“Faz com que ela veste o casaco!” says Gomes, ordering the house mom to help Regan put on the jacket.
“Eu não posso. Ela vai me arranhar,” the house mom responds. The house mom refuses, fearing that Regan will scratch her. Regan’s a terror even chained to the wall. Her fierceness is metal as fuck, and that almost cranks my chain as much as her legs. Some of the girls I’ve taken from these places are so broken that they don’t see anything but their abuse anymore. Some fall back into the business, working on their own or as part of someone’s stable, because they can’t function normally. Although what the hell is normal, I have no goddamn idea anymore.
A shuffling sound occurs behind me, and I pause. The steps are light, so they don’t belong to Gomes or the heavier house mom.
“You aren’t going to like owning me,” Regan hisses quietly at my back. If I really were an angry john with a taste for home, I’d backhand her, but my response isn’t one of anger but of resignation. I want to shake some fucking sense into her and beg her to make it easier for both of us for one hot second. Instead I grunt because deep down, part of me wants to show her how wrong she is. In different circumstances, if we were alone in a dark corner of some bar back home, I’d back her right up to the wall and tell her that not only would she like being owned by me, but she’d fucking beg for it.
But we’re not alone. She’s not some college girl slumming it in a hole-in-the-wall outside of Fort Benning, so I don’t back her into a corner. I don’t slip my leg between her golden thighs, and I don’t start sucking on the tender skin at the base of her neck. I don’t even turn around to look at her, and I guess this makes her even angrier. “I bite and I don’t cry and I’ll vomit and pee all over you.”
Jesus Hermione Christ. This girl has balls of freaking steel. “Can’t wait, baby doll,” I say, trotting sideways down the narrow stairs. And for all her threats, Regan is close behind me. I can hear Gomes and the house mom making up the end. I can see the front door and our potential freedom beyond.
“You still want this whore?” Gomes calls out. “I have so many others. This one’s too much trouble for you.”
I laugh, a sour sound so Gomes knows I’m not really amused. “You took my money, Gomes. I’m not into international pussy, so I’m taking this girl and you’re going to be happy with the quarter I dropped for her.”
We’re at the front door now, and Regan has stopped hissing insults at me because she’s stunned into silence by the prospect of escape. “How long you think you will keep her?”
Turning to face Gomes, I place my hand on the door. Down here in the entrance, it’s actually more dangerous. Gomes has guards at the door, inside and out. He’s having trouble processing that I don’t want to fuck in his little shithouse.
“You think I’m paying a quarter for her and that I’m going to just trot her back after an evening?” From Gomes’s frown, it’s clear that he thinks she is coming back tomorrow. I shake my head. For the money that I’ve given him, he should’ve assumed that Regan would be fucked until she’s dead. “She’ll be back when I’m good and ready to return her. I didn’t pay that kind of coin for one night.”
“What will you do with her?”
“What do you care?” I ask impatiently. Regan is shivering beneath the jacket, the bangles beating a faster rhythm. Her feet are probably cold on the red clay tiles. Outside she’ll be warmer, though, and as soon as we’re out of the favelas I’ll get her some shoes.
Gomes looks a little ill. “I need her back.”
I shake my head. “You let me worry about the disposal of this one. You should worry about the fact you’ve been spreading the tales about your wares into some dangerous places. Places where Polícia Federal might have to take notice. Don’t be a shithead and ruin it for the rest of us.” And by the rest of us, I mean you, asswipe.
I look at the two hired muscles standing inside the front room, which serves as Gomes’s office and showroom. It’s got a deep red carpet that has stains all over it. I don’t know whether it’s come or blood, but I’m glad I was wearing shoes when I made that transaction with Gomes thirty minutes earlier. With my hand on the doorknob, I give everyone a leveling gaze. “We’re done here.”
Gomes looks at his goons and then at me. There’s something about me Gomes doesn’t like, or maybe it’s because he thinks he’s losing a valuable piece of property. Second thoughts are all over his face, and I ruck up my suit coat on the side so I can have ready access to my gun, just in case. The goons move toward the door of Gomes’s front room and the tension becomes heavier, like dense smog descending over the slums. I calculate my next course of action. Gomes does not look armed. He’s wearing a thin cotton Panama shirt and linen pants, wrinkled and splattered with liquid around the ankles. The cotton would reveal any hidden guns at his waist or back. He could have an ankle piece, but I’m a good enough shot that he’d be dead by the time he bent over. I dismiss the house mom. The two muscled guys are my only worries. The entryway is narrow, like the stairs, and we are packed into the foyer like little sardines in a tin can. If a firefight breaks out here, we are all toast. I know Regan doesn’t want to be touched, but I need to signal her, somehow, to get behind me.