“Dance?” asked some random guy with a complexion as creamy as the suit he wore, no shirt. He held out a hand, wiggling his fingers for her to take. She cast him a sidelong glance, swaying her hips as she moved away. She smirked when he clutched his chest as if she’d broken his heart. She moved through the crowds in sync to “Daddy Yo” by Wizkid.
The VIP section was in the middle of the club for the most prominent view. It was a raised white circular platform, like a crown in the center of the dance floor. All the non-VIPs danced around it, hoping they’d be chosen to join the elite. She waltzed right through them all.
She spied him, Kwabena-now-Kamil, and her directive returned as she danced in front of the platform, refusing any other person who tried to dance with her. She was performing for a party of one, hoping she’d catch his attention. She would, because what drew a man to a woman the most was when she seemed untouchable.
“May I?” a voice from behind asked above the din of the music. She accepted, moving in time with the music and with him. She didn’t let him get too close. She thwarted and teased his attempts to hold her waist. She kept just out of reach, wanted to make him yearn for her, be enthralled by her.
When she tried to drift away, he grabbed her hand. “What’s your name?”
The grab was electrifying, driving her to that moment with dirt and rocks digging in her back while Kwabena hovered above her, causing her to feel more pain than she’d ever imagined. The taste of his foul breath in the back of her throat while her mind was going, going, gone.
She could take him down right here. Her push daggers were in her belt. There was enough crowd to conceal her act. But that would mean too quick a death, like Attah Walrus. She reflexively snatched her hand away and saw him shrink back at her sudden hostility. But wasn’t this why she was here? To draw him out?
You need to cool it. She forced herself to play at being coy, to reel him back in, make him follow her.
“Hey!” he called out. She ignored him, moving farther away.
He called after her again.
She paused for a group of club goers to pass. As she did, he caught up, jogging over to her, slightly out of breath.
She said, with faux surprise, “You’re following me?”
His smile was not unpleasant, but she’d love to scratch it off him. “How could I not? You took my breath away in there,” he panted.
Easily, she maneuvered toward the door. “A good thing.”
“I don’t normally chase women.”
She smirked. “And yet . . .” Easy. Not too much.
Her Dispatch training included ways to engage people romantically, but her best teacher was Elin, and Nena tried to channel her now.
She bit her bottom lip, showing a bit of teeth. She looked at him, taller by a foot or so, through her eyelashes. He was nothing but arms, legs, and a rounded little potbelly. They were at the doors now. “What do you want from me?” she asked.
He held up a finger. “One night. One night with you, and I’ll make your life brand new.”
He’d already done that, now, hadn’t he?
She let out a throaty laugh. “You think highly of yourself . . .”
He gave her his name.
“Kamil.” She let the name roll off her tongue, as if becoming accustomed to it.
She cocked her head to the side, looking coquettishly at him with a hint of hesitation. “One night?”
He held up his finger again. “Just one.”
“Where do we go for this ‘one night’？”
“I know the perfect place.”
She knew where he’d want to go. To a place not so public. And it was indeed perfect.
She looked beyond him, at the couple of guards weaving toward them through the crowd. “And your friends?”
He looked over his shoulder at his approaching men, then back to her. He really thought his boyish looks were disarming, and maybe to any other woman they would be. “I’ll take care of them.”
Nena let Kwabena drive her several blocks away in his latest-model Bentley. Ostentatious, but what more could she expect from a man like him? He pulled into the dimly lit back lot of a strip mall.
Pointing to a door with a blue flower painted on it, he said, “We can go in there. It’s very nice. I own it.”
She made a point of looking at the door, then him, in awe. “Perfect.” Her voice was husky with anticipation. She unbuckled her seat belt and left the car, beckoning him to join her.
The Lotus Flower was deserted at this time of night. All the girls who were forced to work the spa were likely at a shared house, recuperating from another day of being forced to give massages and prostitute themselves to earn their keep. One of the numerous ways traffickers used their merchandise: in their businesses, in their homes, moving the girls from one location to another . . . always moving. And when the merchandise was all used up, it was disposed of.