Chapter Eleven (con't)
Ray's POV
If Annie was still before, now she's frozen, her shoulders tense. I realize that she's instinctively preparing herself to be hit, to be punished by Sir.
As much as I want to slam my fists on the table in front of me, to scream until I get some answers, I force myself to take several deep breaths, counting slowly. One... two... three... It takes until thirty-seven before I trust myself to move or speak again.
"Annie... baby? It's me, your dad. You're here with me now and you're safe. Do you hear me?"
She nods slowly, but she doesn't look up.
"Annie, I am not your Sir." The word sounds foreign and dirty as I say it, foul-tasting on my tongue. "Look at me... please." I add the 'please' to make it seem like less of a command. She is done being ordered around by that bast- jerk.
She slowly looks up and holds my gaze for several seconds, and I finally get a good look into those sky blue eyes.
"I'm just so glad to have you home," I say, and my voice breaks. Home and more or less in one piece. I can't help thinking of her coming home battered or - God forbid - in a body bag. That image causes a wave of nausea to pass through me before I can repress it. "You're too thin. Please eat."
Even though my stomach is now a little queasy, I need to set a good example. So I pick up my fork and dig into my pot pie.
I make a point not to watch her while she eats, not wanting to make her feel self-conscious. But I'm relieved when she takes a bite, and then another. Eat first, then talk. When she's finished about half her pot pie and all of her broccoli, she lays down her fork. Good enough.
"Up for a little talk with your old man?" I get up and move into the living room, sitting at one end of our trusty plaid couch. This couch has seen us through some rough times, and it'll see us through some more.
Annie follows me, bringing the rest of her can of Diet Coke. Charlie, who had taken his place at her feet during dinner, pads after her. He jumps up and settles in between us.
Annie pulls her favorite afghan off the back of the couch and puts it over her knees, snuggling in like it's Friday movie night.
"Annie, I've made you an appointment with Dr. Scott tomorrow afternoon. He really helped you last time. But, kiddo, can you tell your old man what happened? Even a little bit of it?"
She picks at the afghan, pulling off little bits of fuzz. "I'm afraid if I tell you, you won't look at me the same again. And I don't even know where to start," she says softly.
"Sweetheart, there's nothing you could tell me that will ever change the way I feel about you. How about starting at the beginning?"
APOV
I shake my head. He will look at me differently. "The thing about the beginning is... is that my relationship with José started out as a purely physical one."
"Well I can see that... you practically curled into a ball in there when I got worked up."
"Not that kind of physical," I say, and I watch as the realization of what I mean clicks in his mind.
Oh. And he squirms in his seat, wrestling between wanting to know... and not wanting to know.
"Ever since... Texas, I've had a problem with being touched. Because of what he did, touch - especially intimate touch - caused me to feel pain. And instead of dealing with it? I just pushed forward... wanting - needing - to be perfect in everything else. And I was ready to snap under the pressure when José -"
He nods. "Kate was telling me about... what did she call it? B.S... something?"
Holy shit. "What?" I manage to squeak out. I cannot picture my father and Kate talking about BDSM. Especially BDSM as it relates to me. "You and Kate... Oh my God. What, like over tea and scones or something?"
Well I guess that explains why he about blew a gasket over my slip-up in the kitchen.
"Well she mentioned this -"
"BDSM..." I fill in.
"BDSM as something that you thought you needed with Jose. And I guess I can see the appeal... with those swishers and fanny pluggers and all."
Um... what? Please, please let the floor open up and swallow me whole. Or right now would be a great time for an alien invasion. Anything!
"Floggers and butt plugs?"
"Um hmm. And she also said that that you had it under control."
I nod. That just about sums it up. "It started out that way... and then..."
"And then you didn't?"
I nod again, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.
"And how about starting... from the beginning, Annie?"
Oh no. He does not want to hear about the issues I was having. How José helped me. And how it spiraled into something beyond my control. I just shake my head again. I can't.
"I will go as far to say that you have most likely... made some bad decisions? But I believe that whatever happened in Panama with your husband... whatever you think you deserved? It wasn't your fault."
What happened in Panama? I decide that I need to tell my story, but resolve to leave out the parts that no father wants to hear about his daughter. How my need for that cocktail of pain and pleasure pushed me to a dark place where I lost myself.
