the consequences.”
She’d never been frightened of him before. Wary, yes, but not afraid for her safety. She nodded. She met the associate in a fancy downtown hotel, wearing the evening gown Jefe had bought her, carrying the champagne he’d purchased. When she left four hours later, he was sleeping the deep slumber of the happily sated.
The next day, Jefe was so pleased he let her buy a movie to watch on his large screen tv. She watched the latest Twilight film and after, ate an ice cream sundae prepared by Jefe’s cook. She liked this special treatment so much that when Jefe had another friend for her to meet, she bargained with him for three new outfits and her own tv. They continued this way for several months; he’d set up an appointment for her, she’d negotiate for payment.
She began to learn more about Jefe and how he’d earned his fortune. He dealt in people. Real live people, some from Mexico and South America, and some from Asian countries, who supplied a large and demanding labor market. A farm that needed workers to harvest—Jefe brought in a crew from Mexico. A factory struggling to produce enough cheap T-shirts or mass-market dresses— Jefe’s workers from Viet Nam could pull double shifts. Lillian came to understand how little the workers were paid, and that leaving their employment was not an option—Jefe made sure of it.
Jefe came to trust Lillian more and more. Once, when he was going over his books, she saw how much money he had made. Jefe was a very rich man from selling people. What stunned her was how much he made from lending Lillian to his friends—several thousand dollars for each encounter. She felt a little foolish for getting excited that he bought her outfits and let her watch movies in exchange; she could now hold out for a higher price.
She brought this up over dinner one night, and Jefe laughed. “You think you can bargain with me?”
She swallowed. “I think that I make you much more money than the workers at the farm or the factory. And there is only one of me!”
“What makes you think you’re the only one?”
The next day, he took her to the trailer, where she met Roman and two girls who worked for him. The place reeked, and the girls looked cheap and wrung out. Worst had been Roman’s eyes drinking her in like she was a cheap beer.
“I bring in two thousand a weekend when business is good,” Jefe said, as they drove away.
“Who is the business? Truck drivers? You make much more money on me. You should consider a more upscale operation.” She knew she was pushing her luck. Jefe didn’t like being told what to do, but the trailer had been awful. She’d rather die than be sold out of a place like that. How did those girls stand it?
He looked more thoughtful than annoyed. “Where would I get the girls for something like that?”
“Where did you get them?” She waved a thumb in the direction of the trailer. “Where do you get the workers for the plant or the peach farms?”
He eyed her carefully. “We don’t find girls like you every day. You’re different.”
“Yes, I am,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “And maybe I can teach others what I’ve learned. Maybe I can make you richer.”
He laughed. “Maybe you can.”
A few days later he brought her a stack of photographs. “These girls work for me. Pick out a few.”
The pictures were amateurish, but useful. She sorted through twenty pictures of girls, selecting three. She wasn’t even sure why she chose them. It wasn’t necessarily beauty, though that helped. It could be an expression, a physical posture, or the way she took in the camera.
Jefe looked at her selections and pulled two additional from the stack. The two he chose concerned her. They looked so young, only children, wearing a blank look as though all emotion had been leached from them.
“Why them, Jefe?” Lillian asked.
“If we can clean them up, they’ll bring top dollar. My friends often ask for younger girls.”
Something roiled in her gut. How young? Lillian had lost her virginity at thirteen, by choice, and had come to regret it. What would it be like for these girls—these children—to be forced to lie with older men?
“What’s wrong?” Jefe’s voice held a hint of criticism.
“They’re just . . . so young.”
“Young?” A wildness flashed in his eyes. “How dare you. You have no idea what they came from. How they were treated. You think you can judge me?”
“No. Never. I just—”
He jabbed a finger at her like a knife. “I give them food, a place to sleep. Clothes. They have a better life with me. Like you do, Lillian.” He collected the photos, shoved them in a drawer, and locked it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The next day, the tension that remained between them frightened Lillian. She walked a tight rope as she fixed him his favorite breakfast, which he ate without saying a word. She cleaned the dishes and the kitchen, vacuumed the living room, and dusted every surface, keeping an eye on him, assessing. Finally, he spoke. “Get in the car.” Hidden danger in those words.
