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Chapter Four
Tinka
Meeting new people always makes me nervous.
And the man I am due to meet this afternoon is not just any new people. He is a full on, hard-nosed, high-level mob guy. I usually blame my nerves on the idiotic name my daddy insisted on giving me. Tinka. He only picked it because he thought it was hilarious with our surname, Belle.
Who would do that to a child?
But the nerves that are buzzing in my core and the pit of my stomach are not the usual, not the kind I’m used to. Normally I trip over my words and thoughts, cartwheeling between a reddening face when I’m tongue tied and a wide-eyed gape of helpless terror as sudden torrents of words gush out of me and I’m unable to stop them, or even guess what idiotic thing my mouth is going to blurt out to make me wish I could cram both feet in it at once.
Now, I’ve got tingles zapping in my thighs and an itching, stinging crackle in my nipples, making my bra feel like sandpaper.
Today, at all costs, I have to get a grip on my nerves. If I say the wrong thing or blurt something out that I shouldn’t to a heavy-duty mob guy, I could wind up whack shafted or deep-dicked or whatever awful things the mob guys do.
I can’t believe I let my BFF Giorgio talk me into this.
“He’s so smoking hot, Tinka.” Giorgio’s eyes burned. He was practically breathing fire as he told me. As if any of that would make any difference to me.
“Well, if he appeals to you, Giorgio,” I told him, “I’m leaving you an open goal. A straight shot.”
Giorgio’s eyes rolled, and he spoke through a long sigh.
“You’re not still saying you’re off men, are you? Even over the holidays?” A wicked twinkle came into his eyes. “Don’t you want someone to get cozy and horny by the fire with?” I gave him the look. “A nice Yule log to fill your mouth, a sweet candy pole you can get slipped inside you?”
“Giorgio!”
And, yes. I’m off men. Definitely. I’ve had more than enough ruined and sad spring breaks, tears on Valentine’s Days, birthdays with my face in a wet pillow, and Labor Days flipped, toppled and careened into gushing torrents of tears by the most treacherous and unreliable beast in the animal kingdom, the human male.
I am not going to have Christmas, not this Christmas or any other Christmas, wrecked by another sack of broken promises.
My favorite teenage fantasy uncoils and stirs, glowing in the back of my mind. The one where I’m taken hard, by a strong, forceful man, coming at me from behind. I feel his breath first. Then his hands. And then, the hard trunk of him bringing his hot, buzzing pole.
And then there’s another man. Lashing me with his tongue. And his mouth. And another man does things I never, ever allowed before.
And all they want, their whole aim, is only to pleasure me. In ways I never felt.
And I’m in charge.
From the outside, the Greenmeadow Orphanage and Care Center looks like a small, old-style mansion that may have seen better days, but it’s set in nicely manicured grounds and there’s a lake behind. Under the snow, it looks like a scene from a Christmas card.
Driving closer, gray smears of grime on the windows come into view. Chain-link fencing makes a tight, narrow enclosure all around the building. The walls carry a hard patchwork of steel plaques, notices, orders and demands. Signs with thick black and red letters almost bark out the messages ‘Off Limits,’ ‘Restricted,’ ‘Forbidden.’
They shout and demand obedience, with ugly threats about what is prohibited, all that you must not do and the places you are not allowed to go.
The grim metal warnings are all fixed at the height of a small child’s eye-line.
As always, I take a long breath as I step out of the car to crunch over the snow covered gravel and straighten myself up. Pausing at the top of the steps, I take another moment, like I have to do every time I step inside.
When I’m buzzed in, my spirits sag. Institutional gray-green paint on the narrow hallways is gloomy from a lack of cleaning. Every corner is dark and furry from neglect. Children’s voices echo distantly in the hard corridors. Their voices are edged with high-pitched yelps and cries of hurt, anger, frustration, and need.
My hackles rise and my determination heats up.
All the children are gathered in the bare, gray mess hall. Kari, a small, chubby girl with unruly blonde curls and the smile of a cherub asks, “Why don’t you come with us on the bus, Ms. Belle?”
“Ms. Belle is not allowed on the bus.” This was Angela, a red-haired girl of about twelve, older than her years. “Only the evil driver and the evil guard are allowed to ride on the bus with us.”
I smiled. “I’m sure they’re not so bad, Angela.” She was at least half joking.
