Buried Sins   Copyright © 2004 by Jaycee Clark. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Cheb, Czech Republic

The music pulsed through the floor into the room she’d been assigned. The body over her moved, plunging in and out in a purchased dance of relief.

His relief not hers.

The music screamed in a language she couldn’t understand. She closed her eyes and wished for the end. The end of the music, the end of the ‘job’, just… the end.

She no longer cared if she lived or died.

He grunted, once twice and then stilled.

Her mind focused on the music as she always did in these situations. It was the only way to survive. The foreign words and bass boomed through the floor, a male punching the air, the vibrations hitting her as surely as the man who climbed off of her to sit on the side of the bed. From the sound, the club was all but raving tonight.

She didn’t move. Why? Someone else would be in a few minutes anyway.

She no longer cared if they killed her or not. At least then the torture would be over, an end to this hell of a nightmare she knew she would never wake up from.

He muttered something in German, or maybe Czech. She couldn’t tell and hardly cared. She rolled to her side, heard the slide of his clothing, the rip of his zipper. She could smell his expensive Armani cologne, his heavy cigars, over the stench of the room, of used sex and rancid bodies.

Sex sold. Always had, always would.

He pulled the threadbare blanket over her and muttered some sort of insult. She might not understand the words, but the tone was easily enough understood. He slapped her hard before walking away. She didn’t even try to evade. His expensive shoes thumped on the bare wooden floor as he walked to the door. Red haze slashed across the bed from the open doorway. She heard the girl in the room, crib, next to hers crying. Women were always crying here. For a while. Forever.
At least it was simply crying and not the tortured screams that the basement walls drank into their mortar. She would hear those screams even after she died.

She didn’t look at him as he walked out the door. When it clicked shut, she sat up and looked around her room.

The dingy cracked window let in more cold air. She rose and stumbled to it. Bars obstructed her view of the Prague suburb in winter. Biting December winds snaked through and around the small window.
Wall paper, yellowed and stained, probably with blood or semen or God only knew what, peeled in places, hung down in others.
She didn’t care.

Caring would mean she’d have to face where she was. Another whimpering cry echoed through the thin walls. She tried to ignore it.
Another new girl. The vague curiosity of who the newbie was, flittered across her mind, but it hardly mattered. American, British, French, Romania, Italian, it didn’t matter. They liked girls here. Any age, any nationality, then again, any sex too. She’d seen the young men and boys.

The window was cool against her forehead.

This place gave them all a commonality. Humility. Shame. Though she knew the club owners did like Western women. It gave them a chance to demean and humiliate those who thought they were too good for places like this. Those who, in their normal suburban homes, SUV driving, environmental conscience, lattee drinking lives did not know hells like this still existed.

She had no idea how many ‘western’ women were here. She knew of two, maybe three of them for certain. There were women, and young men, from all over. Mostly from war savaged Eastern Europe. But others were simply lost, lonely Western European women too forgotten to notice they were missing.

It didn’t matter.

Blood and nationality were stripped away. Status and wealth meant nothing here.

They were all the same.

They were all whores.

If she had anything left inside her, she might cry. But her tears had been beaten out of her, drugged out of her long ago. Or it seemed long ago. She’d had no idea of the month, though she now knew it was December because one of the johns wished her a Merry Christmas. When she’d looked at him blankly, he’d muttered it gutterally in English. He’d been pretending he was Saint Nickolaus.
She hoped his dick rotted off.

The light this time of year was a bit softer, the air colder. Though the last time she’d smelled clean air, seen an unbarred sky was weeks and weeks and weeks ago. It could be Christmas today for all she knew.
The cracked, dirty glass was cold against her forehead. She ran her forefinger over the crack.

November… December… Lots of ‘embers’ for her here. There was no way out. There was a reason these places were historically called hells.
The afterlife held no fear for her.

She already burned. Burned with hatred at what was done to her. With shame at what she couldn’t control. With addictions to the drugs they were hooking her on.

If beatings and fear were working or not, it didn’t matter. What better way to control someone than to hold what they ‘needed’. It was all part of his punishment. She knew that. He liked to use drugs as a punishment, just enough to get a girl hooked, and then take them away.

And right now, she needed a fix.

Her hands shook. And hatred welled up in her. At herself. She was stronger than this, wasn’t she?

Some part of her, some small part that she tried to ignore knew, knew the drugs were simply a way for the bastards to control the girls more, a way to keep them in line and a way to make more money. Mikhail could easily keep the money for a screw, a job and give just enough dope to keep a girl doing anything for the next fix.

Need six cocks sucked?

Fine, so long as the fix came.

At least she wasn’t at that point—yet. She’d seen the girls who were and she’d be damned if she became one. She hated them for that even more.

Hated herself to the point that the idea of breaking the window and slicing her wrists held a bright ray of hope.

Bright rays?

Hope.

There was neither for her. She was either too strong, or too weak to kill herself. Like everything else in her life, she was in some fogged limbo.
A knock sounded before The Dame came in.

“You should be cleaned and dressed. The next appointment will be here in five minutes.”

She just looked at the woman. What made her want to please the lady? She didn’t know if she wanted to rage, and risk a beating—or worse, or if she sought the woman’s help in order to ease her time here.
Things here were like freaking rabbit holes. Up and down were side ways. One unending nightmare.

Another song screeched and shook the floor beneath her bare soles.

