Her Defiant Heart

by Monica Murphy

  There’s also a glow in my cheeks that I attribute to my night with Rhett too. It’s so weird, how he did this to me. How much my evening with Rhett affected me. I didn’t know sex could be like this.

  And now here I go, cheapening everything I did with Rhett by letting some perv customer from City Lights feel me up for seven thousand dollars. I’m prostituting myself. There’s nothing else to call it, right? I made Don promise he wouldn’t tell anyone about this deal, not even Savannah or Chuck. I feel bad enough for my choices—I don’t need their judgement too.

  What else am I supposed to do? I’m broke, I need money, and this is the easiest way for me to make it. I know I said I don’t want to become a stripper, and what I’m about to do tonight is even worse, but I know for a fact that Savannah has done this sort of thing before. She’s confessed as much to me, though she doesn’t like to talk about it. But when a girl is in a predicament and needs cash fast, you have to take your opportunities where you can.

  I can’t let my choices make me feel bad. Sometimes we have to do things we’re not proud of. It doesn’t mean that we’re bad people.

  At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  After exiting the bathroom, I sneak into the private room Don instructed me to wait in and glance around, wrinkling my nose. It’s a little musty in here, meaning that the room isn’t used much, and I’m glad to see Don lit a candle before he left. I clean the room up even further, fluffing the cushions on the sleek black couch and turning on a few more lamps so it’s a little brighter, though the light bulbs are faded and dim at best. But if it’s too dark, the guy might try and do something extra sketchy. Better to be bright and put this asshole on display as much as possible.

  Once I’m finished, I examine the room one more time, unable to fight the frown that takes over. This room is dingy, reminding me of a crappy motel room, but I only have so much to work with. I’m thankful I brought a bottle of water with me just in case I get thirsty. I would’ve brought my phone too, but I have nowhere to stash it and I didn’t want to leave it out so the guy can see it. Besides, not like anyone’s texting me right now. Not even Rhett.

  Asshole.

  There’s a knock on the door and before I can do anything, it swings open, and in walks one of the guys from the corner table I was working earlier, the one with the best view in the house. It’s the most attractive guy from the table, if I’m being honest. He’s probably hovering around fifty, with attractive smile wrinkles fanning from the corners of his hazel eyes and a thick head of hair sprinkled with salt and pepper. He’s clutching a full glass of amber-colored liquor, and I can tell he’s fit, his black button-down shirt and expensive-looking jeans showcasing a body that he takes care of.

  Not necessarily my first choice, but at least he’s not some creepy, gross guy with bad breath and a pot belly.

  “Hello.” He smiles as he approaches me and I smile back, mentally batting away the nerves that threaten to take over.

  “Hi.” I discreetly check his left hand. Ring finger is empty and there’s no telltale white tan line there either, so hopefully that means he’s not married. I mean, there’s no guarantee, but I’m going to pretend he’s single.

  Just like me.

  “I’m Greg.” He holds out his hand and I take it, surprised by his firm shake. My fingers actually ache when he lets them go, and I’m tempted to shake them out.

  “I’m Jen.”

  He raises a brow. “Just Jen?”

  “Just Jen,” I say with a nod. He doesn’t need to know any more about me than that. I hope he doesn’t think I’m going to share my life story, because this is about as much information he’s going to get out of me.

  “I appreciated your excellent service tonight at our table, Jen.” He steps closer, so he’s standing directly in front of me. I can smell him. His cologne is expensive—no cheap Axe on this guy. And can you actually smell money on a person? Because this man reeks of it. “I couldn’t help but think what a pretty girl you are.”

  I refuse to let his words bother me, but…he’s sort of creeping me out. This man could be my father. He’s definitely old enough. “Thank you,” I manage to say, stepping away from him and pointing toward the couch. “Would you like to have a seat? Get more comfortable?”

  Greg takes a sip of his drink, contemplating me over the rim of the glass. “Did your boss tell you what I want from you?”

  Guess he’s getting right down to business. Taking a deep breath, I say, “He mentioned you wanted to spend time with me this evening.”

  “That’s true.” He contemplates me, his gaze roving over my body, lingering on my chest. Of course. Everyone stares at my tits—it’s part of the job. “But I asked for something very specific from you.”

  A tremble moves through me at the tone of his voice. Damn Don for not telling me what’s really going on. “I’m sure I can accommodate your request.”

  “I’m sure you can.” He’s standing in front of me again, reaching out and trailing his fingers down my upper arm. “I definitely want to see you naked.”

  I swallow hard. Yes, I knew this was coming. Who’s going to pay ten grand and not get some pussy action? “Okay.” I reach for the waistband of my skirt, ready to shed it, but he places his hand over mine, stopping me.

  “Not yet.” He smiles, a flash of blinding white in the dull yellow light of the room. “I want you to dance for me first.”

  I slowly back away from him, my nervous laughter ringing in the tiny room. “Um, I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, I definitely think so,” he says softly. “I’m sure you know how to move.”

  What’s that supposed to mean? “True confession, I’m a terrible dancer.”

  “You don’t strip?” He appears surprised.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I don’t have any rhythm.”