=/=/=/=
- Flashback - July 2014 - 2 ½ years earlier -
"Hold on just a sec," I say, balancing my shoulder bag on my knee as I dig for my wallet. "I wanna grab some cash."
"No, don't get it here, Ana. The ATM fees at airports are always horrible, and plus you will just have to exchange it when we get there... which will mean even more fees. And we have to get through security... and look at that line," José urges me to keep walking, so I follow him to the security line that's seemingly a mile long.
The flight to Panama City takes over five hours, and I am sandwiched in the middle seat between José and an overweight businessman. I try to read my well-loved copy of Jane Eyre, but it's tiring to hold the book in front of me without the use of either armrest.
Finally, I give up and put my book in my lap and lay my head back until I hear the flight attendant arrive with the beverage cart.
"She'll have an orange juice and I'll have a rum and Coke," I hear José saying, as he hands her a $20 bill.
"José," I hiss, "I wanted a white wine."
He shakes his head, his lips pressed in a tight line as he places the plastic cup of orange juice on my tray, and then takes the Coke, a tiny bottle of rum, and his change from the flight attendant.
"Alcoholic beverages are expensive, mi amor. You can have some of mine."
I feel like a scolded child as I take sip of my orange juice, which is lukewarm and from concentrate. Yuck. And I can't help wishing that I had gotten my own cash out of the ATM in spite of his protests. I make a mental note to visit an ATM as soon as we arrive, no matter if it's at the airport with horrible fees.
I pout for the rest of the flight, shrugging off José whenever he offers me a sip of his drink or tries to make conversation. This does nothing to lessen the feeling of being a petulant child, but at this point I am too tired and grumpy to care.
After we arrive in Panama City, there's a long line for customs. I bounce back and forth on the balls of my feet, needing to pee. I didn't want to break the silent treatment by asking if I could get past him to use the restroom. But now I can't take it anymore, and there must be fifty people ahead of us in line.
"José, I'm just going to -" I say, pointing over toward the women's restroom.
He nods and says, "Hurry back, Señora Rodriguez."
I turn away from him and roll my eyes at his mention of my new name - 'Mrs. Rodriguez' - as I head for the restroom. Once in the stall, I sit and breathe a sigh of relief for a moment alone. It's sad that this - being in the stall of an airport bathroom - is the most comfortable that I have been all day.
I dig out my phone and turn it on, hoping for a message from home. Anything... just a "How was your trip?" or an "Arrive safely?" from Kate or my dad would be welcome right about now. The display reads No Service. Fantastic.
I finish up and rejoin José in the line which, amazingly, is down by half. We stand in silence while waiting for our turn, then approach the counter. The customs agent is middle-aged, with a bushy mustache and bright eyes. He gives us the once-over before asking for our documents.
José produces our documents, his black Pasaporte de Mexico and my navy blue U.S. Passport. Until we were married, I hadn't realized that José wasn't an American citizen. He came to the U.S. when he was just an infant, and is now in the DACA - Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals - program. Now that we're married, he can apply for citizenship. But, that takes time, so he's still traveling on his Mexican passport. Now that we're married... I can't help but glance at mine as he lays it in front of the agent. Anastasia Rose Rodriguez. I know that I stood in the courthouse and signed on the line. I know that it was necessary for me to travel with him on his work visa, but it still seems unreal.
The agent questions José and they speak in Spanish. The only words I recognize are "Señora" and "visa."
After several exchanges back and forth, the agent looks satisfied with José's answers. And then he turns his gaze on me.
"¿Entiendes que está aquí solo como cónyuge bajo la visa de tu esposo?" He asks. Based on his inflection, I know that he is asking me a question.
I shake my head. José starts to translate, but the agent holds up his hand to silence him. He continues to address me, but this time in perfect English.
"You understand that you are here only as a spouse under your husband's visa?"
I nod. "Yes, I understand."
"You will not be permitted to work or have anything in your name, including accounts and property. Do you understand this?"
I nod again. "Yes, I understand." Property? We're just here for the summer. I won't be needing to buy any property. And I have plenty of spending money in my bank account.
He regards me for another long moment, and I get the feeling that he's trying to communicate something very important.
"If you have any trouble, you must go to the American Embassy. You will not have any rights outside of the embassy. Do you understand?"
