I think Marco kept me hidden from many of the people who visited the villa. No doubt my parents and those in the U.S. had rewards out there for information about my whereabouts. They weren’t the type to give up or give in. And Marco clearly did not trust all of the people who came through his doors.
Sometimes whispers would spread through the villa about a government official coming, or a westerner, and I’d be locked in the slave quarters for the duration of their visit. I wondered what would happen if someone did recognize me. Would they have the balls to blackmail Marco, or turn him in? I could see some of these skeevy, disloyal criminal, mafia types pulling something like that. I could also see Marco’s men hunting them down and killing them while they slept.
There seemed to be something missing from the eyes of everyone who came to the villa. They lacked the basic human elements I’d grown up seeing in facial expressions—compassion, remorse, joy. The eyes I saw here were calculating and suspicious, greedy and selfish. When they smiled or laughed it was usually about something fucked up.
And of course there was lust in their eyes. Always.
I tried not to look in their eyes unless it was clear they wanted me to, but thankfully they were usually fine without eye contact. Except the ones who liked to inflict a little pain. They enjoyed seeing my eyes.
The average patron was middle aged. Very few of them were young or in shape. Those with nice bodies had cruel faces. But we were expected to stroke their gigantic egos and screw them as if they were gorgeous rockstars. There came a point where attractiveness meant nothing to me anymore. The best looking men to come through the villa were some of the most boring. The fat and old men who I assumed would be sweet were some of the meanest. The average looking men who I wouldn’t have given a second glance to in my old life could go either way. They never ceased to shock me with their wild desires or surprising gentleness. Even with warnings or advice from the other slaves, I never knew what to expect when I walked in a bedroom.
I did, however, know what not to expect. I never expected consideration or conversation, unless you count the “You like that, don’t you?” question, to which the answer always had to be, “Oh, yes.”
I knew I was just a body. I was ever aware. The way eyes followed me with hunger, even Marco’s men. My body was not mine. It belonged to whomever paid the high price to rent it. Or it was gifted to business partners of Marco’s as a “thank you.”
The villa gave off an aire of romance, but it was a facade. Romance meant love, and love meant joy.
But joy didn’t live at the villa. Only temporary satisfaction resided here. And even I began to rely on those temporary moments to hold me over from one day to the next—whether it be a much-needed orgasm, a pet from Marco, or a laugh with the other slaves. Every little moment of comfort was something to savor. In the end, those things were like ghosts in my hand. No substance. Nothing to hold. Nothing to keep.
Over a year Colin had been in Spain. Fifteen fucking months. He’d never expected it to take this long. Hell, he’d never been on a mission for this long, period, and it was screwing with his head.
He knew the sordid underbelly of the Spanish Riviera about as well as the shitty streets of Glasgow now. He knew who to turn to and who to avoid. He’d picked up a bit of Spanish. After nearly nine months of gallery events he’d finally mingled with the “right” crowd—the rich connoisseurs of beauty who also enjoyed indulging in the darker side of society. And still, most people claimed not to know Marco Ruiz. Slippery bastard.
Colin Douglas could read lies in the single shift of someone’s eyes. These crooks were all liars, and yet he had to suffer them. He snorted lines of coke with them, and banged the women who were practically tossed in his lap—setting aside all emotions. Once he’d earned the trust of the elite, they took a sort of protectiveness over him, as if he were their special, exotic artist. A source of entertainment. He fucking hated them.
And while he was making leeway, days and months were slipping away. For the first time since he’d hunted his brother all those years ago, Colin began to feel anxious that he might fail. His painting was even suffering. He felt strangled. When one of the biggest drug lords on the Spanish coast came to him asking for a custom painting, Colin was hesitant to promise it.
“What is wrong?” Se?or Acosta asked, speaking in English for him.
In a split-moment decision, Colin decided to try his luck from a different angle.
“I…seem to be having a bit of an issue finding inspiration. A muse, if you will.”
Se?or Acosta pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his gray suit jacket and offered one to Colin, who accepted. He then lit both their tips with a fancy zippo and grinned at Colin on an exhale.