Bought at Dawn

I saw her for the first time on a Tuesday afternoon in October, and I knew within thirty seconds that I would own her.

The auction house was in a strip mall between a vape shop and a laundromat. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The carpet smelled like bleach and old smoke. There were maybe twenty of us there, mostly men, a few women in business suits who probably worked for corporations that couldn't own people directly but could lease them through shell companies. Everyone knew the rules. Everyone knew how to play the game.

I sat in the third row, hands in my pockets, trying to look bored. That was the trick. Never look hungry. Never let them see you want it.

The auctioneer was a fat man named Gerald with a gold tooth and a voice like gravel sliding down a tin roof. He brought them out one by one. A Mexican man in his forties with scars on his knuckles. A white woman with dead eyes and track marks on her arms. A young black man who looked like he could break Gerald in half but stood there with his hands cuffed because he knew what happened to runaways. They brought them back to the holding cells. They brought out the next one.

I waited.

Then Gerald said, "Lot Seventeen," and the door opened, and she walked out.

She was small. That hit me first. Small in a way that made you want to cup your hands around her like a candle flame. Maybe five feet. Maybe a hundred pounds. Dark skin, the color of black coffee with no cream. Her hair was cut short, close to her scalp, and she had a scar above her left eyebrow, thin and white, like someone had drawn it with a razor.

She wore a white cotton dress that stopped at her knees. No shoes. Her wrists were cuffed in front of her, and a chain ran from the cuffs to a collar around her neck. The chain was short. She couldn't stand up straight.

She didn't look at anyone. She looked at the floor. But the way she looked at the floor wasn't submission. It was calculation. I'd seen that look before, in dogs that had been beaten but not broken. They watch your feet. They wait for you to make a mistake.

Gerald said, "Lot Seventeen. Female. Age nineteen. No known health issues. No pregnancies. No drug history. Clean bill from the doctor last week. House-trained, if you know what I mean."

A few men laughed. I didn't.

"Bidding starts at five thousand."

The man next to me raised his paddle. A woman in the front row raised hers. The bidding climbed. Seven. Eight. Nine. I kept my hands in my pockets.

She didn't flinch at the numbers. She didn't flinch at anything. Her face was a mask, smooth and still, and I wondered how long it had taken her to learn that face. How many nights of crying before she figured out that tears didn't help.

"Eleven thousand," Gerald said. "Going once."

I raised my paddle.

"Twelve from the gentleman in the back."

The man next to me dropped out. The woman in front raised again. Thirteen. I raised again. Fourteen. She raised. Fifteen. I raised.

The woman turned around and looked at me. She was maybe fifty, with silver hair and a face that had been tightened by surgery into something smooth and unnatural. She smiled. It was not a friendly smile.

"Sixteen," she said.

"Seventeen," I said.

She looked at me for a long moment. Then she turned back around and shook her head.

"Seventeen thousand," Gerald said. "Going once. Going twice. Sold to the gentleman in the back row."

I paid with a credit card. They gave me a receipt and a manila envelope with her papers. Birth certificate. Medical records. Bill of sale. All perfectly legal. All stamped and notarized by the state of Texas.

They brought her to me in the parking lot. The auction house had a side door that opened onto the asphalt, and a man in a security shirt walked her out and handed me the chain. He didn't say anything. He just put the chain in my hand and walked back inside.

She stood there in the October sun, still looking at the ground. The dress was thin. I could see the shape of her shoulders through the fabric.

I said, "What's your name?"

She didn't answer.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

Nothing.

I unlocked the chain from her collar. She didn't move. I unlocked the cuffs. She rubbed her wrists where the metal had been, slow and careful, like she was checking to make sure her hands still worked.

I said, "Get in the car."

She got in the car.

I drove her to my apartment. It's a two-bedroom in a complex with a pool and a gym and a gate that requires a code to enter. Respectable. The kind of place where neighbors don't ask questions because they don't want to hear the answers.

I told her to sit on the couch. She sat. I brought her a glass of water. She took it but didn't drink.

"Look," I said. "I know this is strange. I know you don't trust me. But I'm not like the others. I'm not going to beat you. I'm not going to lock you in a closet. I bought you because I wanted you. Because I've wanted you for a long time."

She looked at me then. First time she'd made eye contact since the parking lot. Her eyes were dark, almost black, and there was something in them I didn't expect.

Not fear. Not anger.

Curiosity.

