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But maybe that’s how they got this boat and whatever other things they have. Extort people for whatever they can get. Guess it all adds up after a while, andpoof!one day you have a big fucking boat.
Well, Dad will pay whatever they want without delay. I know he will. He’ll do anything for me. I mean, he’s a needy pain in the ass, but the man loves me. After all, he’s the one who stepped up to the plate when my mom bailed on us. He had to be both parents.
If only I’d gone with the DJ who wanted to show me his booth. I probably wouldn’t be here right now. He had, after all, warned me to be careful. That Ibiza was bright and shiny on the surface, but it could be dangerous to a girl who hadn’t been around a whole lot.
Like me.
And the French girls. What happened to them? Where did they go? Are they okay? Did they make it back to the Airbnb? Home to France?
If so, why aren’t they helping me? What did they do with my passport and other stuff?
Why did they abandon me?
They mustn’t have had a choice.
I have no way to contact them, except via the email they used to send me my plane ticket. Not that I have a phone to contact them with anyway.
While my head is spinning with a thousand possibilities, there’s a knock on the bedroom door. I pull on a robe hanging in the bathroom.
“Come in,” I call.
At least they know how to knock.
It’s Karol, their gnome-y little minion, with a tray of food—a sandwich and what looks like ice tea.
“Miss Abby,” he says, shuffling over the carpet, “you missed lunch, and I thought you might be hungry.”
He sets the tray down on a small table by the window, which, ironically, holds a beautiful view of Ibiza in the distance.
It’s like the universe is giving me the big middle finger.
Thanks!
“Thank you.” I take a big swig of the tea.
He smiles. “I know Americans like their ice tea. It is good, yes?”
So good. And unsweetened, just how I like it.
“Mmmm, thank you.” It is strangely comforting to taste something so familiar.
Karol makes to leave, but I stop him.
“Hey, um, Karol. What’s going on here? Can you help me?” I ask, hoping that, for some reason, the man might take pity on me.
After all, he’s not one of the guys. He’s just their bitch.
He looks at me, his expression no different than it was a moment ago when he was kindly offering me food. “No, Miss Abby. I cannot help you.”
A lump builds in my throat at the coldness in his statement. “Karol, what should I do?”
“Accept it, Miss Abby. Just accept it.”
* * *
6
FEDOR
