Luna Lucky

Smile. Laugh when they ask. Read their body language. Greet lovingly. Be gentle. Be polite. And above all, be theirs. “The doors are about to open for all of us. Princess, your usual is here—with his grandson—which means you need to be back by 1 a.m. Am I clear?” Nodding at Lola was the best choice. There was no reasoning with her. She was an old hag who only cared about money and herself. She gave the rest of us the same instructions while I focused on staying in my head—planning my escape from her business. Being a virgin while working as an escort meant I was being “saved” for an unwanted marriage to some trafficker. I didn’t intend to let that happen. When Sir Dawson is my first client of the evening, especially with his grandson in tow, it usually means they’re trying to keep the kids happy while they deal with personal drama. Probably one of them told the other about a new baby mama, and now they’re furious. That’s typically how it goes with these clients. I’m given the best attention as some twisted peace offering, though sometimes it means going out in disguise for some other job. Either way, it’s not good. The doors opened, and Sir Dawson was the first to enter. His smile faded the moment he saw me. I wore my school uniform with a red wig, and his eyes narrowed with what I could only assume was satisfaction. He came forward and hugged me tightly, leaning close to whisper in my ear. “We’re taking a trip to see my grandkids, and I need you to do me a big favor, alright, Princess?” Fake giggles always worked best. “Yes, Sir,” I said lightly. He smiled, taking my hand, and walked me out of this hellhole. As usual, his driver was waiting to take us to the airport. It was routine. The biggest difference between now and when I started this job was that now I was 18, and both my parents were dead. When I started—at seven years old—I wasn’t a person to them. I was payment. My mother found out too late what my father had done. She came for me, but it ended the way Lola wanted: with a bullet. My father came running into the building after hearing the gunshots, but Lola shot him, too. No matter how many years pass, I’ll never forget the sight of their bodies. Lola made it clear after that—I belonged to her. And at sixteen, as her twisted idea of a birthday present, I stopped fighting it. The limo rolled to a stop, and I waited silently. Sir Dawson opened the door in irritation, his expression tight. “Let’s go.” I stepped out of the limo, and he followed, gripping my hand harshly while shouting into his phone. “What do you mean he doesn’t want her anymore? Do you have any idea how much she cost?” I couldn’t hear the other person on the line, but whatever they said made him tug my hand harder, forcing me to stumble forward as we approached the stairs of the jet. “He wanted her, and that’s what he’s getting,” Sir Dawson snapped. “I paid a heavy price for this girl. If he doesn’t want her, then he owes me!” The call ended abruptly, and he turned to me, his voice trembling with barely controlled rage. “When we get there, you do as he says, Princess. That’s the end of it. I bought you fair and square! Now get inside!” He released my hand, and I ran up the stairs of the jet without looking back. The jet touched down with a jarring thud on the runway at Columbus Airport. My stomach churned, though it wasn’t from the flight—it was from what might happen next. Sir Dawson barely glanced at me as the plane taxied to a stop. He was back on his phone, his sharp tone carrying over the low hum of the engines. As the doors opened, I followed him out, keeping my head down as the cold Ohio air hit my face. A sleek black SUV waited for us just outside. The driver was already standing by, holding the door open. Inside, an older man sat slumped against the seat, his skin pale and almost gray. His labored breathing filled the silence of the car. He didn’t even acknowledge us when Sir Dawson shoved me inside. “Princess, meet Mr. Thomason,” Sir Dawson said curtly as he climbed in beside me. “You’ll be spending some time with him. You better make it worth his while.” The look I gave him must’ve been sharper than I intended because his hand clamped down on my arm in warning. “Behave,” he hissed, his grip tightening before he released me. I stayed silent, glancing at Mr. Thomason. His glassy eyes flickered toward me briefly before drifting shut again. He looked like death was perched on his shoulder, waiting patiently for the right moment. I shifted uncomfortably, unsure if he even knew who I was or why I was there. The SUV pulled away from the airport, its dark-tinted windows reflecting the world I desperately wanted to escape. The silence in the car was suffocating. Sir Dawson’s sharp breaths and the faint wheeze from Mr. Thomason were the only sounds. We’d been driving for what felt like hours when the SUV finally pulled into a gas station. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow on the pumps and the half-empty parking lot. “I need to use the bathroom,” I said, my voice careful, almost timid. Sir Dawson barely looked at me. “Be quick,” he snapped, waving me off. I stepped out, the cold night air biting at my skin. My heart pounded as I glanced toward the small convenience store attached to the station. Just beyond it, a large truck was parked, its driver unloading crates into the store. The bathroom was to the side, its dim light flickering. I walked toward it, forcing myself to stay calm, to act like nothing was wrong. The second I rounded the corner, out of sight of the SUV, I bolted toward the truck. My sneakers hit the pavement with a muted thud as I closed the distance, my chest tight with panic. The driver was busy with the crates, his back turned. I slipped into the open truck just as he set another crate down. My hands shook as I climbed over the cargo, finding a small space between two boxes to hide. The cold metal pressed against my back as I crouched down, my breathing shallow. The sound of the truck’s doors closing echoed through the darkness, and my heart jumped into my throat. A moment later, the engine rumbled to life. The truck lurched forward, and I bit down on my lip to keep from crying out. I was gone. I’d escaped. But as the truck moved farther and farther away from the gas station, one thought burned in my mind: Where was I going now? The Stop The truck rumbled to a halt, jolting me out of my cramped hiding spot. My heart pounded as I strained to listen. Footsteps echoed, heavy and deliberate, followed by the unmistakable clang of the truck’s doors opening. “Hey! Who the hell’s in here?” a gruff voice shouted, his tone sharp and angry. I didn’t wait to see who it was. Crawling over the crates, I leaped out of the truck. My feet hit the ground hard, the impact shooting up my legs. For a split second, the night air felt electric against my skin, cool and sharp like a warning. “Hey!” the man shouted again, but this time it was closer. He’d seen me. Adrenaline surged through me. I bolted, my sneakers slamming against the asphalt as I ran toward the edge of the parking lot. But before I could make it far, more voices erupted from the shadows. “What’s going on?” one of them called. Another voice snapped, “It’s a girl. Grab her!” Panic overwhelmed me as a small group of men emerged from the dim light of the truck stop, their dark shapes moving toward me. Their steps were heavy, fast, and purposeful. I pushed myself harder, running until my lungs burned, but the edges of the parking lot seemed endless, the lights and shadows blending into a nightmare. Caught Just as I veered toward what looked like an exit, flashing red and blue lights filled my vision. A cop car rolled into the lot, its headlights catching me as if the world had chosen that moment to corner me completely. The officer stepped out, his silhouette dominating the light. “Stop!” he barked, his voice echoing through the cold night. I skidded to a halt, my chest heaving as I turned to face him. He took a step closer, his hand hovering over his holster as he looked me over. “Hands where I can see them,” he said sternly. My hands trembled as I raised them, feeling every muscle in my body ready to collapse. Behind me, the men chasing me slowed, exchanging confused looks as they saw the cop. One of them muttered something I couldn’t hear. “What’s going on here?” the officer demanded, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My throat was dry, my heart still pounding from the fear. All I knew was that I wasn’t safe—not with the men behind me, and certainly not with the cop in front of me. “Someone better start talking,” the officer said, his tone growing sharper. He gestured for me to step closer to the car. “Miss, you want to explain why you’re running like you’ve seen a ghost?”