This time I cannot speak. My mouth is dry as I take in his words. What kind of trouble is he talking about? Is he talking about trouble with the law... or with my husband? Is he picking up on something between us that he thinks is amiss?
Knowing that this exchange could cause trouble later, when we are out of this man's sight, I force myself to smile. I reach over and grasp José's hand, then look back up at the agent. "Thank you. I will keep that in mind, but I am sure there will be no trouble."
The agent's eyes flick back and forth between us, and I hope that all he can see is two young people in love. He must be satisfied, because he stamps our documents, hands them back to José, and waves us off.
"Buena Suerte," he says. I know this simple phrase and I cannot help but heed it as a warning. Good luck.
=/=/=/=
The cab ride through the city to the condo that José has arranged for us is fascinating, and I take in the bustling metropolis on the thirty-minute ride. I've done a little research, and there are lots of museums and interesting shops, and of course I want to go see the famous canal. I'm going to ask José if we can take a sightseeing tour of it.
The cab lets us out next to a modern-looking high-rise building. It's white stucco exterior gleams in the evening sun. I smile as I take in the surrounding neighborhood. There are shops just across the street, and - yes! - an ATM in a little kiosk right next to our building.
José is busy paying the driver, so I grab my bag and walk the short distance to the ATM. It's marked Banco de Panama and - thank goodness - has an option to press English on the home screen.
I pull out my Bank of America ATM card and insert it, following the instructions to make a withdrawl from checking, knowing that I have over $3000 dollars in that account. I select the option to withdraw $200, and when the screen flashes - **Insufficient Funds** - a cold feeling begins to tingle at the base of my spine. The screen returns to the home menu, and with shaking fingers, I press Balance Inquiry.
Balance: $50. Available balance: $0.
The only money in my personal checking account is the exact minimum balance needed to keep the account open. Taking any more out would have required my signature to close the account. The cold feeling that is tingling along my spine settles into my stomach.
Holy. Fucking. Shit. He did this. José, as my husband, emptied out my banking account and I have nothing. I am in a foreign, Spanish-speaking country, with no money and - the customs agent's warning echoes in my head - no rights.
Buena suerte.
I close my eyes and take a moment to breathe, to turn my expression from confrontational to impassive, before turning around to face my husband.
He looks nervous. Damn right... he should look nervous. He cleaned me out! No wonder he didn't want me to visit an ATM while we were still in Seattle.
"José, there was over three thousand dollars in that account. Where is all of my money?" I ask, keeping my voice as even as I can.
"Oh I was going to tell you about that, mi amor," he says, and his voice is as smooth as honey. "Since you cannot have full access to your accounts here, I opened a joint account. What's mine is yours... and what's yours is mine. We are married. ¿Sí? Yes?"
I don't even know what to say. After all, it's too late and I am here... and completely at his mercy.
José fishes out a ring of keys, and - after a couple of fumbling attempts - opens the security door. He had the keys delivered by FedEx before we left Seattle, eliminating the need to stop at the rental office upon arrival here.
We step into the elevator and I realize that I don't even know the floor or the apartment number. "Which floor?" I ask, not liking the sound of my own voice. I sound weak and tired and... defeated.
"Twenty-five," says José, his voice lightening. "We're on the twenty-fifth floor... number 2502. We're supposed to have a good view of the water."
Once again - as is becoming a habit with me - I nod and don't say a word.
=/=/=/=
"So GOOD... ohh..." shouts Jose, as he comes, thrusting into me forcefully from behind. He pulls out and rolls away, onto his back. "We're gonna be so good here, mi amor," he says softly, and in a rare display of tenderness, he reaches over and twists a strand of my hair around his finger. "Verás," You'll see, he murmurs as his eyes close and his mouth opens in sleep.
Still on my hands and knees, I slowly lower myself and pull up the sheet, curling up on my side. I can feel a trickle of his cum leaking from between my legs, but I don't have the strength to go clean myself up. I can't help but think of the early days, when he would bring me towel - one corner of it wet with warm water - and wipe me down, providing aftercare and making sure I was all right. Tonight he didn't even wait until I was ready. There was no foreplay and I wasn't aroused. But he just shoved himself in anyway, taking what he wanted. Now I just have to lie here... chafed, dripping with his cum, and alone.
