Page 11 of The Bronze Garza

Kate and Zoey are sitting up in bed, backs against the headboard, attention trained on the television as they stuff their faces with burgers.

Burgers?Where’d they get those?

I glance around the room until I spot the trays with takeout containers, coffee cups, and bottles of water on top of the white, low chest-of-drawers.

It’s food. Like,realfood. Not carrots and broccoli and cauli-fucking-flower. I spot actual carbs and sugar on those trays.

When I was first taken, I was about 180lbs. Even though I stand at five-feet-ten and hide weight well, my “excess weight” was deemed a travesty. Determined to turn me into a skeleton, Igor placed me on an extreme diet of nothing but fruits, vegetables, beans, nuts, and water.

I’ve dropped thirty pounds in the first couple of months. However, my body type is not built to be skinny, and there’s nothing I can do about my wide hips or D-cups, so after losing an additional five pounds, that was it, my body rebelled and locked itself into a state of, well,nothing. I’ve neither lost nor gained an ounce since. And that pisses Igor off, so fruits, vegetables, beans, and nuts are all I’meverallowed to eat.

While the others are treated to fast food bi-weekly, I’m always forced to sit and watch them eat in front of me.

Seeing those takeout containers now, it’s taking everything in me not to lurch off the bed and dive face-first into it all. But I know that’s what Zoey and Kate are probably waiting to see.

A tiny sniffle catches my attention, and I look down to where Simone’s form is outlined under the covers beside me. I’d assumed she was still asleep but apparently she isn’t. Her eyes are red, wet, puffy, and her lips are pressed tight together as though she’s fighting with all her might to not make a sound.

Simone isn’t one to show weakness, but I know all too well that sometimes the hopelessness and dejection can become so unbearable it saps up every ounce of strength and can no longer be kept in. Lord knows I’ve had my own bouts of secret tears.

As her sad, wet eyes lifts to mine, I mouth, “Don’t lose hope.” Then I tug the covers up over her head and give her the privacy she needs.

~

“So, how doesit work here, Zoey?” I ask through a groan two hours later.

I’m curled up in a fetal position as nausea presses down on me like consequences of a bad decision. I’d barely even finished my food when I was sent running to the bathroom to hurl it all back up. It was violent, like an allergic reaction, my body intensely rejecting every morsel of food I swallowed.

Now my stomach feels like it’s gasping while nausea rocks me.

But it’s darkening outside the windows and I’m still uninformed on what the hell is expected of me here.

Zoey sighs as if I’m a nuisance and hits pause on the TV show. “Well, if you couldn’t already tell, this is a strip club. It opens at ten and we’re supposed to get on stage and dance and give lap dances. The men aren’t allowed to touch you. Sex is optional. Some will proposition you, but since we’re not working for ourselves and all monies will be taken from us at the end of the night, what’s the point, right?

“Here, all we’re expected to do is dance and entertain, nothing more. Whatever else you do is up to you. Important, though: Igor doesn’t know that sex is optional. His men planted herethinkthat’s what we do each time we’re taken into a private lap-dance room. But the truth is just among us, okay?”

Oh.“So, it’s just the four of us?” I ask. “This is a big club.”

“No, there are other dancers. But they are not...like us.”

“You mean they’re free? Not captives? Not victims of human trafficking?”

I just feel like it should be said out loud, and hopefully it’ll jolt her ass back to reality.

Her gaze drops to the remote in her hand, her fingers trailing idly over the buttons, her voice weak as she replies, “Yes.”

“Do they know about us?”

Her shoulders jerk in a shrug. “I don’t think so. If they suspect, they’re probably too afraid to ask.”

“So at the end of the night, they just pack their things and go and we get locked in here, right?”

“Oh, fuck off, Cola,” Kate spits. “Yes, weknowwe are prisoners. We know we are sex slaves. But so what if we have different ways of coping with it all?”

I smile. “Just checking to make sure you’re both still aware of it. The reality, that is.”

“Whatever.” She flips me off and stomps to the bathroom, locking herself inside.

I bring my attention back to Zoey. “I don’t know how to dance.”