Stolen Life (Beauty in the Stolen 2)

How ironic.

Livid, humiliated, and rejected, I go in search of Banga and ask him to escort me to Ian’s room. When he leaves, I search the room for alcohol. I need a drink. A mini bottle of vodka like they serve in planes or anything else with alcohol in it will do. There’s a flask of mint tea and Madeira cake on the dresser, but no hidden bottles of liquor in any of the drawers. Slamming the last drawer shut, I lean against it and inhale deeply. I should’ve brought a bottle of wine from the kitchen.

Enraged, I shake my bag out on the bed and grab the necklace I bought for Ian. The sharp points of the Nyaminyami digs into my skin when I close my fist. I want to throw it in the trash can or, better yet, into the river, but I can’t bring myself to do it. He belongs with his wife, the smaller, white one. Instead, I dump the necklaces in the drawer where Ian has packed my new underwear.

The sun starts to dip. The shadows in the room are long already. I light a lamp and take clean clothes from my side of the closet before going for a shower. I wash the dust from my hair and body, and get dressed. I don’t have a curling brush to dry my hair straight. The best I can do is let it dry naturally in waves. I didn’t pack much make-up either, but a bit of bronzer and mascara will do. After finishing off my look with my plum lipstick, I dab my perfume for special occasions on my wrists.

Stepping in front of the full-length mirror, I give myself a once-over. The jeans are one size too big, but the tight tank top hugs my breasts nicely, making them look bigger. The hiking shoes are my only footwear, so there’s not much I can do about that. I fluff out my hair and get the two-way radio. Banga sounds sleepy when he answers.

“Aren’t you at the office?” I ask.

“I took an early one seeing that everyone’s out.”

Everyone but me. “Can you please get the Jeep and come get me?”

“Why?” He sounds a bit more awake. “What’s going on?”

“Better bring a rifle.” I add with a snort, “We don’t want Ian to be cross.”

“Miss Cas—” He clears his throat. “Cas, I don’t think—”

“I’ll walk if you don’t come get me.”

He sighs. “I’m on my way.”

Ten minutes later, he parks in front of Ian’s bungalow. Dusk is already setting in. I grab my bag and hop into the driver’s seat, forcing him to scoot over.

“Where are you going?” he asks with a wary expression.

“The village.”

He concedes with a heavy sigh.

The horizon blazes red against the darkening sky when I park in front of the shebeen.

“You can’t be serious,” he says, shooting me an owl-eyed look.

I take my bag and drape the sling over my chest. “Just stay sober. I may not be in a state to drive back.”

“Cas, wait.”

I don’t listen to more.

The outside area is packed with people, every table and bench occupied. Lanterns are already lit, providing soft, yellow light. Local music blares from the dusty speaker. It’s a song that hit the charts in South Africa, one I like very much. The tinny tone and overbearing bass tell me the speaker has long since blown, but who cares? There’s music, people, and booze.

I recognize some of the people from working in the fields. The women whistle when they see me. One of the men who usually stands guard at the river runs inside and comes back with a plastic chair. The back is cracked and there’s a hole in the seat, but it’s sweet how they’re making space by the front table as if I’m a VIP. Everyone is drinking homebrewed beer from metal mugs, but someone finds a glass with a chip in the rim that the barman washes for me.

“You don’t have to give me special treatment,” I say when one of the women hands me the glass.

“What? You’re the first person from the lodge who’s ever visited us except for Ian, and not even Ian has been to our bar.”

I don’t want to think about Ian. I take a gulp of the beer.

“Plus,” she says, “you’re helping us with the crop. That makes you our guest of honor.”

When another popular song comes on, a young woman with the most gorgeous lips I’ve seen pulls me to my feet. She shakes her hips, bumping me playfully. “Dance with us.”

That’s exactly my intention—to let my hair down and have fun. It’s got nothing to do with drowning my sorrows at the bottom of a chipped glass of barley beer.

A cleared patch of soil serves as a dancefloor. We dance several songs in a row. By the time I’m out of breath, I’m not over my anger with Ian, but I feel a whole lot better, which has plenty to do with two refills of beers.