Charleigh
“Stop. Here. Now.”
I throw a crisp hundred at the cab driver. Without a word of thanks for his kindness, aside from my generous tip, I bolt from his car.
This is not the time for courtesies. Or manners. Thank-you’s and polite smiles will have to wait for another day.
My head down, like that will keep anyone from staring at me and my strange appearance, I run into the Target store clear across town from where I began my journey, where the cabbie picked me up without question, gave me a ratty hoodie and baseball cap to use as a disguise, and broke every speed limit on the way.
God bless him.
The drive was hellishly long for one that was only fifteen-minutes, no doubt the longest quarter hour I’ve ever lived. I suppose that’s to be expected when you’re running for your life.
I pull my cap low and tighten the drawstring on the hoodie. I’m covered from the waist up, which is a plus, but the bottom half of my body remains on full display. As I dash for the store, my slinky evening gown whipping around my legs, I stumble while I try to run in a pair of sky-high stilettos. I force myself to slow before I trip and fall, or worse, break an ankle. I don’t need any more problems than I already have at the moment.
I know I look like a total freak, but a few minutes and a couple dollars spent at Target will fix all that. Target’s good that way. A pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, sneakers, and a face scrubbed clean of all the makeup I’m wearing, and no one will know I was up for auction just an hour ago—an auction to sell my virginity.
That’s right. Some sick fuck was going to pay a shit ton of money to pop my cherry. In fact, multiple men were going to fight over me with their checkbooks, bidding my price higher and higher, the winner determined by whomever had the deepest pockets.
Disgusting bastards.
But more than anything, right now, I need to keep a low profile. I’m hoping there won’t be many people shopping since it’s already ten p.m. With my eyes on the floor in front of me, I bolt straight for women’s clothing. I don’t want to catch anyone’s eye. Or anyone’s attention.
I know Target. This is my store. I’m momentarily comforted being here, at least as comfortable as anyone can be, scared to death and certain that bad men—very bad men—are right on my heels.
I’m pretty sure it’s not natural, finding comfort when you know killers are after you, coupled with an awareness that your life could end at any moment when you’re doing something as simple as walking through a store.
But what is normal about my life anymore?
I need the momentary relief from the adrenaline flooding every nook and cranny of my body, making my heart pound, my head ache, and my stomach churn from its force.
The irony. Adrenaline gives us the power to run away from dangerous situations. But it can also kill us.
If the bastards chasing me don’t get to me first.
For years I have come to this very Target store to leisurely browse panties and socks, T-shirts and shorts, among other things. Those days are behind me now, I’m afraid, the ones consisting of the simple pleasure of walking around filling up my cart with all sorts of stuff I didn’t know I needed. The curse—and hilarious meme—of the Target shopper.
But I’m a different person now, living a different life, and I scan in every direction to see if anyone has noticed my strange appearance—a fully made-up girl in a gold lamé evening dress wearing a baseball cap and tattered hoodie. If anyone ever looked like a weirdo trying to pull something off, it’s me at this moment.
I push into the maze of clothing racks and breathe easier at my temporary sense of safety, a brief respite from the terror coursing through my veins. I’d like to stay here forever, in the cozy womb of Target clothing.
Squeezing between racks of dresses, overly packed with merchandise too close together to comfortably walk between, I’ve found the hiding place of my dreams. Surrounded, I’m barely visible, relieved no one’s paying any attention to me. If I did catch a curious eye on the way in, they lost interest fast.
Just another weirdo passing through Target. Yup, that’s me.
Thank you, universe, for this most miniscule of breaks.
After I catch my breath, I grab a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a light sweater and make a dash for the dressing room. I pull on my new things, stuff the cash hidden in my high-heels into my front pocket, and roll my dress, stilettos, and baseball cap into a ball, wrapping everything tightly in my hoodie. On the way out, I stuff my bundle into the bottom of a deep bin of clothing waiting to be returned to the racks by some unfortunate employee. By the time these items are found, I’ll be long gone.
Now barefoot, I find a pair of sneakers to slip into, and in the fastest shopping trip ever, I snag a hat, underwear, sweats, a burner phone, and a backpack. I take my haul to the register, where the nice cashier helps cut the tags off the things I’m wearing.
“Honey, where are the clothes you came in with?” she asks, looking me up and down.
“Tossed them. Didn’t like them.”
She looks at me for a moment and decides to say nothing.
In the store’s Starbucks café, I settle into a corner table behind a column. I’m well-hidden, maybe even better than I was between the clothing racks, and it feels good. Tucking my hair down the back of my new sweater, I pull on my hat and load my backpack with my new purchases. I tear open my burner phone—the clerk in electronics corrected me, saying it was a ‘prepaid phone’—insert the SIM card, and plug it into the charging outlet next to my table. While I’m waiting for the phone to juice up, I grab a coffee and a scone as the baristas are cleaning up for the day. My head pounds and I can’t remember the last time I ate. I just know I couldn’t keep anything down today, I was such a mess over the auction.
The auction I just ran away from.
