Shay is so proud of this meal, too. I’m their first dinner guest in their new place—“trying to make a home of a rented house,” as the song says. She’s into comfort foods these days, learning to make old-fashioned, Grandma’s-house stuff like pot roast, pound cake, and tonight’s chicken pot pie. Apparently that’s a hipster thing, all the home-style recipes. This chicken pot pie is probably ironic. It’s also delicious, though, so yay for hipsters.
We’re eating at a card table set up at the far end of the kitchen. Whatever money they have for furniture is going toward the nursery. For the rest of the house, Shay says they’ll decorate with Salvation Army and Goodwill stuff, or even dumpster diving. (That works better in a college town than it does most places. You wouldn’t believe the things that get thrown out by nineteen-year-olds who didn’t have to pay for it.) So far the house looks pretty bare.
Yet this place already feels like a home. It’s illuminated by the way Arturo and Shay care for each other, the hopes they have for the future. I feel more comfortable here than I’ve felt in my parents’ house—my childhood home—for a very long time.
I would say as much to Carmen, if she were here. Supposedly she has a bunch of test papers to grade. My guess is that she’s still not ready to see Shay as the “woman of the house,” but surely she’s going to get over that soon.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Shay pats my shoulder. “I think you’re pushing yourself. Not taking enough time to rest.”
I try to put her at ease. “I’m in the heart of my research right now. It takes a lot of concentration.”
Which is true. Which is why it’s not exactly helpful to spend virtually every waking moment thinking about getting banged by Jonah Marks.
“I know you have to work hard,” Arturo says as he returns to the table, putting Shay’s ginger ale in front of her. “But that just means you have to play hard, too.”
Did he just say—
“Are you choking?” Shay thumps my back. “Gone down the wrong way, hasn’t it?”
“I’m good,” I say, and I manage not to laugh.
? ? ?
By Friday night, I don’t feel like laughing.
Whenever I let my mind rush ahead to the hotel room, my whole body trembles with fear and anticipation. I don’t know which emotion is stronger. Right now I hardly know which way is up.
I’ve taken a couple of fail-safe steps. Carmen and I have made plans to go to the farmer’s market tomorrow morning. If I don’t show up at her place by ten A.M., she’ll start looking for me immediately. I also scheduled an e-mail that will go out to her, Arturo, and Shay in three days, if I don’t delete it. The e-mail reads: If something has happened to me, the police should look for Jonah Marks.
Of course I don’t think that’s going to be necessary. If I believed Jonah was definitely dangerous, I wouldn’t go to the hotel in the first place.
. . . but he’s a little dangerous. Enough for the fear to feel very real.
Rush hour. I drive against the traffic into the heart of downtown Austin, to the tallest hotel in the city, which is usually peopled by visiting celebrities, wealthy tourists, or corporate clients. Jonah didn’t skimp. He’s arranged an exquisite locale for his first attack.
“We have you for one night?” the check-in clerk says brightly.
“Yes. Just one key.” How do I sound so calm? The role-playing has already begun.
The room is luxurious in a sophisticated, minimalist sort of way—a broad bed with a white duvet and half a dozen pillows, a long desk of polished wood for the business guests, and soft mood lighting shining from sconces carefully placed on the cream-colored walls. It’s on one of the higher floors, and the windows look out over the cityscape. I admire the view while the sun sets, then close the curtains, so nobody can look in.
Getting here three hours early was overkill. Although I try to watch TV, my mind refuses to focus on the lights and sounds in front of me. Finally I give up and start getting ready. Tonight I want to take my time with it—to carefully put myself together so Jonah can pull me apart.
A long hot shower relaxes me slightly; the sugar scrub I brought softens my skin. I dry my hair upside down so that it will be bouncier and wilder than I usually wear it.
I’d contemplated getting a bikini wax but ultimately decided against it. Better if I seem—unprepared. Still, I use the electric clippers to trim everything neatly. Then I step into a pair of white lace panties. No bra.
For Christmas, my mother gave me this perfume she likes and I don’t. It’s one of those sultry, overpowering 1980s fragrances, the kind of thing that comes in a purple bottle. The scent might as well say fuck me out loud. Tonight is the first time I’ve ever worn it. I apply my makeup like my older sister Chloe taught me, the way I almost never bother with. Most days, powder, mascara, and tinted lip balm do the trick. Tonight, I go with a smoky eye and shimmery blush that contours my cheekbones. The lipstick I wear is dark glossy red.
I bought this dress online last year, on impulse, goaded by the deep final-sale discount and the website’s red letters reading Only One Left! When it arrived, though, I realized it looked less glamorous, more trashy. The filmy, raspberry-colored fabric clings to every curve, and the hem barely covers my ass. Two slender straps hold it in place.