Amaya digs her fingers into his arm. “You’re leaving?” She recoils at the shrill sound of her voice. Of course he’s leaving! “My bad,” she says more evenly. “This shit is wild, never seen anything like this. Rich people are too much, got me nervous.”
The Seven of Hearts pats her hand as he coaxes her into releasing him. “It’s understandable, miss.” He turns and leaves. The doors close behind him, leaving Amaya with an intense feeling of foreboding.
Amaya remains rooted in place with her eyes firmly on Noelle and her pale, expressionless mask. As she watches, Noelle extends her slender arm and crooks a finger for Amaya to come forward. Mouth dry, she swallows past the lump clogging her throat and approaches with caution.
Upon greater inspection, the room isn’t as devoid of guests as Amaya first presumed. Taking her time to look around on her languid trek to the altar, she discovers several couples and groups camouflaged by the abundance of curated foliage. Men in all manner of animal-inspired costumes conversing intimately or outright fondling young feminine bodies. Dread settles in the pit of Amaya’s stomach as she makes her way onto the altar, dragging clumps of grass and moss onto the platform with her high heels. Graceful, she is not.
Coated in bronze paint, Noelle’s skin glitters beneath the soft lights. Jewels adorn her and refract the light raining down from the vines behind her throne. Long hair, dark as pitch drapes her seductive and exposed body. The color of Noelle’s eyes—the only visible part of her face—is undistinguishable behind her solid, gilded mask of bronze, gold, and emerald green. Though Amaya despises Noelle based on all she’s heard about the woman, she can admit to feeling threatened and impressed in equal measure by her imposing manner.
Noelle appraises her, then has her turn in a circle to get a better view before she retrieves one of her cushions and tosses it to the side of her throne with pointed indifference. A twirl of her wrist commands Amaya to sit on the cushion and await further instructions. Amaya anticipated a conversation or even a strip search—but somehow, it’s this casual dominance that feels a bridge too far. The temptation to hesitate, though present, is fleeting in the face of Noelle’s authoritative aura.
Amaya kneels on the cushion with her hands on her knees and waits for the inevitable interrogation. It helps that she’s here for the sole purpose of crossing bridges and burning them once across. A little submission and degradation are the least she can expect from the evening. Regardless of her determination, her heart hammers wildly—a terrifying rhythm she can feel on the side of her neck, the backs of her knees, bends of her elbows, and the base of her spine. Sweat slides toward her eye beneath her ill-ventilated mask, her only defense to blink hard and blow air upward to jostle it away.
“Sorry about the costume,” Amaya whispers, unable to endure the debilitating awkwardness any longer.
Noelle turns her head and sets her piercing gaze on Amaya. “Be quiet, and be still.” She returns her attention to the rest of the room.
Amaya recognizes that voice. It takes her back in time, slams her into the back of some asshole’s busted Caprice, and presses a knife to her lips.
Seven Years Earlier, 2013
Santa Monica, California
Amaya was thirteen when she lost her dad. Murdered.
She was fourteen when she lost her mom. Murdered.
At fifteen she ran away from her aunt’s house in the Bronx and hitchhiked to California. It took six weeks for her to run out of cash and turn her first trick.
By seventeen, she had a pimp and a drug habit.
She didn’t fear danger. Tragedy had found her all her life and no amount of fear or precaution had prevented it.
“My dick’s hard, baby. Why don’t you suck it for me?” he said.
Amaya chuckled as she took another hit off the pipe. “You serious? It’s been a long motherfuckin’ night, man.” She eyed him sidelong. He wasn’t completely unattractive, despite his yellowing teeth and gaunt features, but Amaya had little interest in men or sex. It was a job, no more, and no less. Most of the time she couldn’t achieve orgasm. “This shit ain’t worth some neck.”
He leaned into her space and placed one of his pale, raw-knuckled hands on her exposed knee. “You say that after you already smoked.” His fingers curved toward her inner thigh and slid up her skirt to finger her