Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 78732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
"You cannot take pictures of the women," he says when he pulls my phone from my pocket before handing it back to me. "But if no one is to your liking, we have other groups that cycle in twice a day. I can guarantee you'll find the woman of your dreams today. Follow me."
"I was hoping to speak with Dima," I say, as I follow him down the hallway and to the left.
"He's not available," Edmon says succinctly, as if it's part of the company line.
I guess making yourself available during an illegal transaction isn't the best for the man in charge.
"If you wait right here, I'll have the first group of women come out."
I take a seat on the leather couch that he points to, making note of the small circles on the floor not ten feet in front of it. My guess is that this is where the women know to line up, and I suddenly feel like I'm at a fucking cattle auction, only these men are dealing in women rather than animals.
I have no clue what I'll do if Kaylee isn't in any of the groups I may see come out today.
Chapter 8
Kaylee
Despite being in the same house that I drove past, these women here still refuse to speak to me.
They look at me, sneer, and then speak to each other in a language I'll probably never understand.
Unlike Spanish, something I picked up a little, having grown up in Texas, I don't even know Russian cuss words. But I can tell you that I think several have been spat in my direction since that big guy put me in the back of the SUV with four other women late yesterday evening.
The SUV brought me to this house, where I discovered just how so many women live in such a small place.
There are three tiny bedrooms in the house and each room has two triple-stacked bunk beds. They're squeezed in so tightly that in order to access the mattresses, one has to climb through the end of the bed to get to it.
The house is clean, something I know is maintained by the women who live there, but it's still crowded. I counted fifteen women in total, but I have no way of knowing if they keep some women back at the warehouse on a twenty-four-seven rotation.
After what little information I was able to gather from my brief conversation with Dima the other day, it became clear, very quickly, that he's running some kind of marriage-for-sale business that he's disguised as a janitorial service.
I don't know if it was the best idea or a massive mistake, but I didn't argue about going home the day before yesterday. I told myself that I could easily walk away when I want to, and I still haven't found out anything about what happened to Alena. I have a few guesses as to what "promoted" means to these people, but I need rock-solid evidence in order to quiet that demand for information in my head.
"Get up," a voice snaps from the doorway of the room I was given when I arrived last night.
I crawl out of the end of the bunk, eyeing the same woman who refused to answer my question the other day at the grocery store.
Her sneer transforms her beautiful face, and I can see the hatred she has for me in her eyes.
"Where's Alena?" I snap, not letting her hatred bother me.
"Stupid American," she mutters. "Check the chart."
I follow the point of her finger to the paper hanging on the bathroom door. It seems everything around here is scheduled, and I guess it sort of has to be for this place to function without catfights.
I saw this list the night before last, noting that all of it was in Russian. Although I didn't see my name then, this is an updated list that does include my name.
"What does this mean?" I ask a woman as she tries to slide past me toward one of the other bedrooms.
I point to the title at the top of the column, but all she does is say what I believe to be the same word that's at the top.
"Thanks," I mutter. "Big help."
The house is a bustle of activity, with women waiting in line for the bathroom and the kitchen. Hell, one woman is using the water hose in the tiny backyard to wash her hair.
A horn outside blares and several of the women make their way out the front door.
The woman I asked earlier what the word was with my name in the column says the word again as she points toward the front door.
"Fuck," I mutter, following her outside and into the waiting SUV, hoping it is taking us back to the warehouse. At least that's where my car was left two nights ago.