She hums, and I arch a brow. “Your name,” I insist. She pauses and holds out a pale hand, and it takes a second to realize she’s asking for the ponytail holder. Blowing out a breath through my nose, I slip the band off my wrist and drop it in her palm.
A few more moments of silence pass, and I don’t soften my gaze, boring holes into her face through the mirror, still waiting for an answer.
“Sydney,” she responds finally, her voice pleasant as she begins to braid.
Part of me gets the feeling she made me wait on purpose, like a power move. Nothing she’s doing is outwardly vindictive or cruel—in fact, she’s being incredibly gentle as she twists my hair—but that feeling triggers my sixth sense anyway.
Like when someone laughs at something you said, but you just know they’re laughing at you, and not with you.
“Francesca wants us to meet her in the pretty room.”
I’ve no fucking idea what the pretty room is. So, when Sydney finishes with my hair and motions for me to follow her, I do so without question.
She leads me down the hallway, a line of girls walking opposite us and towards a room a few doors down from mine.
We file into what looks like a beauty room, Sydney’s nickname for it making sense now. She’s not calling the room pretty, but rather where we go to get p
retty.
A long clothing rack lines one wall, with an array of colorful lingerie hanging from it. Three vanities are set up on the opposite side, covered in makeup and brushes. There are a couple of full-length mirrors leaning against another wall and several shoe racks with an assortment of heels lined on each row.
Swallowing thickly, I follow the girls’ lead and stand with them in a straight line facing the door. I assume we’re waiting for Francesca.
“What are—” I start.
“Shh.” A girl cuts off my question, the command short and harsh. Sydney giggles from the other side of me, and I snap my mouth shut, glancing at the one who either is just being a bitch, or has just saved me from getting hurt. Either way, I’ll take my chances and listen.
She has long, brown hair, the tips reaching her butt, and hazel eyes. Her face is stony as she stares straight ahead, but I don’t study her long enough to decipher the emotion swirling in her irises.
She’s tense, that much I can tell. And I’m not sure if it’s for what will happen when Francesca arrives, or because of something else.
Or maybe it’s because she’s been abducted and sold into human trafficking, and no matter what’s happening, it’s all fucking bad.
Moments later, heels echo loudly on the wood as Francesca makes her way up the stairs and down the hallway toward us. I guess that’s one comfort in this house—I’ll always know where Francesca is and if she’s coming. She’s definitely no Casper the fucking ghost with those monstrosities on her feet.
How many blisters did she have to suffer through before her feet were calloused enough to wear those all day, every day?
Twenty? Thirty? Maybe a weird number like forty-two.
When she walks in, her gaze immediately finds mine. I look away instantly, unsure if she’d consider it a challenge if I met her stare.
She walks past me, her fruity perfume lingering as she eyes each of us.
“You all look like shit,” she comments snidely, and I can feel the weight of her glare spearing into the side of my head particularly.
Yeah, ‘cause it was my fucking fault I had been ran off the road and dragged out of a wrecked car. Bitch.
She pauses in front of a girl with fiery hair, lifts a burnt orange lock, and looks at the split ends in disgust.
“I told you to trim these, don’t make me ask again or Jerry gets another night with you,” she comments, dropping the strand and moving on. The girl blinks, a flash of pain there and gone, but Francesca has her eagle eyes focused on her next victim.
A girl with dirty blonde hair and beauty marks splattered on her face and down her neck. Francesca observes them closely.
“We’ve spoken about this, Bethany. Beauty marks are one thing, but moles are unacceptable.” My brows furrow, wondering how one would have any control over that.
“You were told to upkeep on the hair sprouting from these ugly things every day. Why do I see hair?”
The girl—Bethany—shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Francesca. When I had the flu—”