American Prince

It takes a long time, or at least it feels long in the dark, having to move so slowly. But then I find it: a cheaply made vinyl bag resting in its own cavity under the carpet. I slowly work it open and extract the pry bar, thanking God that Grandpa Leo insisted I learn how to change a tire when I was a teenager, even though I had no reason to drive anywhere. It serves me now as I brace the bar against the side of the trunk and begin working the sharp points of it into the tape.

My wrists are stinging and aching after only a few moments of this; several times the sharp end misses the tape and digs into the soft skin of my inner arms. Luckily, the tape over my mouth stifles my yelps of pain, and after my hands go numb and my arms are bleeding and sore, it happens. The tape tears enough to free my hands. I wincingly peel the tape off my mouth and lose the blindfold, and then set to work on my feet, which takes much less time.

And without the blindfold, I see what I’m looking for, the only point of light in my dark world. A tab marked Pull.

I want to pull it now, right this instant, but I force myself to wait. Wait until the car slows, rolls almost to a stop. I bet we are at a stop sign or stoplight, and praying for daylight and lots of traffic, I yank the tab. The trunk lid pops open.

The light is blinding. Actually blinding—I can’t see, can’t even make out shapes and surfaces right in front of me. But I force myself to move anyway, climbing clumsily out of the trunk, forcing my half-asleep legs to run, run, run, even though I can’t see where I’m going and my bare feet struggle to find purchase on the wet asphalt beneath them. Even though I feel the hotel bathrobe I’m still dressed in begin to flap open, exposing my nakedness underneath. There’s a yell, a shout in Ukrainian, and I will my eyes to see more, see faster, as if I could shrink my pupils at will.

And sight is gradually creeping back in. I’m next to a large building, I think, stumbling on a narrow drive. It’s evening time; I must have been unconscious for a very long time. And there’s a smell, a familiar smell, something other than the rain…

My legs are pumping hard and I veer away from the drive and cut across the wet lawn, but it’s not enough, my stiff legs can’t move fast enough, my dark-weakened eyes can’t steer me to safety. I’m taken down only a moment later. I’m flipped over onto my back and the robe gapes open. I struggle to pull it closed underneath my abductor, and to his credit, after an assessing flicker of his eyes across my breasts, he lets me. I recognize the man who attacked me in the hallway of the hotel. He’s still wearing his janitor’s uniform, the one that says Daryl.

“You are too much trouble,” he hisses, and I wrestle with him, jamming my knee into his balls. He loosens his hold and I slip almost out of his grip, but then he seizes and flattens me, leaving his hands free to pin mine above my head.

Funny that some of the best moments of my life have been lying like this underneath Ash, and yet now, I’m all fury and fear. If I ever wondered if my sexual programming is messed up, here I know the truth—I only want my pain and humiliation from one man.

I think of last night and despite everything, I smile. Maybe two men, I amend.

“You think this is time for smiling, bitch?” Not-Daryl unleashes a slap so fierce I see stars. And then he hits me again, flat enough not to leave a mark, hard enough to draw tears.

Two other men join him and haul me to my feet, and as I’m struggling and crying out for help, I realize I know that familiar smell.

The sea.

4

Embry

before

Lieutenant Colchester turned out to be a real fucking thorn in my side.

First, there were the drills. Before Colchester, the platoons trained separately, simply because of the space limitations on the base. But after Colchester came, he convinced the captain to let the platoons drill together, which then meant that Colchester and I had to drill together. Which meant every morning, Monday through Saturday, I had to watch Colchester run faster than me, march longer, jump higher, squat deeper.

I mean, I didn’t mind the deep squats so much.

Then there were the patrols. The separatists were encroaching fast and converting many of the locals to their cause. So it was our job to walk through the five or six villages closest to the base, and shake hands and hand out bars of chocolate, or whatever bullshit the government had sent that month to try to buy local goodwill. And even though we each had our own platoon, our units were small enough that the captain had us go together, which meant that my afternoons were spent watching Colchester conversing with the villagers in fluent Ukrainian, helping them move boxes and jumping into impromptu soccer matches with the children, and overall just being so fucking helpful and likable as to be disgusting.

And even when we weren’t together, I felt his presence, as if I were magnetized and he were a slab of iron, and at night in my own room, my skin prickled with the awareness that he was just on the other side of the wall. I told myself it was because we’d fought—and I’d lost, no less—and I told myself it was because I didn’t want another fucking lecture about how to do my job. I told myself those things, even though it had been three weeks since that fight in the yard and Colchester hadn’t once tried to talk to me in all that time. But I caught him looking at me several times a day, those lake-green eyes unreadable and his expression both stern and a little amused.

Which pissed me off. Who was he to find me amusing? I was always the first to laugh at myself, to be the butt of the joke, if the joke was funny and the night full of liquor and life. But for some reason, the idea that Colchester didn’t take me seriously rubbed me the wrong way.