He drove her through downtown and into an industrial area, slowing to turn on a gravel road that led to a cement block building. It was surrounded by a tall hurricane fence topped with razor wire like a sadistic slinky. Two beat-up-looking cars parked beside the lone entrance.
Jefe honked his horn, and a man came out to open the gate. Once parked, they stepped out of the car into oppressive, moist heat. Lillian noticed a box fan whirring in a window and prayed that wasn’t the only air circulating inside.
The man led them through a battered, plain door where a wall of hotter air greeted them. A small desk with an old computer monitor sat to the right of the entrance and a Lance snack machine squatted to the left. The rumble of machines echoed from the open door in front of them.
A small woman with dark hair pulled into a tight bun entered from an interior door. She wore a dark cotton dress and athletic shoes; a yellow measuring tape looped around her neck.
“Jefe.” Her voice sounded shrill. “Wasn’t expecting you.” Her knuckles were smeared with black grease. The tiniest beads of perspiration dotted her forehead, while streams of sweat dribbled from Lillian’s face.
“Show us the floor,” he ordered.
She nodded, turned, and led them to a larger, very noisy room. Two dozen sewing machines thrummed. Behind each sat a girl—some Asian, some Hispanic, some Caucasian. One who looked to be of African descent. The oldest looked to be in her twenties. The youngest, barely a teen.
The heat reminded Lillian of the time she’d been so badly sunburned she’d ended up in the hospital. How did these girls work in these conditions? In the corner, sewing at a feverish pitch, was a tall, strong-looking woman with very dark skin and black hair cut close to her scalp. Her machine stopped. She looked up at Lillian, her gaze open and searching.
Approaching them was the man who’d let them through the gate—a wide semi of a person, dressed in a blue work shirt and chinos, a shaggy auburn mustache drooping around his mouth like a swag. “Something you need, Jefe?”
Jefe ignored him and turned to Lillian. “See these girls? If you want, you can join them. If I tell Stan to put you to work, that’s exactly what you’ll do. You’ll sit behind one of these machines. You need more help, Stan?”
He shrugged. “Sure. We’re pushed today. Everybody’s pulling doubles.”
“How long are they working?”
“Fifteen hours probably. Till we get the order done.”
Lillian felt burning bile rise into her throat. One wrong move and she’d become one of these girls. Only she wouldn’t survive it, not in that heat. Jefe reached in his pocket and pulled out the photos—the ones she’d picked out yesterday—and shoved them at Stan. “I want these girls off the floor. Clean them up, bring them to me tomorrow morning.”
Stan licked his lips. “Like I said, we gotta big run to finish.”
“Then finish it!” he commanded. “But I want to see these girls at eleven.”
Stan nodded, eyes wide with fear.
“Good.” He turned back to Lillian. “You come back with me and do as I say. Or you stay here. Which will it be?”
She turned and walked to the door, letting her footsteps be his answer.
The next day, she waited in the living room for the girls to arrive. During the ride home from the factory, she’d told Jefe that the dark-skinned girl showed a great deal of promise. “I didn’t see her photo with the others.”
“I’ll think about it,” had been his reply. The distance, the chill to his tone concerned her. That night, she’d put on her best lingerie and slipped into his bed. When he didn’t rebuff her, she shimmied up beside him. He smiled, so she went further, determined to please him, to win him back. She tried techniques she’d seen on one of the Asian videos. Jefe responded with that low, guttural rumble. Jefe was hers again, and he would stay that way. She’d make sure of it.
When Gunner brought the girls, the dark-skinned one led the group. They all looked unkempt. Dirty. Smelling of stale sweat and neglect. The younger ones—thank God—weren’t the pre-teens. Still young, but so was she.
She approached Jefe. “Give me some time to get them cleaned up. I’ll see if they can wear my clothes for now. Let me have them for a few hours.”
He nodded, instructing Gunner to stand behind the locked door in case any of the girls thought they might escape. She thought this unlikely. They looked too tired and beaten down to flee, except, of course, the dark-skinned girl, who eyed them with a fierce strength and curiosity.
