Three or four times a week, I’d head out and find a woman to pick me up.
My mistake tonight had been to get lost in the dance. I’d been so focused on the music, on the rhythm, that I’d missed the obvious fact that my dance partner was struggling, unable to keep up.
And then that girl, the one with the sad eyes—God, I’d wanted to dance with her, to feel like myself again, to dance with a woman because I could. It had been a shock when I saw her wheelchair. I was really off my game tonight.
I thought of Sergei, his notes and growing impatience, and even though the night was warm enough to send a trickle of sweat down my back, I shivered.
I knew what he really wanted: he wasn’t going to get it. Ever.
Sighing, I slipped out of the hotel and made my way along the Strip. I needed to find another woman. The thought turned my stomach.
As I strode down the street, dodging the wide-eyed tourists, my mood darkened further.
And I hadn’t been able to find out anything else about the girl. No one had seen her. No one knew anything. Even Yveta and Galina had refused point blank to talk about her. Marta wasn’t mentioned.
After the evening with Volkov, they’d kept a wary distance from me for a couple of days, but soon they were back to their usual behavior with Yveta hitting on me. She was hot and I needed what she was offering—which led to the backstage sex. Galina was persuaded to disappear for the rest of the evening so we could use their room to fuck some more. And for a few hours, I was able to forget. When Yveta came, it felt like validation—I was a man and needed to feel like one. How fucking pathetic was that? But so much was out of my control. I needed Yveta right now, and the way she clung to me, her breath hot on my neck, told me that she needed me . . . this . . . too.
But Sergei’s notes and little ‘gifts’ had started to arrive more frequently—sometimes several times a day—hints that I could escape his debt by attending a ‘private party’ or ‘dancing for friends’. I’d ignored them all. Then the threats had started.
Which is your favorite finger?
That’s what yesterday’s note said.
Strangely enough, Gary had become the one person I could talk to, but even he refused to help me speak to the police or find the girl.
And so I fucked tourists for a few hundred dollars.
A wash of shame settled in the pit of my stomach. So fucking cheap. That’s how I’d felt, but then I did it again and again.
Gary suspected, but said nothing. Yveta was oblivious, talking about ‘going on a date’ and happily making plans.
I glanced up at the flashing neon lights, the gaudy welcome that Vegas offered every tourist.
I was in the middle of a crowded American city, and I’d never felt more alone.
To the people passing by, I was just another guy out on the streets looking for a good time. But there was a dark underbelly to Las Vegas, and it had me by the balls. Any day, I could wind up dead . . . or wishing I was.
And then I saw a face in the crowd.
“Marta!”
She blinked, confused, then an expression of shock, hope, and fear brightened her dull eyes.
I saw her glance around, her face tight, then duck into an alley between an adult video store and a fancy boutique.
“Marta?”
She blended into the darkness, and the only thing that stood out was her pale face, eyes heavily ringed with makeup.
“I remember you.”
“Yes! The first night at the airport—you were with that young girl.”
“Have you seen her?”
I nodded slowly. “Yes, once.”
“Is she okay?”
“I don’t know,” I said, reluctantly lying through my teeth. “What about you?”
“I’m so scared,” she said, her voice shaking. “I think I could die here and no one will know.”
Her hand gripped my arm and her eyes were begging me to help.
“They give me drugs and make me sleep with their friends. They said I owed them the price of my plane ticket. They said if I tried to run away they’d catch me and kill me. I think they would—they all carry guns. Girls have disappeared. Two since I came here.”
It was exactly what I’d thought—worse, maybe.
“Can you go to the police?”
I asked the question, already knowing what the answer would be.
She shook her head quickly, glancing over her shoulder at the bright lights behind us.
“I’m scared,” she repeated.
I reached into my pocket. “I have $430. You could take this and . . .”
Marta shook her head again, her thin arms trembling and her teeth chattering as she continued to dig her nails into my skin.
“They’ll catch me!”
The too familiar rage and frustration boiled inside. I stared at the happy tourists streaming past, seeing only the light ignoring the shadows. I imagined their appalled expressions if I ran out and begged them for help. I knew what they’d say. I could almost smell their fear and confusion, their compassion fatigue, their reluctance to be involved. So much easier to walk on by.