“No, you just treated me like one. And for your information, I don’t need your money. I got plenty of my own. You wanna know why I got into your car? I got into your car ‘cause I felt sorry for you. That’s right; you looked so lonely with those sad puppy dog eyes.” I walk in circles scanning the room for my clothes. I’m done, I’m the fuck out, but not before I finished telling him off. “That’s why I got into your car. You didn’t choose me . . . I chose you! Yep, um-hum, that’s why I got into your car.”
He remains at the bar, watching as I’m frantically searching the room.
“It’s want to, because, and yes not wanna, ‘cause and um-hum.”
“What?”
“When you are speaking to me, I expect you to speak properly.”
A bullet of a whole-hearted-fuck-you-mister shoots from the barrel of my mouth and how-fucking-dare-you is the finger pulling the trigger.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You gotta be kiddin’ me? I’m trying to leave and you’re all bent out of shape about my goddamn grammar?” I explode.
“When you decide to stop acting so irrational, I will expect you out on the terrace.”
“The fuck I am. I am not your—”
Before I can even finish my words, he wraps me up from behind. One hand on my mouth the other around my ribcage he thrusts me against the wall. My face pressed up against the cold cream plaster, my body sandwiched between him and the wall. His breathing fierce, as a deep growl grows in his throat. His hands pulse down my torso, catching my nipple in one, pushing the other between my thighs.
Fear thrashes through my body. Suddenly I’m that lost little girl, the one that’s so scared.
His hands are hot, the tips of his fingers scratch my waist when he pulls my pink shorts and flowery panties down and off my legs.
“Is this what you want Rose? A man who will just take from you and leave you with nothing?” His voice echoed down into my gut.
‘You’s making me do this my little Rosalie. You give me this sickness . . . you keep causin’ all of this in my body and you’re gonna help me with it.’
“No,” I whisper as I squeeze my eyes closed trying to clear my mind.
‘Shhh, Rosalie, don’t cry, you’s gonna fix me up. Make me all better, you’s about ripe for the pickin’ girl.’
A single tear collects in the corner of my eye before it breaks free and rolls down my cheek. An instance of resolve shoots through my body as he traces the tip of his nose across my cheek.
His breath is hot against my skin as he continues. “You think I don’t know who you are and how I make you feel inside?” He pushes his fingers deep inside me. My legs sway and my muscles clench as he pushes deeper and draws a long pull back, before he thrusts again. “I will never be that guy for you, my Rosebud. I will never take what I didn’t pay for; I will never take what isn’t mine.”
His other hand catches the side of my neck as he pulls my head toward his. Still holding me from behind, he strokes his ever-ready cock across the bend of my ass. “Let me take care of you,” he whispers against my cheek. The guard I carry, holding men at a distance crumbles as he spins me around and dips his tongue between my lips. I push against him, our tongues tangle forcefully as the colors that burst from the desire to feel something more than the broken that taints my heart. For the very first time in the couple of years selling my body, I let a date kiss me. He kisses me and I am his . . .
THE THICK FOG of emotion coupled with the vivid images of being lost and betrayed by Mr. C weighed heavy on my mind. This time it wasn’t the butterflies that had swirled in my stomach when I thought about Mr. C, but the sick burn of betrayal as I thought about Shane and how much I wanted to see him. It was the garbage truck’s squeaky brakes that plucked me from my dream and thrust me smack dab in the middle of my reality. Today was garbage day, and that also meant it was Thursday, the same day that I would spend with Shane doing our laundry. It had been six days since I heard from him. I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was fucking killing me and I hated it. But, after I bailed on our hike, I had asked him to give me some space.
I resented the fact that Monday rolled around and I craved his conversation and the spice of his favorite Cajun food. I couldn’t stand the fact that instead of being with him, I had spent the afternoon in my shitty apartment eating a bologna sandwich as I watched some fucked up Spanish soap opera. I missed his random texts that he’d send me with his dorky jokes and one-way conversations that made me laugh. It wasn’t fair where a lifetime of fucked up situations kept me going in the same circle over and over again.
Sure, Shane and I had only hung out for a cluster of Thursday afternoons to do laundry and a handful of Mondays for lunch, it shouldn’t have been that big of a deal . . . but it was. I got used to it, goddammit—got used to him and his crazy texts on the days we didn’t see each other. He had become my comfortable sharing my Thursdays and filling my Mondays with conversation.