"You've wanted me," she said. Her voice was soft. Quiet. Like she wasn't used to using it.

"Since I saw your picture."

She tilted her head. "My picture."

"They showed me photos. Before the auction. It's part of the process. They send you a catalog."

"A catalog."

"Like for furniture."

She nodded slowly. She took a sip of water. Her hands were shaking, but her voice was steady.

"What do you want me to call you?"

"Jordan."

"Jordan," she said, like she was tasting the word. "What do you want from me, Jordan?"

I sat down across from her. I was hard. I'd been hard since I saw her walk onto that stage. But I didn't move toward her. I waited.

"Everything," I said. "I want everything."

She set the glass down on the coffee table. She looked at me with those dark eyes, and for a moment I thought I saw something like pity.

"Everything," she repeated. "That's a lot to want."

"I know."

"And what do I get in return?"

I blinked. "What?"

She smiled. It was not a happy smile. It was the smile of someone who had learned that the only power you have is the power to ask questions the other person doesn't expect.

"If you want everything from me," she said, "you have to give me something too. That's how it works. Even in this world. Even between people like us."

I didn't know what to say. I had read the books. I had watched the videos. I had prepared for this moment a hundred times in my head. But none of them had told me she would talk back. None of them had told me she would negotiate.

"What do you want?" I asked.

She thought about it. She took her time. She looked around the apartment, at the leather couch and the flat-screen TV and the framed prints on the walls. She looked at me.

"I want a room with a door that locks from the inside," she said. "I want three meals a day. I want a shower I can use whenever I want. I want clothes that fit. I want you to tell me what you're going to do before you do it."

She paused.

"And I want you to call me by my name."

"What's your name?"

"Keisha."

"Keisha," I said. "That's a pretty name."

"It's my name."

"Okay, Keisha. You have a deal."

She nodded. She picked up the glass of water again and drank it all. Then she stood up.

"Show me my room."

I showed her the second bedroom. It was small. A bed. A dresser. A window that looked out at the parking lot. She walked in and closed the door.

I heard the lock click.

I stood in the hallway with my hands in my pockets, harder than I'd ever been in my life, and I waited.

She came out an hour later. She had taken off the white dress and put on a T-shirt and sweatpants I had left in the closet. They were too big for her. She had to roll up the cuffs.

"I'm hungry," she said.

I made her a sandwich. Turkey and cheese on wheat bread. She ate it standing at the kitchen counter, watching me through her eyelashes.

"You're not what I expected," she said.

"What did you expect?"

She chewed. Swallowed. "Someone older. Someone meaner. Someone who would put me on my knees the second we got through the door."

"Is that what you wanted?"

She laughed. It was a real laugh, surprised and sharp, like she hadn't meant to do it.

"No," she said. "That's not what I wanted. But it's what I expected."

"I told you. I'm not like the others."

She finished the sandwich. She washed her plate in the sink and set it in the drying rack. Then she turned to me.

"Prove it."

I didn't touch her that night. I wanted to. God, I wanted to. I lay in my bed with the lights off and thought about her in the room down the hall. I thought about her skin. I thought about her voice. I thought about the way she had looked at me when she asked me what I wanted.

I masturbated twice. It didn't help.

In the morning, I woke up to the smell of coffee. She was in the kitchen, wearing the same T-shirt and sweatpants, making eggs. She had found the spices in the cabinet. She had found the bread.

"You sleep okay?" I asked.

"No," she said. "But I will."

She slid the eggs onto a plate and set it in front of me. She made herself a plate and sat down across from me. We ate in silence.

After breakfast, she asked me what I did for a living.

"I own a few rental properties," I said. "I buy houses, fix them up, rent them out."

"Slumlord."

"Landlord."

She smiled. "Same thing."

"Fair enough."

She washed the dishes. She cleaned the kitchen. She asked if she could take a shower. I said yes. She was in there for forty minutes. When she came out, she was wearing one of my button-down shirts, untucked, sleeves rolled up. She had found a pair of scissors somewhere and cut her hair even shorter. It looked good.

"You cut your hair," I said.

"It was too long. I couldn't keep it clean."

"You look beautiful."

She looked at me. That same look. Calculating.

"Don't say things like that," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because it makes it harder."

"Makes what harder?"

She didn't answer. She walked past me into the living room and sat on the couch. She picked up the remote and turned on the TV. A talk show. People laughing.

I sat down next to her. Not too close. Close enough that I could smell her. Soap. Shampoo. Something underneath, something warm and human.

