Fernando scowled at me and stomped out, slamming the door.
Marco shook his head and began untying my arms. Hope sprouted in my chest, until he pulled out a pair of handcuffs and handcuffed one of my wrists to the headboard.
“Please.” It came out as a sob, desperation flooding me. “I’ll do anything. Please let me go.”
He grasped my chin, making me to look into his dark, hard eyes. He spoke more forcefully than he had before. “I told you. That is not an option. You would do well to make the best of this situation.”
“What do you want me to do?” I couldn’t keep from whining.
“I want you to relax, and learn to trust me. And stop crying.” He reached down and wiped both my cheeks dry. “I will require your complete obedience at all times, or you will be punished. You will refer to me as Sir, and when the time is right you will refer to me as Master. Do you understand?”
Master? Appalled, I nodded.
“Answer me with words.”
“I understand…Sir,” I rasped.
“Good girl. I have things to take care of. Try to rest. I will have Perla bring you food soon.”
He left and I heard the door click when it locked from the outside.
I scrambled up to my knees, as high as I could to see out the window, but I couldn’t reach it.
Water. We were definitely out at sea. Fuck! Where were we going? Cuba? I started breathing hard. Okay. Time for a plan. When we stopped, I would cause a scene and get rescued. It could be my only chance. Who knew where we’d end up next?
The headboard was sturdy, but I gave it a hard yank and shake anyway. I pulled, grunting as I tried to squeeze my hand through the cuff. My wrists were thin, so he’d closed it as tight as it would go. My fingers started turning purple from the effort and I pushed my hand back down, panting and crying with frustration.
I was dealing with rich, foreign, hardened criminals here. Powerful people. I didn’t think Marco wanted to hurt me, but his earlier talk about slaves, fucking, and patrons made it all too clear. I’d seen a special on television about sex slavery. I’d felt sad and horrified for those victims, but also distanced from them. Those girls and boys had mostly been from Europe, Asia, or South America—people who were sold or stolen out of already rough life scenarios that I couldn’t fully relate to except in compassion. It was terrible and wrong, but so far from my life.
This was not happening to me.
I couldn’t understand. I was a good girl. Mostly. Not perfect, but I worked hard at everything I did, and I looked forward to my future. We weren’t filthy rich by our nation’s standards, but my family did well. This was not how my life was going to end up. There was just no way. My parents would find me. They were probably on their way to Mexico right now, ready to raise hell, just like Marco said. They knew people in high places. They were resourceful. This boat could be tracked and they’d meet us in Cuba and save me!
My parents. My stomach clenched and I trembled. They would find out I’d lied. Oh, no. I was so sorry. So ashamed. They didn’t deserved to be lied to, and then to have their worst fears come true—the very reason they’d refused to let me go to Cancun in the first place. Why hadn’t I listened? Why did I give in to my friends, and why had I been willing to sneak off with a guy I didn’t know?
People were right about Karma—she was a bitch, because only a bitch would be this cruel. My punishment far outweighed my crime. So much so, that I could barely wrap my mind around it. This couldn’t be my reality. I was meant to be on a plane flying home right now!
Sobbing cries racked my body at the thought of the pain and disappointment and terror my mom and dad were probably feeling. And what about my friends? Were they feeling guilty, like it was their fault for leaving me with Fernando? Had they panicked and searched for me? I didn’t want them to feel bad. I wanted to tell them it wasn’t their fault. We’d all been fooled.
The door opened, and I screamed. The young, Latina woman standing in the doorway with a tray jumped slightly, and her dark brown eyes widened. She came in and set the tray on the nightstand next to me. She wore spike heels and a minuscule strapless black dress with her black hair down around her. And a small black, leather collar.
“I am Perla. You are Angel?” she asked. She said it like Marco did: Ahn-hel. It was pretty, but it wasn’t my name.
“Angela.”
“Ah…” She seemed to be searching for the words in English. “Forgive me. If Master say you Angel, I call you Angel. Sí?”
Master. She really called him that.
“Are you, like, an employee of his?” I asked.
She seemed to toy with the word “employee” in her mind before answering, “No. I am his slave. Same as you. But he treat you well, y you be polite, y you work hard.”