I’m not sure whether or not I’m happy I escaped, because the words what have I done? are flitting through my thoughts like a flashing neon sign. Have I made my situation better? Or worse? The not knowing part is terrifying.
God help me.
While watching my new phone charge to fifteen percent and then twenty, I sip coffee and realize I’m not even sure who to call it with. This is the worst-planned escape in the history of lame-ass escapes. Actually, it wasn’t planned at all. I saw an opportunity and took it. And to make my anxiety worse, it’s ten-thirty p.m., and Target closes at eleven. It’s only a matter of minutes before they start their friendly ‘we’re closing soon, please pay for your purchases’ announcement.
I’m racing through my options. Or rather, lack of options. I can’t spend the night here. They’d ferret me out for sure. These places have crazy robust security.
While I have no idea what my next steps are, I don’t regret running. At least I don’t think I do. I never would have forgiven myself if I hadn’t tried to get out, to escape the Alekseevs holding me hostage. When the horrible Dimitri created a ruckus in the back of the room just before the auction, I saw an opportunity and grabbed it. Plain and simple. There were no thoughts running through my head other than get to the door NOW. Nothing about what I would do once I got there, where I’d go, or what would follow next.
But I got out, right? Isn’t that the important thing?
I just need to figure out what to do now.
How lucky am I there was a cab letting out passengers right in front of the club? That the understanding driver sped off onto the freeway, no questions asked, and that he even gave me a hat and hoodie to wear?
How lucky am I that I’d thought to stuff a few hundreds into my shoe when dressing earlier? That I got a wild hair at the last possible moment, cramming money into its lining even though it was uncomfortable as hell?
Does this mean things are looking up for me? Is the universe, for once, blessing me with a freaking break, the kind I never get but which everyone else seems to?
I don’t dare hope. I know better than that. I’m not a lucky girl.
My motto should be what life giveth, it taketh away. Right away. Without waiting or warning.
And yet here I am, sitting in a Target Starbucks, sipping a coffee exactly how I like it with non-fat milk and lots of sugar, wearing normal clothes that my ass is not hanging out of for a change.
Who knew these little things mattered so, so much?
For a moment, I am immersed in my old life. The one where I get up every day and open one of my bookkeeping texts first thing, absorbing as much as I can before heading to Pops’s pawn shop to see what he needs help with that day. He’s usually there before me, so on the way in, I pick up bagels and coffee after dropping my little sister at school.
I work a few hours and get back to the books. If I’m not meeting with my study buddy Luci, we at least have a Zoom call to go over our homework.
And then I have class in the evening. The highlight of my day. Or week. Or lifetime.
I’ve never been much of a student. Not because I don’t have the brains. I was just never all that interested.
That’s behind me now.
For the first time in my life, thanks to my instructor and new BFF, I am getting A’s. It feels so good. Like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
Never too late to redeem yourself, as my mother used to say.
I didn’t understand what she meant by that, back when she was alive. Figured it was something she read in the Bible or one of her religion books. But I understand it now. I’m getting a second chance.
Or, I was.
Was Mother referring to my father when she said that? Did she feel he needed to step up to the plate in some areas? Was she acknowledging things I only became aware of as an adult?
And was he the cause of her death, as Niko and his brothers suspect?
The coffee hits my stomach hard, and the burn splashes to the back of my throat. I can’t get sick here. Not in Target. Not when I have only minutes to figure out next steps.
One of the baristas, wiping down tables in anticipation of closing, peeks at me around the corner and smiles.
“Fifteen minutes, ma’am,” she says politely.
“No problem,” I say cheerfully.
On the surface, I’m just any other girl dressed casually, enjoying her coffee and staring at her phone. No one here knows what I’ve been through.
No one would believe it if I told them, anyway. I can scarcely believe it myself.
Kidnapped to pay my father’s debts by some psycho organized crime trio of brothers who, by the way, are walking sex on a stick, who have enemies out the ass who are only too willing to show each other up by fighting over me.
Me.
I don’t know which part of that scenario is most crazy, but I do find the most puzzling to be that anyone would look twice in my direction, never mind battle over who gets to ‘own’ me.
How about this, mother fuckers? Nobody gets to own me. And right now is when they start learning that.
If this shit show hadn’t just become my life, I’d never believe it was possible.
A security guard making the rounds walks by me, having just gotten his own coffee. He cordially nods. Should I ask him for help?
Have him call the cops for me?
Sure. I could do that. If I want to see my father dead and my little sister soon to follow.
At that, I take a quick bite of scone to settle the nausea. It doesn’t help and I wonder if I have time to purchase some Rolaids before the last cash register closes for the night.
That’s when the harsh reality that I’m on my own lights me up—no cop can help me now, never mind a Target security guard.
Clarity.
A little, anyway. I have a next step.
Using my new phone, I dial one of the few numbers I have memorized.
“Victoria?”
There’s a gasp on the other end of the line. “Oh my God. Is that you, Charleigh?”
My voice breaks when I hear hers. She’s someone who cares about me. Someone who has been there for me, especially since my mother died.
“Y… yes, Vic. It’s me. I need help.”
* * *
