Girl Trade - full length erotic adventure novel (Xcite Erotic Romance Novels) by Chloe Thurlow Page B
Authors: Chloe Thurlow
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had left behind.
Articles I had read on the black diaspora questioned whether the schools and health services and work forces could absorb the flood of new immigrants with new colours and cultures and religions. I had no idea if this was true or not, we only know what we read and what we conclude through the prism of our own experience and prejudices. Europe to me seemed to be bursting at the seams, growing dusty and worn, decaying from within like an apple with a worm at its core. There must have been countless numbers of people like me anxious to escape from that world without knowing why or what exactly we were trying to escape from. It made sense that this subconscious craving to go and be some place else was echoed across the continents by others, that at heart we are all nomads travelling in search of something that will never be found and may not exist.
The women sat together on the dry sand and my attention turned to the white dinghy soaring over the water, the motor like a slow hand clap getting gradually louder until the craft glided on to the beach and stopped. The man who stepped out was dressed in white, a carefully turned turban, leggings, baggy around the top, tight over his calves, and an embroidered shirt that reached below his waist. His skin was pale, the colour of ivory piano keys, and in his expression was a look of surprise he was trying to conceal.
Like the three women, he looked at me, not so much at my nudity, but into my eyes; he looked away and looked back again. He studied my face as if it were a puzzle and, unable to unravel the mystery, he shouted impatiently, clicking his fingers, and the beachcomber hurried towards us, spine bent almost double, his silky words sounding like a servant’s entreaty, each line a refrain ending in the word sheikh , which I assumed is what the man in white must have been. He was much younger than the beachcomber, about my age, I thought, clean shaven and clearly in charge. He had arrived on the beach in the dinghy and stepped out without getting wet while three other men in turbans waded through the sea behind him.
The man in white fluttered his fingers in a dismissive gesture and stood watching as I helped the beachcomber unload the dinghy. The sacks weren’t so heavy, but the water came in round containers like you see in offices and weighed a ton. As I bent to lift those bottles one at a time on to my shoulder, the sheikh just stared with the vaguely bored expression an employer might show someone surplus to requirements.
You’re fired!
It was a line from an inane television programme that entered my mind like a magpie in a starling’s nest. I shook my head, shaking out the nonsense, and adjusted the weight of the bottle.
As I picked my way back through the crowd of immigrants to the fishing shed, my first thought was that the sheikh was annoyed that I was parading around like some porn star in a skin flick. But, of course, it wasn’t that at all. It wasn’t my state of undress that had made him cross, but its potential consequences. The Africans were being smuggled into Europe. It was illegal, dangerous, lucrative, I’m sure, and something I should not have been allowed to witness.
If the people were captured by the authorities when they landed in Spain, when they described their journey, they would all remember seeing a naked white girl. When my being missing was reported, as it would be when my two weeks holiday came to an end, the police and Coast Guard would know where to begin their search and who exactly they were searching for.
The feeling of optimism I’d had when I first saw the boat on the horizon had gone. I was in terrible danger. In swimming away from La Gomera without my costume, I had placed myself in the hands of fate and my fate it seemed was now inextricably entwined with the man in the white turban. As I came back out of the shed, I glanced at him again. He was standing there like he owned the world and, in that warm night, a
Articles I had read on the black diaspora questioned whether the schools and health services and work forces could absorb the flood of new immigrants with new colours and cultures and religions. I had no idea if this was true or not, we only know what we read and what we conclude through the prism of our own experience and prejudices. Europe to me seemed to be bursting at the seams, growing dusty and worn, decaying from within like an apple with a worm at its core. There must have been countless numbers of people like me anxious to escape from that world without knowing why or what exactly we were trying to escape from. It made sense that this subconscious craving to go and be some place else was echoed across the continents by others, that at heart we are all nomads travelling in search of something that will never be found and may not exist.
The women sat together on the dry sand and my attention turned to the white dinghy soaring over the water, the motor like a slow hand clap getting gradually louder until the craft glided on to the beach and stopped. The man who stepped out was dressed in white, a carefully turned turban, leggings, baggy around the top, tight over his calves, and an embroidered shirt that reached below his waist. His skin was pale, the colour of ivory piano keys, and in his expression was a look of surprise he was trying to conceal.
Like the three women, he looked at me, not so much at my nudity, but into my eyes; he looked away and looked back again. He studied my face as if it were a puzzle and, unable to unravel the mystery, he shouted impatiently, clicking his fingers, and the beachcomber hurried towards us, spine bent almost double, his silky words sounding like a servant’s entreaty, each line a refrain ending in the word sheikh , which I assumed is what the man in white must have been. He was much younger than the beachcomber, about my age, I thought, clean shaven and clearly in charge. He had arrived on the beach in the dinghy and stepped out without getting wet while three other men in turbans waded through the sea behind him.
The man in white fluttered his fingers in a dismissive gesture and stood watching as I helped the beachcomber unload the dinghy. The sacks weren’t so heavy, but the water came in round containers like you see in offices and weighed a ton. As I bent to lift those bottles one at a time on to my shoulder, the sheikh just stared with the vaguely bored expression an employer might show someone surplus to requirements.
You’re fired!
It was a line from an inane television programme that entered my mind like a magpie in a starling’s nest. I shook my head, shaking out the nonsense, and adjusted the weight of the bottle.
As I picked my way back through the crowd of immigrants to the fishing shed, my first thought was that the sheikh was annoyed that I was parading around like some porn star in a skin flick. But, of course, it wasn’t that at all. It wasn’t my state of undress that had made him cross, but its potential consequences. The Africans were being smuggled into Europe. It was illegal, dangerous, lucrative, I’m sure, and something I should not have been allowed to witness.
If the people were captured by the authorities when they landed in Spain, when they described their journey, they would all remember seeing a naked white girl. When my being missing was reported, as it would be when my two weeks holiday came to an end, the police and Coast Guard would know where to begin their search and who exactly they were searching for.
The feeling of optimism I’d had when I first saw the boat on the horizon had gone. I was in terrible danger. In swimming away from La Gomera without my costume, I had placed myself in the hands of fate and my fate it seemed was now inextricably entwined with the man in the white turban. As I came back out of the shed, I glanced at him again. He was standing there like he owned the world and, in that warm night, a
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