As the youngest Shelby child and twin to Finn Shelby, Kezia has spent the last 4 of her 10 years locked away for her mental defectiveness.
She returns to Small Heath under the legal guardianship of her brother, Thomas Shelby. Despite knowing she's s...
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CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
She was booked for her accent. Americans liked the British voice, even if she didn't talk much. Didn't quite know how to make the sounds meaningful to the men she was meant to please.
And thankfully, most men didn't want her to speak. A simple hello went a long way.
Before long, in the room booked, she was undressed and pressed against a couch or the wall or against a dimly lit wall lamp. She liked that every room wasn't lit well. The less colors the better.
The man rubbed his hand against the inside of her thigh before getting off of her. Sex felt like nothing—if she was lucky. Most times it was a constant bang against her insides. Sharp like a knife slicing against her bladder. Even if the men were not large, they always felt painfully large inside her. Some men liked to see her cry. Others not so much.
The initial insert was her least favorite part. Despite feeling it countless times, it was always an intrusion. Always made her more tense than she ought to be. Some of the other girls tried helping her. Especially when she first came here. But nothing worked. She hated the entire experience. And the experience was every day.
Her dress laid on the ground beside her. She picked it up and sat into a sitting position. Felt the man's eyes as she dressed herself.
"You said your name was Angela?"
"Yes."
He nodded and walked out.
Hopefully he wanted to re-book her, and not complain to the Madame. She was a fierce woman, a born New Yorker who began this life some thirty years ago. When Angela came here, four years ago (she couldn't count--but that's when all the girls hosted a small get-together), Madame tried her best to seem nice at first. But Angela saw through the facade. Could always. Despite having a poor memory of her life before here, Angela kept her ability to read people.
A frustrating talent when she dealt with men every day.
"Hey, you," one of the girls greeted when Angela went into the back. The room was round and shielded with dark red lights and curtains. This was where Angela and the others got ready. Or tidied up after a room. The girls waiting to be booked helped the others. It made for a well-oiled machine, according to Madame.
Angela felt the sound come up from her throat and kept it down. She was beaten for speaking the way she did when she first arrived. It wasn't attractive. Being stupid was a fetish, but being retarded was bad.
She sat beside the girl--her name was Mariana? Newer. Came from California. Had little choice in the matter. She wanted to make it on Broadway.
Not all the girls here were forced. But they all didn't have a choice, at the end of the day.
Angela's black, coarse hair remained mostly intact from sex. A bit frizzier than usual, but nothing hairspray couldn't tame.
She gripped the bottle and pressed on the nozzle.
"How was he?"
"He asked for my name," Angela told her. "But he had no complaints during it."
"That's good, then. Maybe he wants to see you again."
"Maybe."
Angela didn't have many men come specifically for her. Which was fine for her, but bad for Madame. All the girls needed to bring in money. Girls were fired for having more clients than Angela, but Angela's contract went beyond the Madame. Came from the top. And she wasn't the only one. Keeping Angela and those girls here meant keeping them safe from the outside world.
