Page 34 of The Bronze Garza

Um… “And how did I look before?”

He makes a noise in his throat. “Never mind. Just meant you look okay, that’s all.”

“Well, I’m no longer a sex slave, so yeah, you’re damn right I’mokay.”

“That’s not what I mean...” He trails off and makes another gruff noise in his throat. Is he a reptile or something? “Since I started this line of work, you’re the eighth girl I’ve helped to extract from forced prostitution. Would you like a ‘where are they now’ on the previous eight?”

“I’m guessing they’re not ‘okay’?”

A quick, humorless laugh. “One committed suicide three months after. One OD’d on heroin. One couldn’t see herself as anything more, so she went and found herself a pimp, went back to hooking. One still can’t recover from the drugs they’d hooked her on, so she’s on a constant loop of hopping in and out of rehab. One became an alcoholic, drove drunk, wrapped her car around a light-post and ended up in a wheelchair. One hated men so much she became a lesbian and a die-hard feminist, and now volunteers at a shelter for abused women and takes part in anything anti-men. The last managed to find love, got married, and is now pregnant with her first child.” He inhales a breath. “Out of seven, only two came out on the other side with a normal life. So yeah, looking at you and seeing that you’reokay,it just makes me feel damn good, is all.”

Holy Christ, that’s awful! I can’t even say I know what those women went through to have made recovering so hard for them, because my experience was so tame in comparison to most. I was never drugged up or put to work on a corner.

“I was privileged,” I say with guilt and sadness. “Even as a captive. I was locked away in a sumptuous penthouse, given beauty treatments, health checks and dietary plans. Drugs weren’t pumped into my veins, and I wasn’t beaten or punished nearly as often as I heard the girls on the lower floors were. So maybe the only reason I’m not where victims one through six on your list are, is because I didn’t have it nearly as bad as they did.”

Reuben’s fingers tap on the steering wheel. “It’s true that victims’ experiences vary depending on who they’re sold to. But one’s experience being worse than another’s doesn’t make either any less of a victim. All I’m saying is that it’s great to see that you’re in a good place.”

I fetch a carrot from my baggie. “And you assume I’m in a good place based on what? My smile? TheChanelslippers I’m wearing? My freshly washed hair? The rosiness of my cheeks?”

“Trust me, I can tell,” he says. “It’s an aura thing.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” I tell him. “See this bag of carrots?”—I shake the bag in his face—“This is like chocolate to me now, because I can’t keep anything down except fruits, veggies, nuts, and beans—and oh, sometimes if my digestive system is in a good mood, salmon. Up until a couple of weeks ago, I didn’t leave my house. And the first time Ididleave, I got run over by a car. So, yeah, that ‘aura thing’ is pure bullshit.”

He smiles like he knows something I don’t. “Even with all that, I’m confident about you. You’ve got a fire in you and it’s illuminating. My gut tells me you’re gonna turn out even better than girl number seven.”

“Wrong again,” I murmur before biting off a piece of carrot. “I’m more in the zone of girl number six right now. The man hater. Men have made it to my list of everything that’s wrong with the world.”

Reuben chuckles. “Ah, man, that hurts. Here I thought you and I were destined to be besties.”

“Nah, you blew that chance when you refused to give me that second shot of vodka.”

A laugh rumbles through him. “Not fair. That wasWilliam. I was in character. You can’t hold that against me.”

I crunch down another piece of carrot. “If your gut instincts about me turn out to be any good, then I’ll reconsider.”

“In that case,” he says with a grin, “I’m just gonna go right ahead and start working on our friendship bracelets.”

Half anhour later, we’re in a quiet neighborhood in Silver Lake.

Reuben pulls to a stop outside a residence hugged to a hillside just above street-level. The tall, wrought-iron gate is shrouded in greenery. Thick, high shrubs run the length of the iron fencing, blocking any possible outside view of the house.

“Well, this is…disappointinglynormal,” I mumble. “I pictured him living in an underground bunker or something, perpetually dressed in army boots, cargo pants and hunter vests.”

Reuben snorts and jumps out of the jeep. I do the same as he gets my bags from the trunk.

In cursive letters, the plate above the house number reads, “LilyRay.” Ha. His house even has a name.

Reuben opens the gate and carries my bags ahead of me, allowing me to see what was hidden behind all the shrouds of greenery. A modest split-level style home, with a gorgeously landscaped front yard.

“Nope, definitely not a bunker,” I murmur.

“You’re gonna be a pain in his ass, aren’t you?” Reuben asks as we climb the steps to the porch.

“Who me? Never,” I retort, eying the bird’s nest above the jet-black door. “I’m a ray of sunshine.”

With a loaded sigh, he deposits my bags on the welcome mat that reads, ‘Think twice before you knock’, and mumbles under his breath, “This ought to be interesting.”

He presses the doorbell, then turns and sprints off as if someone is chasing him.