Alyssa
“MODELS NEEDED NOW”
“CALENDER GIRL AUDITIONS – YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL GIRLS WANTED”
“MAKE UP TO FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS A DAY – GIRLS NEEDED NOW”
I flipped through the ad listings on my phone, my stomach growing tighter and tighter as I did. There wasn’t a single ad for any job that I could possibly get hired for in the next week. Aside from these ads for models, that is.
I knew exactly what they were asking for. They wanted girls like me who were desperate for drugs or money. I imagined showing up to some hotel in Manhattan where a few guys would be standing behind some camera equipment when I walked in. They’d ask me about myself, asking me questions about my life, the questions growing more and more personal. Then they’d ask me if I was interested in doing some “auditioning.” Then some tattooed sleaze with a dick like a mule would come out, do what I knew they’d been planning from the word go, and send me out with a few hundred dollars in my pocket and my dignity shattered.
I’d have some money, all right, but I’d officially be a prostitute. And that wasn’t even getting into the idea of someone seeing the videos once they went online.
I flipped through a few more ads, hoping against hope that I’d find something a little more reputable. But aside from the “calendar girl” ads, all I found were postings for “live-in maids.” That’s right—I could live in some rich guy’s place for free, and all I’d have to do was attend to his sexual needs whenever he needed them satisfied. Sure, like the calendar girl ads it didn’t say this directly, but the constant references to what type of applicant the person was looking for—always young and female—coupled with requests for headshots made it as clear as it could be without saying the precise words.
So that was it. Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I realized that it was prostitution or nothing. Sure, I could get a few more nights out of my car, but I’d need money for food and gas. Not to mention the fact that it was getting colder by the day.
And right at the moment that hopelessness overcame me, the waitress returned. This time, the only thing she’d brought with her was an expression that was even surlier than her typical one.
“Listen, missy, I can tell you got nowhere to go, but I gotta make a living here,” she said. “You’re costing me money taking up my booth, and I gotta ask you to finish up that food and get a move on.”
With that, she dropped my check on the table and left just as quickly as she’d arrived.
I took the bill from the table and looked it over. Sure enough, the bill would just about wipe me out. I should’ve skimped on the tip, but the waitress had sufficiently shamed me for wasting her time, and I wanted to just get out of there. I wasn’t hungry, but I knew I would be later, so I shoveled my crappy food down, dropped a couple of twenties on the table, and got out of there before I had to confront the waitress again.
Stepping out into the cold New York evening, I felt about as bad as I’d ever felt in my life. I walked down the street slowly, in no hurry to get back to my car. After all, the only thing waiting for me there were the few things I’d brought with me. The best I could do was sleep and hope that no policeman happened to walk by and see me in there.
Soon, I reached the alleyway where my car was parked. It was a quiet, depressing little place, only chosen by me because the sign stated that I could park there as long as it wasn’t a garbage collection day. That would be tomorrow, of course, and as I approached my dingy, rundown off-white Civic, I realized sadly that the task of tomorrow would be to find a new place to park. That, and avoiding Logan.
I was sure that he was looking for me. He was the type of man not to take an insult like his woman leaving without a word lightly. He had the determination and the resources to track me down, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that he’d hired a private investigator or two to find me. And if he did … well, I didn’t even want to think about that.
I sighed as I opened the door to the back half of the car. I’d gathered together my clothes and made them into something resembling a bed, though it really looked more like a little burrow that a hamster or some other tiny critter like that would call a home. Taking one last look to make sure that no one was watching me, I climbed in and tried to make myself as comfortable as I could. My stomach was hot with fear about the days ahead, and as I watched my breath form in front of me from the chill, I knew that unless I figured something out, getting caught by Logan might be the least of my worries.
Sleep seemed to be an impossibility, and part of me was certain that I’d spend the night tossing and turning, the sun rising with the night not even providing me with a single minute of sleep. But I was out pretty quickly.
Thank heaven for small miracles.
# # #
Something like a bang awakened me. I was buried under my clothes and couldn’t see a thing. My eyes were wide open, and my first instinct was to throw my “blankets” off of me and figure out what the sound was.
But then I felt a presence, followed by a grunt, and the sound of someone shifting their weight in the driver’s seat.
Someone was in the car.
And the last traces of sleep were rushed out of my body by the adrenaline that was now coursing through me.
“Goddamn piece of shit car.”
The voice was thin and gruff, almost like a teenager’s impression of a tough adult.
Next, I heard the slamming of something against something, maybe metal, but I couldn’t tell.
Then the engine started.
With horror, I realized that my car was being stolen—with me inside.
I felt the car lurch into movement, then the motion of the vehicle as it pulled out of the alley. I hoped against hope that this was some kind of bad dream, that I would wake up safe and warm in my pile of clothes, refreshed from my rest. But as I felt the car turn onto the road, I knew that everything that was happening was terribly real. I was being kidnapped. My awful situation had somehow taken a turn for the worse.
I did everything I could to hold back a scream.