ANNIE HAMILTON.

IN MY DRUG-FUELED HAZE, I took a chance. The words that I thought, that I knew I wouldn’t have the strength to say overpowered my lips as if they had a mind of their own. I hadn’t uttered my name in years. They’d given me a new one—Star—and a new identity—whore. Analía “Annie” Rose Hamilton—San Diego University’s soccer star, Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority girl, and Bob and Linda’s “perfect” daughter—was dead. Star—heroin addict and prostitute—was barely hanging on to life.

I hobbled over to the sink and brushed my teeth, scrubbing the bitter condom taste out of my mouth. My panties remained scrunched up on the floor, so I pulled them on and slumped back onto the cot. The bell would ring any second and I would have to line back up and greet the next group of men, or face a beating. I reached into my stash to get a quick fix.

What the fuck had I been thinking? For five years, I had lived this life, accepted my fate, and fought the urge to escape. I focused on survival, one day at a time, one man after the next. I knew my family was most certainly still looking for me, desperate to find answers as to what had happened to their princess the morning I had disappeared from the resort. I couldn’t face them knowing what I had done to stay alive, who I had become. Would they accept me? Could I accept myself? And I didn’t know if I would be able to live without the friend who had been there for me over the years. And that friend would never fit in at my parents’ country club or with my sorority sisters. The friend that had held my hand through the beatings, the rapes. My only friend: heroin.

And I held a secret. A secret I would die for. The one light left in my life. And the truth behind my secret was yet another reason I doubted I would ever be accepted back into my former life.

The man who had just been in my room, in my mouth, he had been different. Different than the other men who’d haunted my doors, stuck their dicks inside me, penetrated my body and mind.

He’d asked my name—my real name. No one had ever done that.

That man was gorgeous—looked like he had just walked off an action movie set. He wasn’t just another American—no, that man had to be Special Forces. What if he was a Navy SEAL? Would he save me? I grew up in San Diego and would always see them training on the beach, running through the surf carrying logs and boats over their heads, when I was having brunch at the Hotel Del Coronado. They were a cult of masculinity: chiseled, wet and sandy. I could tell by his muscular body, his longer dirty, blond hair, and his scruffy beard. His attitude. He didn’t try to make small talk or make me feel better about myself. He approached me like a job. A job he needed to accomplish. He was the kind of man who could save me. The kind who gave me hope that one day I could escape. And he picked me—I usually got chosen by old European businessmen and crooked Caribbean cops. My first thought when I saw him was maybe my parents had finally located me, and had sent someone to extract me. So, I took a chance. Knowing if my pimp found out I had opened my mouth for anything other than sucking cock, he’d kill me. I’d always thought that by age twenty-three, I’d be married to my college sweetheart, living in Encinitas with my dog and starting my career as a teacher. Maybe I’d be on my honeymoon in paradise, instead of turning tricks for tourists in hell.

I’d risked my life by revealing my identity. And he barely listened to me before he bolted.

I tied the rubber tube around my arm then shoved the needle in my least-bruised vein. The warm, smooth fluid spiked through my body, soothing my soul. My pain stopped and I pretended I wasn’t splayed on this filthy cot. Ten, twenty, thirty seconds of the most intense pleasure, warmth, and joy—the only release I had left in my life. I wrapped my arms around my body to contain my euphoria.

The bell rang. I leapt from the cot. Maybe he had returned? His eyes had given me a glimmer, a glint of warmth. I’d broken my own rules—I looked him in the eyes, I showed him my tattoo and my scar. I did my best to please him, imagined when I was servicing him that he was my boyfriend.

The girlfriend experience.

I’d never done that—I don’t even remember what it’s like to be turned on by a man. And I highly doubted I would ever enjoy sex again—even if I somehow managed to escape from this nightmare.

I returned to the line. Two Middle Eastern men stood there, picking out their victims. One pointed at me. Fuck.

Why me? I’d already pretty much aged out. Men always went for the barely legal girls. My face was now weathered; my eyes were hollow. How could any man get turned on by fucking a corpse? I was a shadow of who I once was. My family wouldn’t even recognize me now. I’m sure I’d be an embarrassment to them—what if they didn’t even want me back?

He followed me back to my tiny room, but I could still sense that beautiful man’s presence. At least he had asked my name.

This guy said something to me but I didn’t understand him. My mom was Mexican-American so I grew up speaking Spanish, a skill that definitely helped me blend in with the other girls. Over the years, I’d learned the nasty words in most languages. As my high school French teacher said, you never knew when you’d have an opportunity to practice your foreign language skills. If she only knew.

He took off my clothes and threw me on the bed. I shoved a condom in his face and luckily for me, he didn’t fight it. I lay back on the cot and closed my eyes, praying it would be over soon.

Each pump, each thrust, each moan, made my skin crawl. His rum-spiked breath blew hot on my neck. Finally, he collapsed on top of me, and I didn’t even have the strength to push him off. After a few torturous minutes, he rolled off me, threw the money on the floor and walked out of the room.

This was my life. How many more men could I take? Once my pimp decided he no longer had use for me, I would be history. He would trade me to another brothel, another island. Or kill me.

No hero was going to sweep in and save me. I had to find a way out of here, back to my life, back to the United States. I was running out of time before Star wiped every piece of Annie away forever.

I knelt by the side of my bed and clasped my hands in prayer. I was Catholic but stopped praying years ago, after all my prayers went unanswered and I endured daily beatings, rapes, torture, and drugging. But this time I wasn’t praying to Mary, the Saints, God, or the Holy Spirit, the Trinity. I was praying to the man with the deep blue eyes and shaggy blond hair. I prayed he was the man I thought he was. I prayed he was capable of what I thought he was. I prayed he would believe me. I prayed he would return and bust me out of this hellhole so I could discover if life was worth living again.