Escape From Paradise (13 page)

Someone would save me. Someday.

On the third day I lay on my back and began chanting the silly name song from when I was a kid.

“Marco, Marco, bo-barco, banana fana fo farco, e-i-o, -arco…
Marco
!”

I busted into giggles and did a round with everyone’s name: Josef, Mia, Jin, Perla, and Luis. I ended with yelling, “I fuckin’ love the banana fana song! Everybody sing!” More giggles.

After a long while of singing childhood songs the door opened. I looked up from my position on my back, expecting to see Luis, but it was Marco’s stern face looking down at me. I knew at once that nobody was there to save me.

My body and mind moved in harmony without thought. I rolled to my stomach and pushed to my knees, kneeling with my head down, palms flat against my thighs, breathing hard.

Oh, my God.
I was his slave. A prostitute. I wouldn’t allow myself to acknowledge it until that moment when it felt very, very real. There was no more hiding from what my life had become. This man owned me.

My heart pounded. Was he mad at me for freaking out? For being stubborn and not eating?

“Bueno chica,” he whispered. He bent enough to lift my chin. In his eyes I saw disappointment and I had to look down again. He
tsked
.

“
Mírate
…”
Look at yourself.

My nails were broken. I was dirty all over. My knuckles were scabbed and scraped, my legs and arms covered in bruises.

What punishment was I in for? I started shaking from the inside.

“I’m sorry, Master.”

“Shh.” He patted my head. “Do you want to leave so badly, Angel? Is it so bad here for you?”

I bit my lip and kept my head down, not answering. He sounded so…sad. I didn’t get it. Why did he care whether or not I wanted to be here? He knew he was forcing me against my will. Did he think I’d get here and be so smitten by the fanciness that I’d forget about my old life? Was he crazy, or just extremely out of touch with reality?

Luis came in, blindfolded me, and guided me to my feet. They walked me out, through the house, and back to the slave quarters where I was told to shower. I awaited my punishment with a strange numbness, but it never came.

Instead I was pampered the next three days. The other slaves were not allowed in the room during these times. I was so confused. Was Marco trying to buy my loyalty and happiness? Did he really think spa treatments and gifts would make me okay with a life of sexual slavery?

Women who spoke broken English were sent into the slave quarters to do my nails and hair—making me bright platinum. I’d never been quite so blonde, and it was a stunning difference. I admitted to myself with reluctance that I liked the new color and layered style.

Boxes of clothing in my size showed up. Expensive bras and sexy dresses. Skimpy bathing suits. Satin camisole sets and a white, silk robe.

I was given a laser hair removal treatment and told I’d have to have several treatments for the hair to stop growing. Never having to shave or wax again? That was kind of cool, but I couldn’t help wondering when the bomb was going to drop. Why was Marco spoiling me? I tried to enjoy the kindness and not constantly worry, but it was hard. Marco was the kind of man whose every action had an ulterior motive.

He came in that afternoon and I dropped to my knees.

“Siéntate, Angel. Sit.”

I sat at the table and he sat across from me. I tightened the robe around myself.

He looked me over admiringly, then pulled out a newspaper article and set it on the table.

I held my breath as I read the title:
Missing American Girl Thought To Be Dead.

Dead?
No!

My heart went wild as I scanned the article, which must’ve been cut from an American paper. It talked about how Fernando and I had left the club together and neither of us was seen again. Friends of Fernando saw us heading toward the boat docks, and Fernando’s boat was found sunk the next day—structural integrity of the boat and its engine were being investigated. No signs of our bodies were found. Probably eaten by sharks, a local said. Señor Marco Ruiz, a respected business owner, was reported to be mourning his only son, and spending his own funds for a private investigation of the two young people. My stomach twisted.

Don’t cry, Angela. Don’t you dare cry.

Marco was celebrating his win—beautifying his latest acquisition. And by showing me this article he was making it clear I was his. Message received. Time to stop hoping. Stop fighting. To the world, I was dead.

I swallowed hard, and with a shaking hand pushed the article back toward him.

My parents…did they believe this? Did they have nightmares about me drowning or being eaten by a shark? Were there any other leads or was this it? Was
nobody
looking for me anymore?

No. No. I tried to reach for my feather of hope, but it drifted deeper and farther into that cloudy mess of my mind.

I knew Marco was waiting for a response, but all I could do was stare at the table and nod, biting the inside of my lip to keep from showing emotion. He reached over and patted my hand, leaving his on top of mine.

