I stand there, the only woman in a room full of smelly, half-naked men. Slick spits on the floor again as Shel sticks his hand down the back of his pants, the scratch of his dirty fingernails on his ass audible to the room at large. I mumble something and stumble out the door. The roar of laughter follows as it clatters shut behind me, chasing me down the hill as I chase after Beck. I jog after him as he turns the corner toward the main road.
“Will you hold up?” I yell, and he spins around, surprise on his face, as if he only just now realized I was with him.
“You should’ve stayed there,” he says.
“No.”
“You would’ve been safer.” I shake my head, my shoulders creeping up my neck.
“I don’t know them.”
“I can vouch for them.”
“It’s a small space with three men I don’t know, one of whom spits toothpaste on the floor and another who was freely scratching his ass. I’d rather be with you.”
“Wow,” he says, feigning bashfulness. “You sure know how to make a guy blush.”
“You know what I meant,” I say. With a huff, he pulls me into his side by the crook of my arm.
“Keep your head down. There’s more people out. Someone could recognize you.” I stare at the ground, accepting that he’s right. My picture has almost certainly graced the newspapers in the weeks I’ve been at the institute, and even without a ballgown, I’m easily recognizable because I limited Meredith’s makeup privileges.
We go downhill, past the last road, until we reach a stretch of piers. For a moment, I wonder if we’re going for a swim. I shiver, remembering how frigid the river water was, but then we turn toward a subterranean door.
Beck knocks in another unfamiliar pattern, and a woman with dark skin and darker eyes slides open a small window conveniently placed at eye-level in the door. She lifts an eyebrow, and her eyes narrow on me. She snorts, and then a series of metallic clanks shudders into the air as she unlocks and opens the door.
The woman is a marvel of shapes and curves, with dark, round Espancian eyes, a triangular and yellowed smile, red painted lips, and coarse hair piled high on her head like a crown, eliciting a cheap, over-saturated vision of glamour. Dressed in a black, boxy jacket with brass buttons over a scarlet corset and a skirt slit high up her muscular thigh, she looks equal parts intimidating and intoxicating.
“What’re you doing here, Beck?” she asks. “Finally gonna let me pick one for you? You know, I’ve got a few beauties waiting for your say so.” She eyes me, and I take a step back. “Or maybe you are making a delivery?”
My cheeks flush hot, and she howls in laughter, waving us inside. The low-ceilinged room has fake wood paneling and an oiled dirt floor. The smell of mold and soil mixed with heavy incense makes my heart race with panic. Sheer purple and red fabrics are draped over the lamps and splindly furniture, producing an ambience that’s probably supposed to be sexy, but only manages to feel cheap. I want to get out of here, claw my way outside, but Beck grabs my upper arm and squeezes gently, rhythmically, soothing my anxiety the best way he knows how. Tears threaten my eyes, and I bite the edge of my tongue.
“Looking for a friend of yours, I gather?” the woman asks.
“Scumbag’s here? Shit-faced, I presume?” he asks. A knowing smile works into her apple-cheeks as she walks behind a cabinet opposite the tables and pours a glass of something clear. She pushes it across the counter, toward Beck, and he sniffs, raises his eyebrows, and takes a sip.
“You like it?” she asks.
“It’s nice, smooth,” he says. “This your stuff, Maruña?”
“Sure is.”
“You pour this down Perlman’s throat last night?” He pushes it back to her, and she snorts.
“He is a grown man . . . poured it down his own damned throat.”
“So, he’s useless?”
“Not useless,” she says, tipping the remaining contents down her own throat. “Just indisposed and probably unwilling. He’s taken a liking to my Daisy.”
“Good for him,” he says. “We sail out in an hour. He won’t be happy if he misses a paycheck. And neither will your girl—or you, I imagine.”
“Oh, you’re not understanding me,” she says, batting her eyes. “It’s love! They’re probably plotting an elopement as we speak.”
