Page 34 of Sin of Love
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CAPTIVITY - DAY 65
Wherever we are,it’s beautiful. From my bedroom’s private balcony, I can see the ocean, a swath of turquoise through dense fauna. Most days, I can also glimpse life outside this world: tourists parasailing or hang gliding farther up the coast, near the stretch of buildings I know are resorts. I’ve overheard Playa Del Carmen often enough to put a pin in it.
We’re secluded here. Surrounded by twelve-foot walls with razor wire atop them, and a gate discreetly manned by armed men.
My leash is short but a lot longer than it was—I’m allowed morning walks before breakfast accompanied by a guard. His name is Paulo, and he’s a loyal soldier of La Familia Lazcano. Older, with thick, salt-and-pepper hair and a face scarred with pockmarks from youth, he barely speaks to me except to remind me of the time in broken English—I’m on a rigid schedule. At least he doesn’t look at me like I’m his boss’s whore, which I’ve more or less been for the last twenty days, since that first dinner.
Or he doesn’t care. I don’t really care either at this point. I’m starting to forget my other life. Every day leeches new memories, replacing them with jagged, neon ones that burn inside me.
“Six o’clock,” chimes a gruff voice.
Before I turn from the balcony where I’m watching the sunset, I perform a little ritual I do every time I’m called to perform. Pushing my belly to the stone railing, I look down and consider whether the two-story fall would kill me. As always, I conclude that with my luck, I’d bounce off tree limbs and land on a bush. Superficial scrapes and maybe a sprained ankle. But very much alive for the punishment that would certainly follow.
So I don’t jump. Not today.
Lifting the hem of my sequined dress, I walk into the room. A maid darts forward to adjust my windblown curls. She doesn’t meet my gaze. They never do.
“Tea,” says Paulo, handing me the familiar ceramic mug.
I drink without tasting. And for the minute before my bloodstream readily accepts its medicine, as my perfume is reapplied and gloss added to my lips… I think about rebellion. I imagine a steak knife in my hand, plates clattering as I launch over the dinner table and stab Julep in the neck. I fantasize about smiling as his men enact swift vengeance.
“Does he hurt you every time?” asked Maggie yesterday, after barging into the bathroom while I was in the shower and seeing the fresh welts on my back. I’d laughed at her, bitter and derisive, until she’d stormed out.
Once, I had Nate to live for. To fight for. To keep me human and sane. Now there are only empty people with empty eyes who make me tea, treat my wounds, ensure I exercise each morning, eat three meals a day, and take my birth control and vitamins.
This is a toy house and we are—all of us—nothing more than dirty dolls.
* * *
My Spanish is getting better,which Julep’s regular dinner guests find both entertaining and endearing. They love his American pet and don’t know I dream of slitting their throats. Or that I’m fluent in Spanish.
Performing.
Julep didn’t tell me to play this game; it started because I didn’t want to talk to slimy men and their snobby wives, all of whom have sold their souls to La Familia Lazcano for one reason or another.
Although not initially pleased with my ruse, Julep likes it now. Not only am I forced to keep my mouth mostly shut, I can eavesdrop on conversations he’s not privy to—like the one happening now in the powder room off the main dining room.
Dinner is just over, and the men have moved to the library for cigars and talk about ruining lives and making money. I’m stuck with these three pampered cartel wives for at least another hour until their men fetch them.
Sitting on a padded stool near the sink in the obscenely large bathroom, I pretend to fix the straps of my stilettos as the women tend to their makeup and hair. They babble nonstop as they fuss, usually about their plastic surgeons’ newest technique or which one of their husbands’ men has been trying to seduce them.
I have no idea what’s truth or lie—they’ve been at this game a long time, too—but tonight, for the first time, I hear something interesting.
“El Jefe is coming for it,” says a woman as she reapplies lipstick. I think of her as Wife #1, the leader of the pack. Her eyes are cunning, reptilian, and behind closed doors she can be vicious to the others.
“Do you really think he’ll pull it off?” whispers Wife #2.
This one’s the youngest, still naturally lovely, with wide eyes that shift between awe and fear. She hasn’t seen enough, yet, and probably thinks I’m Julep’s girlfriend. I hate whoever allowed/encouraged/forced her to marry the sixty-year-old drunk with grabby hands and enough farmland to grow a million poppies.
“Jorge was talking about it with someone yesterday,” adds Wife #3, who reminds me of Jessica Rabbit because of her cartoon-like… everything. “He was saying this is his last shot at”—she slides a glance toward me and lowers her voice—“fixing what happened the last time.”
More furtive glances my way follow. Pretending to not see them would be ridiculous, so I smile. Perfect doll.
“It’s okay!” I say brightly. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll just sit here until you guys finish chatting.”
They frown, smile, and nod all at the same time in the universal sign for I don’t understand you but whatever and close ranks again before the mirror.
