Page 1 of Saint's Preciosa
Chapter1
Luna
My knees ache against the hard tile, but I don't dare stop. The red welts on my hands have become so familiar I barely notice them anymore.
"Luna, he's watching you again," Yesenia whispers as she passes by with an armful of towels.
I don't need to look up to know Mikhail Popov, the owner of Golden Touch Day Spa, is standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. I can feel his gaze like a physical presence crawling across my skin. Like the cockroaches in our apartment building.
"Almost finished," I say, keeping my head down, my voice deliberately soft and submissive.
"Luna," he addresses me in broken English with a thick Russian accent. "We have special party tomorrow. VIP clients. You work."
Not a request. A command.
"But Mr. Popov, I don't work private parties." My voice comes out weaker than I intended. “I was hired to clean."
His smile never reaches his eyes. "Time for promotion. Good money."
“I-I can't," I say, heart hammering against my ribs. "My grandmother is ill?—"
"We have special clients. Very important men. You will serve drinks. They like pretty girls pour drinks.”
My stomach drops like a stone. My hands shake so badly.
The way he says “pretty girls” makes my skin crawl. I've seen what happens to the girls who work these "parties." They come to work the next day with vacant, hollow eyes, all the life seemingly drained from them. Some don't come back at all.
"I really can't," I say, my voice barely audible.
He squats down, his face uncomfortably close to mine. I can smell the garlic from his lunch, see the yellow tinge to his teeth as he smiles.
His expression hardens. "Your grandmother need food, no? Need rent money?" He taps his pen against the schedule book. "You work party, or maybe I find other girl who want your hours. Maybe I make a call to certain people about illegal Mexican girl working here."
The threat is clear. I’m well aware that ICE is very active these days—we all are. It's the leash he keeps on us—the constant threat of deportation hanging over our heads.
“Yes sir,” I squeak out.
"Good girl.” He smiles, pleased with his victory. "And wear pretty dress. Now, finish here and help Yesenia with fresh linens."
When he finally leaves, I sit back on my heels and close my eyes, trying to hold back tears. I don't have the luxury of crying, and I’m not going to. Not now. Not ever.
Marisol, one of the unlicensed massage therapists, gives me a sympathetic look as I finish scrubbing and gather up my cleaning supplies.
"Your first party?" she asks quietly in Spanish.
I nod, unable to speak.
"Don't drink anything they give you," she whispers, glancing toward the door to make sure no one can hear. "Not even water."
My throat closes up. "What do they make you do?"
Marisol shakes her head, eyes haunted. "Just... Don’t fight…” It seems as though she wants to say more, but her words taper off as she crosses herself. "Not if you want to stay safe."
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, I'm racing across town to the community clinic, my bag clutched tightly against my side. The sky threatens rain, dark clouds matching my mood.
Inside the sterile waiting room, I head straight to the pharmacy counter. The constant fear of being in public spaces never leaves me—any official-looking person frightens me. My documentation status is the open wound I'm always protecting from salt.
