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I've seen how flights work in movies, but there's no tray tables locked in the upright position, no overhead compartments, no yellow floaties around the attendants' necks. I guess we don’t get that because we didn’t have to do the whole airport thing. The car that picked me up from my dorm dropped me off right on the runway. I huddle up next to my window and pull the lightweight hood of my ragged old sugar skull tee over my face and pretend to nap even though I'm praying I don't puke. I hear people do that sometimes on flights.
And then we're in the air a million miles above Florida, above the clouds, and the little plane with its maybe dozen leather-covered seats seems like it's floating.
I want to stay here forever, but I'm not about to stare out the window like an idiot. I take a couple of quick peeks, store the images of clouds and ocean, the satellite image of Miami metro, in my brain for inspiration for my tattoo doodles.
There are nine of us on the plane, but two are men and one woman is older. When we land, the trio along with one younger woman stay behind while the rest of us are escorted to a trolley, brightly colored with seats like a school bus and a roof but no windows. A tour guide points out the landmarks of the island as we drive across it and along the beach. The other womenoohandahhthe white sand and blue water, but I figure I can check it out when I'm not surrounded by strangers.
The place we're staying at is nice, I guess. I don't get what it is. It looks like a house, but it apparently has twenty bedrooms in it, so is it a hotel? Is this what a bed and breakfast is? Me and the other girls have our own wing, and every bedroom has a bathroom and a living room in it, which doesn't make a damn bit of sense. Yeah, having my own bathroom is cool as fuck, but what am I gonna do in a living room that I can't do in my bedroom?
But I do get to jump on my bed without anyone yelling at me.
The older lady from the plane brings me my duffel bag and tells me to get myself spruced up and meet everyone in the parlor in an hour, like I know what a parlor is. So I "spruce" myself up by brushing my teeth and redoing the braid that got frizzed up from leaning against the plane window and spend the next fifty minutes standing by the door to the hallway, waiting for someone else to walk past so I can follow them.
"We didn't get a chance to meet on the plane," the girl says the moment I peek out. Of the group I came here with, she's probably the youngest aside from me. She's a Barbie blonde with big tits and long legs, dressed in a tight, shimmery pink dress that shows off her perfect ass, and she sounds like she's fresh off the cheerleading squad. "I'm Addison."
I nod tersely at her. "Sup. Baylee."
She laughs loudly, and I don't know what's so fucking funny. "Is it your first time here?" she asks with a big smile that shows off teeth her parents probably paid thousands of dollars for. "I was really nervous my first time, too."
"I'm not nervous," I bite back, wishing I could stomp ahead of her, but I don't know where I'm going.
And I'm not nervous. I've had sex before, and the whole time I stressed I was gonna get knocked up like my sister did and end up fucked in the head for it. Now it's a goal. And I know that I'll be taken care of. Jane said on paper this is gonna look like I was a surrogate, no sex involved, and people dig that.
No one's gonna call me a whore for seducing my foster dad like Gabbie's foster mom did, and that's real cool. So no, I'm not nervous.
Addison's brows pull together, but she's got one of those perpetually chipper faces. "Well anyway, the guys can get a little kinky, but I promise you'll have a good time."
"I'm just here to get paid."
The look she gives me is one I've seen from teachers, social workers, foster siblings, even my own sisters. It's the look of someone who's realizing they're wasting their time talking to me.
The next to give me that look is Paula, an absolutely breathtaking ultra-skinny supermodel with dark, glowing skin and hypnotically green eyes. Baby-faced, mom-bodded Lisa also gives me that look when they offer to run back to their rooms to see if they have any dresses that will fit me, figuring something loose of Paula's or snug of Lisa's will do the trick, and I blow them off.
"I like my clothes. I'm not changing."
I don't care that everyone else is in a cute dress while I'm in a cropped, hooded tee and high-waisted jean shorts. I'm comfy. And I'm not here to attract men, they're all gonna wanna fuck me regardless. There are five women for ten men. Plus, I'm betting any guy willing to pay for this is gonna dig the barely-legal vibe I'm rocking.
"You're old as fuck," I snort at Lisa, just to make sure everyone's clear that I hold my own. "I mean, you look like you can pump out some kids, so that's lit, but I'm not ready to rock mom clothes yet."
And that's when Lisa and Paula give methatlook and wander off to the final woman, a redhead with her hair in those big, slutty curls men go for. She doesn't bother to introduce herself to me, which is cool because I don't want to talk to her. The four women make a circle in the middle of the stuffy, obnoxiously over-decorated parlor. Addison leaves a space for me, not that I'm going over there.
They share a champagne toast which I don't participate in, reminding them that I'm not even old enough for that. I can turn my back on them but still observe them through the array of mirrors hanging on the wall.
I can see that they're besties already. They laugh and compare notes from other times they've been here. Slutty redhead and Lisa have both already gotten that million-dollar payout, no surprises there, and are back for more. This is the second time here for Paula and the third time for Addison. Paula didn't end up pregnant the first time. Addison's real cagey about how things have played out for her. She's got big tits and a booty, so maybe she had a kid and just knows how fucked up it is that she needs another million dollars. How the fuck did the other two piss through theirs already?
I lean against an antique-looking table and pick at my nails. Time passes too slowly, and I have to will my legs to stop shaking in a way that makes me look nervous. Really, I just want to draw everyone's attention to the vipers I drew all over them with tattoo markers. My only real tattoo, a life-sized photorealistic strawberry on my right thigh, has a serpent coiled around it, too. I don't want anyone thinking I'm soft just because I have girly shit on me.
I feel like we've been here forever, just hanging out, with no instruction on what happens next, and I hate that. Especially because everyone else seems to know exactly what's going on when a door on the wall of mirrors finally does open, beckoning us. The women all pass me, giving me smug looks on their way in, except Addison, who waves for me to follow.
I snort. Yeah, I get what I need to do. I'm not a fucking idiot.
The room is big and dark and sparsely furnished, just a couple of sofas along the walls. A chair in one corner. Some weird swing with a bunch of straps in another corner. And on the opposite wall is a line of men.
In suits and masks. The suits are all the fancy black-with-a-bowtie deal, but they each have a unique mask. Some are little more than strips of fabric, the ones knock-off superheroes wear that anyone with half a brain would recognize their alter egos through. Some are more elaborate, tall ears and long beaks, some with big feathers. No matter how simple or fancy, they all cover the upper face but not the mouth.
The men leer at us and then exchange looks with each other before approaching. They must have already worked out who’s getting which girl because there’s no debate, hardly any words spoken, as pairs of masked men claim each girl until I'm left in the middle of the room with the last two men. One is a tall, lanky, rabbit-masked man with black hair and a foolish grin. The other seems to have a more average build with soft, sandy brown hair, but his lips are screwed into an intimidating scowl. His metalsmith fox mask doesn't soften him any either, and once he gets close enough that I can feel his ginger-scented breath on me, I realize that he may look sleek in his suit, but his shoulders don't have an inch of give in the suit jacket. It's tailored down to the most slender shape possible to prevent him from looking like a bouncer in it.
I swallow, not wanting him to see that I'm anything less than chill in this moment but unable to hold back the reflex.