"Keisha," I said.

She muted the TV.

"I want to touch you."

"I know."

"Can I?"

She was quiet for a long time. The TV flickered. The people on screen were laughing, but we couldn't hear them.

"If I say no," she said, "what happens?"

"Then I don't touch you."

"And if I say yes?"

"Then I do."

She set the remote down. She turned to face me. Her legs were tucked under her. The shirt had slipped off one shoulder, and I could see the curve of her collarbone.

"What do you want to touch?"

"Everything."

"Start small."

I reached out. I touched her hand. She let me. Her skin was warm. Soft. I traced my fingers along her knuckles, up her wrist, along her forearm. She watched me the whole time. She didn't close her eyes. She didn't look away.

"You're shaking," she said.

"I know."

"Why?"

"Because I've wanted this for so long. Because I'm afraid I'll mess it up."

She laughed again. That same surprised laugh.

"You're afraid," she said. "You bought me. You own me. And you're afraid."

"Everyone's afraid of something."

"What are you afraid of?"

I thought about it. I thought about the truth. I thought about how I had never told anyone this before.

"I'm afraid you'll leave," I said. "I'm afraid you'll find a way out and I'll wake up one morning and you'll be gone. I'm afraid I'll never be enough for you."

She looked at me. Her face changed. The mask cracked, just a little. I saw something underneath. I couldn't tell what it was.

"You bought me," she said again. "You own me. I can't leave."

"You can always leave."

"No," she said. "I can't. That's what you don't understand. You bought me, but you didn't buy all of me. There's a part of me you'll never own. No matter what you do. No matter how much you pay."

I pulled my hand back. I felt like I had been slapped.

"I don't want to own all of you," I said. "I just want to be with you."

"You can't be with me. I'm property. I'm a piece of paper in a manila envelope. I'm a transaction."

"You don't have to be."

She stared at me. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

"What are you saying?" she asked.

"I'm saying I don't want you to be my slave. I want you to be my-"

I stopped. I didn't know the word.

"Your what?"

"My partner. My equal. My-"

"Your girlfriend?"

She said it like it was a joke. But she wasn't laughing.

"Maybe," I said. "I don't know. I just know I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to force you. I want you to want me too."

She stood up. She walked to the window and looked out at the parking lot. Her back was to me. Her shoulders were tense.

"You're insane," she said quietly.

"Maybe."

"You bought me at an auction. You paid seventeen thousand dollars for me. And now you're telling me you want me to be your girlfriend."

"Yes."

She turned around. Her eyes were wet. Her voice was shaking.

"Do you know what they did to me before the auction? Do you know what they showed me? Do you know what they told me would happen if I didn't behave?"

"No."

"They told me I would be sold to a man who would keep me in a cage. They told me I would be used until I was broken. They told me I would never see the sun again."

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"And then you bought me. And you brought me here. And you made me a sandwich. And you gave me a room with a lock. And now you're telling me you want me to want you."

"I do."

"Then you need to understand something."

She walked back to the couch. She sat down next to me. She took my hand and placed it on her thigh.

"I don't know how to want," she said. "They took that from me. They took a lot of things from me. I don't know if I can give you what you want. I don't know if I have it in me anymore."

"Then we'll figure it out together."

She looked at me. That calculating look. But softer now. Like she was trying to decide if I was real.

"You're not going to hurt me?"

"No."

"You're not going to lock me up?"

"No."

"You're going to let me keep the lock on my door?"

"Yes."

She took a deep breath. She let it out slowly.

"Then I'll try," she said. "I can't promise anything. But I'll try."

I leaned in. I kissed her forehead. She didn't pull away.

"Thank you," I said.

"Don't thank me yet," she said. "I might still run."

"Where would you go?"

"I don't know. But I might try."

"I'd find you."

"Would you?"

"Yes."

She smiled. It was a small smile. Fragile. Like something that had been broken and glued back together.

"Good," she said. "I'd want you to."

That night, she came to my room. She stood in the doorway, wearing the same shirt, the same sweatpants. She didn't say anything. She just walked to my bed and got in.

I held her. That's all. I held her while she fell asleep. I felt her breathing slow down. I felt her body relax against mine. I felt her hand find mine in the dark and hold it.

I didn't sleep. I lay awake and listened to her breathe and thought about what I had done.

I had bought a person. I had paid money for a human being. I had taken her from one world and brought her into another. And now I was lying in bed with her, holding her, and I didn't know what that made me.