“You’re to wear this,” Dame muttered, tossing a silver lamme dress across the bed, and threw a pair of strappy, scuffed, black fuck-me heels to land on the dress.

“Why?” she asked.

Dame looked at her. “You’re to wear that one. He’s a businessman and asked specifically to spend the night with you. Maybe he remember you before, yes? When you were better, not here. And another. He wants also the new girl,” the woman’s English stilted. “And maybe even another. I know, no.” Dame shrugged.

She took a deep breath. The new girl. She prayed Dame meant the new American. The one called Sparkle.

She, herself, was known as Dusk.

A wry grin pulled her mouth.

Dame raised her penciled brow and pulled a gold cigarette case from her silk trouser pocket. The one Mikhail had given the Dame for her loyalty just weeks before. “You find something amusing?”

“Which new girl?”

Dame jerked her bleached chic bob toward the wall. “The other American.”

“Sparkle Dusk.”

Dame smiled. “You make this one happy.” Her smile turned to a sneer.

“If you fail, you’ll go below for a week. You hear? Be happy the last client merely complained to me and not to Mikhail or you’d be below right now. Clients must smile. That is motto, yes? You make trouble, you end up like that other one. You’ve had two strikes against you already. Three times and you know what happens.”

The other one whose screams she would forever hear.

The other one known as Ebony. Ebony who had been Italian, said her father would kill these men if he ever found out. Most said something of that line, at least at first. So and so would pay them back. Then again, not most. Only the really brave, or the incredibly stupid. Either way, there had been a look in that girl’s eyes that sent a shiver down Dusk’s spine. Ebony had told the truth. Whoever her people were, Ebony was convinced they’d avenge her.

But the boys below had finished with her before any word could be gotten to whomever Ebony belonged to.

Below.

Just the words sent nausea greasing her stomach. Below. She shuddered, remembering the smell of blood and dirt, the darkness.
Dame came forward. “Tis not so bad, once you get used to it and the desserts help, no?”

Dusk could only nod. Desserts, drugs, same difference.

“You could have had it all,” Dame muttered, shaking her head. “He wanted you for himself. But you would not listen. This is test. If you do this right, he may take you back.”

The words jerked Dusk’s eyes from the cracked window back to Dame, who reached over and grabbed up the dress.

“What?”

Dame unzipped the material and threw it at her, then motioned to the little bowl of water. There were no private bathrooms here. It was like a page out of history. A washstand and a bowl and pitcher of water.
Dusk didn’t let herself think of what she used to have. The small things she’d always taken for granted, like privacy, a locked bathroom door, warm running water.

Somethings were better left in the black parts of memories.

Survival.

The dress shook in her hand. The shakes were coming on.
The Dame pulled out another leather case. Dusk knew what it contained.

Sweat broke out on her forehead, cooled her bare back.

“Wash up, and you get your treat.” The pouch opened and she saw the vial, the pills, the syringe inside. “Though you shouldn’t. Mikhail said no, but I don’t think he understands how far you’ve gone.” She tsked. “This little punishment of his, he never should have started. Cost too much.”

You don’t need them. You don’t need them….

The shakes, the craving overrode the voice. That forgotten voice.
That voice was dangerous, it could give her hope.

Dusk quickly washed, using the smelling oils they were forced to used. Hopping from one customer to the next with only a pitcher of water, you did what you could. Her long black hair was beyond fixing. Besides, the girls weren’t allowed mirrors.

“Who is the next client?” She asked, the shakes increasing.

She sat on the bed and fumbled with the shoes. The buckles and straps wouldn’t work. Anger started to burn, but she tamped it down.
The other American. Could they get away? Get to the consulate? She blinked, squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again.
Home. The girl inside her whispered. And like the memory of summer lemonade at twilight, hope flickered, rushing the blood through her heart.

She shoved away from that idea. The client. The drugs. The job.

The job. She ran, she died. Plain and simple. And if she ran straight home, she knew they’d not only kill her, but those she loved.
“Some big dealer,” Dame said, “Mikhail wants impress him.” She walked over and started to pull the strands of Dusk’s hair up. “This hair needs coifing, yes?”

Dusk sat still while the Dame twisted her hair up and stabbed some pins in the mass.

“Dealer? Drugs?”

One penciled brow arched again as Dame stepped around and in front of Dusk, studying her work. She nodded, and blew smoke out of the side of her mouth, holding the cigarette between her lips while reaching for the syringe and vial. Dame pulled the clear liquid into the syringe before tapping it. Not as much as she’d like to float through the next job, but it was enough to take the edge off.

As if Dame read her thoughts she said, “It would matter to you? If this man dealt drugs?” Her red painted lips curved in a smile before a rusted laugh danced out. “Like you should care. He might give you more tonight, yes? And what’s with the questions? No, and client said he likes coherent partners. So no floats for you. Just enough to take the edge off.” She tossed her head and said, “Arm?”

Dusk held her arm out. Good, coherent and lucid. Maybe they could get his help. But would she dare?

Did he have guards? Did this man have her and Sparkle for the entire night or just a couple of hours?

Questions danced evilly in her mind, taunting as if they could call for her hopes.

“He deals, that’s all I know. Diamonds I think. Maybe you get a pretty bauble out of tonight, yes?” Dame’s eyes, some color between gold and green shone with greed.

No girl was allowed to keep anything. Any bauble would go to Dame or Mikhail.

She took a breath and watched as Dame slid the needle into her vein.

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