White Russian (Whip 2) ✔️ SAMPLE

Доброе утро, Америка

MISHA

Jan. 2012, Moscow

"America, of course." the guy says.

My head whips around to look at him so quickly that I almost get whiplash.

The man has a smirk on his face, not saying anything else, and I barely manage to keep my cool on as my head buzzes with a million questions which I refuse to voice, not wanting to aggravate them, even though something tells me that they won't hurt me.

The car stops after an hour or so and the one that has given me the blanket motions for me to get out. Once I do as I was told, I freeze, feeling my mouth hanging open at the sight that greets me.

A sleek, private jet, like the ones you can only see in movies, is standing there on a deserted stretch of land and I can see Mr. Potato already halfway up the stairs.

"Come on, Red, the freedom is waiting." Mr. Bond says and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the plane.

Freedom?

Is he serious?

I'm so desperate to believe him, but after everything that has happened to me, I don't dare. It's simply too good to be true, because who in their right mind would pay that much money, just to turn around and set you free?

I climb in and take a seat, the feeling of the leather beneath me like a dream, and I try not to touch anything, in fear of breaking or dirtying it.

I can't even remember the last time I was allowed a proper shower, and I try to not let it bother me, but it's hard. I feel dirty and disgusting at this moment, surrounded by such wealth, so I lower my eyes to the ground in an attempt to calm down and not start bawling like a little girl.

A few minutes later, I feel the jet start to move and squeeze my eyes shut while grabbing the armrests in a death grip. It's my first time flying in an airplane and I feel terrified.

Soon enough, we are in the air and I slowly relax enough to open my eyes. Mr. Bond and Mr. Potato are sitting across from me, their eyes focused on me, making me tense up all over again.

Is this when they'll drop the act and make me do all kinds of nasty things?

I start shaking and try to make myself appear smaller than I am as I watch them through my eyelashes.

"What is your name?" Mr. Bond asks, his voice and stature reminding me of people talking to a wounded animal, trying to help them but still waiting for them to strike at any moment.

I think about ignoring him but I'm too afraid so I clear my throat and look anywhere but at them as I whisper "Misha."

"And how old are you, Misha?" Mr. Potato asks, the act of a sleazy, old guy from the warehouse suddenly missing. Now, he looks and sounds the picture of a suburban dad with a wife and three children.

"Eighteen. I think. I am not sure what date it is." I say, looking down to my hands that are squeezed tightly in my lap, with a blush on my cheeks.

"It's January 1. 2012." Mr. Bond whispers and I quickly close my eyes as they immediately start to burn.

"Well then, I was wrong. Happy birthday to me."

"It's your birthday?" Mr. Potato asks and I just nod, the memory of my last birthday heavy on my mind.

My mom made a big cake, and all of my friends were invited. There had been music and dancing and presents. It was one of the best days of my life. And now, here I am, one year later, being sold like livestock and getting shipped to another country.