Not wanting to delve too deeply into how I am feeling... how I managed to get to this place, I think about arriving here earlier thus evening. The condo is very clean and modern - a small one-bedroom with a balcony. The main room is a basic rectangle, with a galley kitchen on the inside wall. There's a breakfast bar with two stools that divides the kitchen from the living area. A couch, a chair, a coffee table and a wall-mounted flat-screen television make up the rest of the furnishings. Everything is beige and white, including the throw pillows and the generic artwork on the walls. The floors are white tile and lead out to a small balcony, which has two chairs and a small, round table.
I yawn, exhaustion from the long day catching up to me, and wonder to myself if there's coffee in the equipped kitchen... I know I saw a shiny coffee maker on the counter. And it would be nice to sit on the balcony and...
=/=/=/=
"Rise and shine, mi amor..." I feel soft kisses peppering my face and neck. I wake up to see a freshly-showered and dressed Jose leaning over me. He is - damn it all - pretty fine looking sometimes. He's wearing dark blue skinny jeans, a white t-shirt, and a black leather vest. He does look the part of a budding photographer... and I know that I haven't seen this outfit before. I wonder if he bought these clothes with my money? What else did he buy?
"Good morning," I rasp. "What time is it?"
"Just after eight... you slept nearly twelve hours. I've already been out and got some coffee and some things for breakfast. So you just stay in... have a shower and relax."
I nod. I kind of want to go with him, but he's all ready and I know he won't want to wait for me.
He places one last kiss on my forehead and leaves. I listen for the door to close behind him, and the sound of him turning the lock, before getting up.
I use the en-suite bathroom, finding that Jose has left my toiletry bag on the counter. I brush my teeth, which are entirely nasty by now. No wonder Jose only kissed me on the forehead! Then I gather my shower things, and already naked from last night, step into the shower. The hot water feels amazing, and I allow myself to linger under the spray, washing off the travel grime, taking time to shave everything. Feeling refreshed, I am pleased to find a fluffy white bathrobe on the back of the bathroom door. I slip into it and pad out into the main area in search of the promised breakfast. My stomach grumbles in appreciation as I spot half a pot of coffee in the maker. There's a small, pink box containing three filled croissants - which Jose knows are my favorite - and next to it is a bunch of bananas and two oranges.
I root around in the cabinets until I find what I need, a small plate and a coffee mug. All of the dishes are white, all of the utensils silver - kind of boring - but there seems to be everything that we'll need for basic meals.
I'm wondering what I can find to make for dinner - maybe some fresh fish? And I glance over at the door. Something about it doesn't look right, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is. There is no way to open the deadbolt without a key. Instead of a lock that can be turned, there is simply a keyhole. I set my plate down and walk slowly over to the door. I don't want to believe it, but I know it's true before I even try the knob. I am locked in.
I turn around and look out the glass doors to the balcony... a balcony that is twenty-five floors up. And I feel bile rise up in my throat as I take in the condo for what it is - a cell. And I am as good as a prisoner here.
I sit on the balcony and eat my breakfast - the ham and cheese filled croissant sticking in my throat - and sip my coffee while staring out at the water. No phone, no computer, no money, no rights... and no control.
- End flashback -
=/=/=/=
At some point, Ray's brought me a cup of tea in my favorite mug, and I just sit and hold it in my hands, let it warm me. I can't talk about it anymore tonight.
"Well. I'll have you know that the authorities have already taken your husband in for questioning."
I figured that was the case. I showed them the bruising and the marks on my back.
"How much did they tell you?" I ask, even though I don't really want to know the answer.
"Enough. I hope they send that little son-of-a-bi- gun back to Mexico. You know me... I'm a lifelong Democrat. I never thought I'd say this, but I hope Trump builds that wall, and builds it high."
He gets up and heads back into the kitchen, and I can hear him banging around, tidying up for the night. From butt plugs to Trump's wall in one evening. Raymond Steele is just full of surprises. And for the first time in a long time, I start to laugh.
It's unexpected, unconventional, and not even close to politically correct. But it's a start.
=/=/=/=
A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! Thought I'd kick the year off with this nice, long chapter for you and a new beginning for Ana. More on her time in Panama will come in future chapters. Leave me a comment and me know what you think!