“What can I get you, Angel, hm? Te gusta…ah, you like books?”

I nodded. He patted my hand again and left me.

The following day a box of American books arrived. Bestselling fiction and romances. Even a few books of how to learn other languages, which he probably thought was useful since he has so many international patrons. The sight of the books actually cheered me a little. I could lose myself in them, however briefly. When the other slaves came in that evening and Jin took a look at my box and my makeover with astonishment, I knew I’d been given a gift and a luxury. I felt kind of guilty.

Perla and Josef nosed through my new stuff and of course I let them, telling them they could borrow anything they wanted. I didn’t really consider anything at the villa “mine.” Perla was excited to see the new shoes. Even Mia walked over and checked me out. She felt my hair and said brusquely, “I like.” Then went to remove her makeup.

I tried to smile at Jin, but she looked away. I hated the animosity there, so I made a vow to myself that I’d try to get to the bottom of it and not let it get any worse. The way I saw, it the five of us needed to have each other’s backs, and not for purposes of knifing. These four people were all I had now.

I lay down and closed my eyes, thinking of my sorority sisters. My dorm room. My mom and dad and their constant love. My life that seemed like a distant dream now. Had it ever been real? Thinking of them hurt too much. Imagining the pain they were feeling…it wrecked me that I was putting them through that. But it was probably better that they thought I was dead as opposed to what my life had actually become.

I curled tighter and thought about crying. I could hide my face. Nobody would know. It could help relief my stress if I allowed myself to mourn.

But when I tried to cry, Marco’s face filled my mind, and the tears wouldn’t come. Even my tear ducts were afraid of Marco. I was his now. Really and truly.

Mia couldn’t have been more of my opposite, but we took to one another right away. I loved listening to her talk. She spoke Spanish with a European accent, an exotic sound. She sat me down one morning at our small table and said, “I teach you Español.” It wasn’t a question, or even an offer, it was a command. And being the submissive I was, I complied.

I felt guilty that she was going to waste her time teaching me something I already knew. Mia was nice and I didn’t want to lie to her, but the cameras were always watching and listening. I expected her to start with the basics—the items around us like “table” and “chair,” but she didn’t.

“
Culo
is ass.” She stared at me, matter-of-fact, as if she wanted me to repeat after her.

“Oh. Um, okay.
Culo
.”

She nodded, then proceeded to teach me every dirty Spanish word and phrase in the book. She taught me a ton of words I didn’t know, all the things patrons might say to me, or I could say to them. It was very helpful.

“You are fast learner, yes?”

I blushed. “Yeah...thank you. I mean, gracias.”

“Ah, bueno mi putita hermosa.” She called me her beautiful little whore, but she said it so nicely. Words ceased to offend me the way they did when I first met Fernando. Actions were all that mattered now.

Time was a funny thing. Small changes over a long course of time could go easily unnoticed, until one day you look up and realize you’re not the same person anymore. At all. And all those small changes added up to something big.

After six months in the villa I had changed. Others might call it “giving in” or “caving,” but I called it adaptation. Survival. In my early weeks I mourned every small change I noticed in myself. It started with my body. For months I’d been hungry all the time. I longed for food almost obsessively.

Without pizza and fast food, eating only fruits, vegetables, and whatever small morsels fed to me at the table, I lost weight quickly. My stomach, thighs, and arms tightened. My hair grew. I looked different. Felt different. In my old life I would have loved to have this body, but the physical transformation was not my doing. It was Marco’s, for his purposes, and so it was hard to love it.

And then there were the bigger changes—the mental changes. Like how comfortable I began to feel in my own skin, walking or crawling around naked. But it was worse than just feeling comfortable…I began to feel sexy, and I craved eyes on me. Marco was right when he said some patrons would treat me like a goddess. I still hated having sex with the strange men, and I hadn’t had an orgasm since that first time, but I was aware of my body in a way I’d never been before. Every breeze that blew in from the veranda was a caress across my skin.

My clit was overly sensitive. I found myself in an almost constant state of arousal, until it was time to have sex, and then my body felt cold and stiff all over. I’d gotten good at faking enjoyment. The other slaves often gave me pointers about what certain patrons liked, so I played it up. Even Jin was helpful. She’d warmed to me slightly after realizing Josef and I weren’t after one another. I still hated my life there, but I kept going.