Once the men had cleared out, she sent each of the girls into the showers, ordering them to scrub every inch of flesh and get their hair as clean as possible. The dark-skinned one sent the youngest in first. They took their time, probably relishing the feel of warm water. As they emerged and two others went into the bathrooms, she went to work on their hair at the two card tables she’d set up to hold mirrors, brushes, hairdryers, and make-up. Lillian ran a comb through a Mexican girl’s long, uneven black hair. She needed a trim, but the long strands nicely framed a round, dimpled face. “Ow!” the girl said, when Lillian found a snag.
“Dulce! Be still and let her work,” said the tall, dark-skinned girl. She turned to the other freshly clean teen with Asian features, and said, “Let me brush yours.”
Lillian couldn’t place the girl’s accent, but she sounded elegant, perhaps African. As she dried her friend’s hair, Lillian noticed it had a natural tendency to curl. She said to the dark-skinned girl, “Switch with me,” and, as they traded spots, she grabbed a round bristled brush to guide the curl into a longer wave.
“Nice, Mei-Mei,” the dark-skinned girl said.
“Mei-Mei and Dulce,” Lillian said. “Nice to know your names. I’m Lillian.”
“Lillian. A strong name. I’m Anwuli. I am from Nigeria.”
Lillian turned Mei-Mei’s chair so that she faced her. “Hand me that eyeliner and shadow,” she said. She was no expert at applying makeup, but she found that a stroke of blush in the right spot highlighted cheekbones, a dab of cover-up blurred away imperfections. Next, mascara and crimson lipstick.
“Wow,” said Mei-Mei looking into a mirror.
“You’re beautiful!” Dulce said, which was certainly an exaggeration, but the girls did look much improved.
“Anwuli? You’re next,” Lillian said.
Anwuli took less time in the shower, and when she exited the bathroom, she wore just a towel. Lillian stood across from her, taking in her lean, strong physique. “You’re taller than me, but I have something you can wear.” From her closet, Lillian pulled out a dark blue satin dress and Anwuli put it on.
“Anwuli!” Dulce said. “Look at yourself!”
Lillian angled the mirror so she could see. She was spectacular. Long-limbed and lithe, the satin riding her curves like a stream of water.
Anwuli turned to Lillian. “Why are we here? Why are we wearing makeup and beautiful clothes?”
So, Lillian explained everything. How she was owned by Jefe just as they were, but she didn’t work in a farm or factory. She lived in a nice place and had nice things, but she had to do things to keep Jefe happy.
“What things?” Anwuli asked.
“Whatever he needs me to do. I belong to him. But I’m not a prostitute,” Lillian said defiantly. “I only date Jefe and a few other men. These men pay Jefe a lot of money. And Jefe gives me things, like this makeup, and that dress, and movies and—”
“But you are not a prostitute?” Anwuli’s ample brows arched.
Lillian would not use that word. Never. “I can’t leave. Where would I go? I have no other home but this one.
“And you? Would you rather go back to the factory?” Lillian continued. “Work in that God-awful heat for fifteen hours a day? Is that a better life?” She didn’t tell them that there was no decision for them to make. Better to let them think they had some control.
Anwuli looked at the other girls, assessing. Dulce said with a hint of defiance, “I can’t—won’t—go back there.”
Mei-Mei said nothing, but eyed Anwuli with a look of fear and expectation.
Anwuli said, “You entertain men every night?”
“No. I mean—Jefe, sometimes. But not other men. And if I’m with them, I’m with them all evening. We have a nice meal in a nice place. I wear beautiful clothes. I please them and come home to my air-conditioned bedroom and my movies. It’s not a bad life.”
“And if you wanted to leave?” Anwuli asked.
“I can’t leave. This is my life now, so I make the most of it. I’d suggest you do the same.”
The younger girls looked at Anwuli. Mei-Mei said, “I can’t go back to the factory. Please.”
Anwuli scanned the room, assessing, then said, “We stay then? And make the most of it?”
The girls nodded.
Lillian gave them a wavering smile. She wasn’t sure they would work, that this plan would ever amount to anything, but she had to give it a shot.
Over the next weeks, there were other girls to try out. Dulce was taken to the trailer to work on her “self-discipline.” Quieter Mei-Mei integrated quite well into their household.