“Just get him out here,” Beck says, an impatient growl in his voice. Maruña raises her palms and backs away. She turns the corner, leaving Beck and I to stand, alone. It’s quiet, but without Maruña and Beck’s banter, sounds meander down the hall: music, low and slow; a peal of laughter; a slamming door. Beck stares at the empty space where Maruña disappeared , and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was ignoring me.
The door opens after a long, tense minute, and in its frame stands a man, naked but for his freckles and a well-placed pillow. His copper hair is matted and pulled in every direction but down, and his almond-shaped brown eyes are glassy with sleep and substance. He looks barely capable of standing on his own, much less sailing a ship.
“Fuck, Perlman,” Beck says. Perlman looks up at him and smiles.
“Hey, man, you got a job for us?” His voice is too high, cracking with optimism—I wonder how old he actually is.
“Get some damn clothes, man.”
Perlman lowers his eyebrows, as if deep in thought—pondering the existence of clothing as a social construct, perhaps. Beck groans and skulks across the room, ducking as though the ceiling might crash down if he gets too close. He pushes Perlman back to where he came from, and I stand awkwardly for a moment, feeling Maruña’s eyes rake me up and down.
“You don’t belong here, girl,” she says, all the levity gone, as if she’s gone into some psychic trance.
“I don’t really belong anywhere.”
She nods slowly and smiles.
“Good answer.”
There’s a crash from somewhere behind her, and she rushes away, muttering something about not having nice things. She’s gone for only a minute when a different door flies open and two drunk men stumble out onto the mezzanine, bringing the stench of stale liquor and the sound of a party with them.
“Ah, here’s a pretty one,” the taller of the two says, edging toward me. I back away from the bottom of the stairs, and he laughs. The other one shuts the door with the heel of his muddy boot as his eyes slide up and down my body.
“Interesting ensemb-e-leh,” he says, nodding at my modest pants, shirt, and jacket. I edge toward the door Beck and I came through, and the first one rushes down the stairs. He lunges in front of me, blocking my exit, and grabs my arm.
“Not interested,” I mumble, but the words get caught in my throat.
“Where d’ya think yer going?” he asks. He smells horrible, a cocktail of sour, fishy breath, and dirty bathroom floor. I go into attack mode, swinging my arm around his and slicing down hard on his forearm. It surprises him enough to loosen his grip, but the other one grabs me around the waist, hoisting me up.
“Ah, a feisty one, ar’yeh?” he says, so close that his spittle coats my ear. I kick my legs wildly, pushing through the pain from the bumps and bruises of the evening. My voice doesn’t seem to work, and the first man comes closer as I writhe, trying to make it as hard as possible for his friend to hold me down. Cool, moist air hits my stomach as my shirt slips up my torso, and my waistband drops to my hips as I struggle. The one holding me presses his wet mouth against my neck. Finally, a scream escapes my throat, and my captor laughs with his full chest. The one in front of me bends over toward my hip, which is now exposed. Then he steps back, palms raised. The color’s drained from his face.
“This one’s trouble,” he says.
“Whass that?” the other one says.
“Put ’er down. Don’t wanna mess with that,” he says, tugging at my clothes to further expose my hip. Heat moves into my face as Beck comes tearing around the corner. He doesn’t slow once he gets to me. Instead, he pulls his fist back, and I duck as it collides with my captor’s face. He drops me hard on my sore knee.
“Maruña!” the uninjured man yells, and Maruña rushes around the corner, her hands in tight fists, ready for a fight.
“Come on, man!” she yells, dragging Perlman. He nearly falls on his face, but somehow catches himself against the man with the punched-in face and bounces back up to his feet. “You—” She nods at Beck. “Get the hell out of here. Take what you brought with you and don’t bring that trouble back to my place of business.”
“You got it,” he says. Beck drags the semi-conscious Perlman over one shoulder, and pushes me through the door with the other. “Told you, you should’ve stayed in the cottage.”