I didn't know what I was.

In the morning, I woke up alone. The sheets were cold. The door to her room was closed. I could hear the shower running.

I got up and made coffee. I stood in the kitchen and watched the steam rise from the cup and thought about her. About the way she had looked at me. About the way she had said my name.

She came out of the shower in a towel. Her skin was damp. Her hair was slicked back. She walked past me to her room without looking at me.

"Keisha," I said.

She stopped.

"I meant what I said last night."

"I know."

"Then why won't you look at me?"

She turned around. Her face was unreadable.

"Because if I look at you," she said, "I'll want to stay."

"Is that so bad?"

She didn't answer. She went into her room and closed the door. I heard the lock click.

I stood in the kitchen with my coffee and waited.

She came out an hour later, dressed in the same white dress from the auction. She had washed it. It was still wet in places. She stood in the middle of the living room and looked at me.

"Take me somewhere," she said.

"Where?"

"I don't care. Anywhere. I've been in this apartment for two days. I need to see the sun."

I took her to the park. It was a Wednesday afternoon. The park was almost empty. A few mothers with strollers. An old man feeding pigeons. We walked along the path, and she looked up at the trees like she had never seen them before.

"It's beautiful," she said.

"It's just a park."

"No. It's beautiful."

We sat on a bench. She leaned back and closed her eyes. The sun fell on her face, and she smiled.

"I forgot what this felt like," she said.

"What?"

"Being outside. Feeling the sun. Not being in a cage."

"You're not in a cage anymore."

She opened her eyes. She looked at me.

"Yes I am," she said. "I'm just in a bigger one."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I said nothing.

We sat in silence for a long time. The old man fed his pigeons. The mothers pushed their strollers. The sun moved across the sky.

"Jordan," she said.

"Yeah?"

"I want you to touch me."

I looked at her. She was watching me. Her eyes were steady.

"Where?"

"Anywhere. Everywhere. I want to feel something that isn't fear."

I reached out. I touched her face. She closed her eyes. I traced my fingers along her cheek, down her jaw, along her neck. She shivered.

"Good," she whispered. "Keep going."

I slid my hand down to her shoulder. I felt the strap of the dress. I pushed it down. She didn't stop me.

I touched her skin. Her chest. Her heart beating under my hand.

"I want you," I said.

"I know."

"Can I have you?"

She opened her eyes. She looked at me. That same look. Calculating. But there was something else now. Something that looked like hope.

"Yes," she said. "But not here. Not like this. Take me home."

I took her home.

I took her to my bed. I undressed her slowly. She let me. She didn't move. She didn't help. She just stood there and let me take off the dress, let me look at her.

She was beautiful. Every inch of her. The curve of her hip. The dark of her nipples. The scar on her stomach, thin and white, like the one on her forehead.

"What happened?" I asked, touching the scar.

"Don't ask."

I didn't ask.

I laid her down on the bed. I kissed her. She kissed me back. Her mouth was soft. Her tongue was warm. She tasted like salt and something sweet.

I touched her. She touched me. We moved together like we had been doing it for years. Like we had always been this.

When I entered her, she gasped. Her fingers dug into my back. Her legs wrapped around me.

"Don't stop," she said.

I didn't stop.

Afterward, we lay in the dark. She was curled against my chest. Her breathing was slow. Her hand was on my heart.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?"

"For not treating me like property."

"You're not property."

"I am. Legally. But you don't treat me like it."

"I never will."

She was quiet for a long time. I thought she had fallen asleep. But then she spoke.

"I think I could love you," she said. "I think I could learn to love you."

My heart stopped. Then it started again, faster.

"I think I could love you too," I said.

She laughed. Soft. Sad.

"What a world," she said. "What a world we live in."

I didn't answer. There was nothing to say.

She fell asleep in my arms. I stayed awake, watching the moonlight move across the ceiling, and I thought about what I had done.

I had bought a person. I had paid money for a human being. And now I was falling in love with her.

I didn't know if that made me a monster or a fool.

Maybe both.

Maybe neither.

I held her tighter. She murmured in her sleep. She pressed closer to me.

I closed my eyes.

In the morning, I would figure out what to do. In the morning, I would find a way to make this right.

But tonight, I would hold her.

Tonight, I would pretend that this was normal.

Tonight, I would let myself believe that love could fix anything.

I was wrong.

But I didn't know that yet.