Page 72 of Caging Liberty
We had an agreement that we would always find each other before leaving the club with someone, and every hour we’d meet in the bathroom to check in. We thought we were so clever about the careful way we stuck together, not capable of even imagining just how dark the world was back then. There’s this illusion of invincibility when you’re young that no amount of CNN or stories of adolescent death can take away.
Date rape happened to girls who left their drinks unattended when they went to the bathroom. The ones who got too smashed at parties or the ones who didn’t have a check-in system with their friends when they went on dates. Not us. We were far too smart.
I laugh out loud at my clueless, younger self, my hips still swaying, prying eyes still pinned on me through the bars of the cage. They can’t hear my laughter over the music, but if they could, I wonder if they’d think I’d gone insane.
When the song stops, I grip the pole with both hands and slide down, pausing until a new song comes on. A fast beat sounds through the speakers in the playroom, and I slide back up, my exposed breasts grazing the warm metal.
I’m in nothing but a thong that could double as floss, so when I flip myself around, my back pressing against the pole, I give the man standing with his hands flat against the stage a front row seat to my naked body.
I trail my hands up my hips, over my navel to my tits, then I lean my head back, lips parted as if I’m enjoying this. I think some of them, some as oblivious as Angel, believe the act. There are women on this island who want to be here. I’ve met them. I’ve listened to them. I’ve tried, and failed, to understand them. Regardless of whether I get it or not, they exist.
Even more surprising than that, there are men here who don’t possess dark desires that would make someone want to hide underneath a bed. They’re here because they like the kink. They like the women who like the kink. They have loads of money to pay for it, and they’re accustomed to doing whatever the fuck they want.
They remind me so much of the spoiled, rich boys at Harvard, the ones I subtly grinded on in the club, except now they’re grown men who don’t need to buy a drink first before their entitlement sets in. Now all they have to pay is a fee to live on this island.
But then there’s the other category of men—one in which my biggest fan with his hand on the stage belongs to—who are here because modern society won’t let them hurt women the way this island allows. Their resident fee is a ticket for a time machine back to the caveman era. They’re the ones with the sick needs Sawyer referred to the first time we met. They’re the ones who come to the playroom solely to hunt, not to play. I’m also pretty sure they’re the entire reason people like me are forced onto the island. They’re not interested in consent, they’re interested in maximum pain, and the kidnapped women are the ones who provide it for them.
Sawyer won’t admit to any of this, and none of the other women have confirmed my theory, but I can’t help but notice the manor whores are the ones who came here willingly and are happy to be in the playroom. The forced ones seem to be sold within weeks of being brought here.
Coincidence? I doubt it.
My thoughts drift to Naomi, and I close my eyes, shutting down the worry before it has a chance to consume me. She hasn’t been here for the last week, and no one can tell me anything about what’s happened to her. Sawyer and I don’t speak, and Angel has been away on business, so I haven’t been able to ask him.
He’s back tonight, though. He should already be at his house, waiting up for me like he said he would. I only have another hour, and then I can leave here and get my answers. So for now, I ignore the questions.
My eyes fly open when someone grabs my ankle, and I make the mistake of looking down, finding my admirer. I learned after the first few days of dancing on this stage that it’s best not to make eye contact with anyone. That’s when you see the menacing lust in people’s gazes.
And it’s there now, pooling in the man’s dark eyes. He’s been here every night this week, always staring up at me, daring me to look closer at the evil in his smile so his intentions can be made crystal clear.
He isn’t here to play. He’s here to hunt. He’s one of those guys.
My heart gallops, and my body goes rigid. My skin freezes where he touches me, but I don’t pull away nor do I look at his hand. I stare into his eyes, doing my best not to give him the fear I know he’s after.
Someone boos and another person joins in. The Instant the man lets go of my ankle, I turn around, searching the crowd for Angel in hope that he decided to come. Unsurprisingly, I don’t see him, but I do lock eyes with Sawyer across the room.
He’s with another man who’s leaned toward him, speaking over the music. For a few moments—until the boos become too loud to ignore—I’m pinned by Sawyer’s stare. I blink, bringing my attention back to the audience as I start swaying again, keeping my gaze away from my unwanted admirer.
A half hour passes before I no longer feel the guy’s eyes, and I catch his back as he walks away. I let out a sigh of relief and finish my last half hour feeling more comfort than I would've thought possible.
After I leave the playroom, I head back to my shared bedroom to throw on a pair of mesh shorts and a gray, V-neck shirt. I slip on a pair of flip-flops and head out of the room and down a hall, making the trek to the back door.
Because I’m not allowed to have the gate’s passcode—shocker—I have to find a guard to escort me to Angel’s house. Specifically, I need to find Cooper, one of the extra guards Sawyer hired after my escape attempt, since he’s supposed to be the one stationed at the back of the manor tonight.
My shoes slap the tile, and I feel more and more at ease with each step. I’m not saying Angel and I are best buds, but I can admit that life is a hell of a lot better when he’s here. For one, I don’t have to work as much. For two, the guards are nicer when the threat of Angel’s presence exists. And for three, honestly, it’s just nice to have someone I can really talk to without risk of punishment. Someone who’s allowed to say my name.
The back door is in my sight when my admirer appears, and the slapping of my shoes ceases. My eyes widen, but I quickly right myself, knowing my surprise and fear are what he’s after.
“Hi,” he says, his face lighting up with a smile filled with everything but kindness. “How are you?”
I detect a slight accent and squint as if that’ll help me decipher it. I’d guessed all this time that he was American.
“Great,” I say sarcastically. “I’m on my way to see someone, so if you’ll excuse me…”
I force my limbs to move in his direction, holding my breath as I near him. He grabs my arm to stop me and chuckles as he whips me back around, causing me to stumble.
“Wow, for a manor whore, you’re awfully cold. Aren’t you supposed to be more inviting?”
British. He’s British.