  “Oh, come on. I’m sure you can dance just fine. Plus, with breasts like these…” He reaches out and actually cups them, as if he’s weighing them in the palms of his hands. He doesn’t even look me in the eyes. He’s too entranced with the rest of my body, and I find that insulting. “…and that fucking spectacular body of yours, I’m surprised.”

  I’m frozen, trying to calm my shaky breaths while his hands are still wrapped around my breasts. It’s weird, having a stranger touch me like this. An older man who’s actually paid a lot of money to touch me. It’s one thing to let a teenager paw at me, or to let Rhett have me last night. That I was willing to do.

  But this moment…is strange.

  “You have perfect nipples,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumbs over them. They harden from his touch and I want to close my eyes in mortification, but I don’t. “Such a pretty pink.”

  “T-thank you?” I don’t know how to respond. This is incredibly awkward.

  He leans in close, his mouth near my ear as he murmurs, “I bet that pretty little pussy of yours is just as pink. Am I right?”

  Greg steps away before I can say anything, setting his drink on the end table next to the couch and pulling his iPhone out of his jeans pocket. “I have a song I want you to dance to. Let me find it.”

  I’m still shell-shocked by what he said to me. I can run right now if I wanted to. Just—throw open that door and bolt out of here. Fuck the ten grand. I know Don would want to murder me and I’d probably lose my job, but do I really want to go through with this?

  “Take off the skirt,” Greg commands, his soft voice holding the slightest edge. His gaze is still locked on the phone as he speaks. “I want to see you dance in your panties and shoes and nothing else.”

  Looks like I’m going through with it.

  I take off my skirt and fold it with shaky hands, setting it on the counter just behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I catch Greg scrolling through his phone and making his song selection. He turns up the volume as the music starts, some kind of jazz instrumental tune that’s heavy on the piano and saxophone. I swear my knees are knocking together and I grab the water bottle that sits
nearby, taking a giant swig from it. Really, I thought the water would help calm my buzzing nerves, but now I feel like my stomach is sloshing around.

  “You ready?” Greg asks.

  I turn to face him, watching quietly as he sits on the couch, the phone still in his hand, his finger pressing against the side so that the volume turns up. I swallow hard, crossing one foot over the other to stabilize myself. The expectant expression on his face tells me I need to get to it. I need to start dancing.

  After all, seven thousand dollars is on the line.

  Clearing my throat, I rest my hands on my hips and then slowly start to move. I run my hands over my body and twirl around on my heels, surprised I don’t go tottering over. The music kind of sucks, but I’m getting into it. My muscles are loosening, I’m shedding my inhibitions and I tell myself I might actually be enjoying this little dance.

  Then again, maybe I’m not.

  I finally look at Greg, surprised to see him sitting there so impassively, the phone still in his hand, and I wonder if he’s recording me. He’s observing me like he might watch a janitor mop the floor. One arm is stretched out across the back of the couch, the other one clutching the phone, his expression impossible to read. He’s sprawled out on the couch like he’s never seen anything so boring in all his life.

  The music is still going but I stop dancing, my arms hanging at my sides as I glare at him. He sits up straighter, his shrewd gaze meeting mine. “Why’d you stop?”

  “Why aren’t you enjoying it?”

  Those brows lift again. For some odd reason, the gesture reminds me of Rhett—the very last person I should be thinking of right now. “Who says I’m not enjoying it?”

  “I can tell.” I wave a hand at him. “You look bored.”

  “Well, I’m not.” He sets the phone on the couch beside him and leans back, crossing his arms in front of his massive chest. For an older guy, he’s actually very big. Muscular.

  Intimidating.

  “Okay.” I drawl the word out, like I’m full of doubt, which I so am.

  “And who said you could stop?” He’s still glaring at me. “Keep dancing.”

  I’m annoyed. Not embarrassed or nervous, but full-blown, I-see-red annoyed. It was the way he said that, like he’s in total command of me. “You’re not my boss,” I mutter as I try to reestablish my rhythm.

  Greg hears me. He’s up and in my personal space within seconds, his fingers going underneath my chin so he can tip my face up, forcing me to meet his gaze. “What did you just say?”

  Anger blazes in his eyes, but I don’t care. I’m angry too. My voice is clear and firm when I say, “I said, you’re not my boss.”

  His fingers tighten on my chin almost painfully. “I just paid a hell of a lot of money to have you for the night.” The smile he gives me isn’t friendly. No, more like menacing. “That means I can do pretty much whatever I want to you.”

  We stare at each other for a tension-filled moment, and he squeezes my chin again, pinching my skin before he releases me. He wraps his arm around my waist, his hand palming my butt before giving it a slap, and I jolt away from him, startled.

  My anger dissipates, replaced by a heavy dose of fear. I don’t like how Greg is talking to me. Or looking at me. I should’ve never agreed to this.

  It’s now or never.

  Slowly, I turn and make my way toward the door. The music immediately shuts off and then Greg is chasing after me; I can hear his hurried footsteps. I’m at the door, my fingers curling around the handle, but he stops it from opening with a firm hand pressed against the wood.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he whispers by my ear, his face so close to mine I can feel his lips move against my skin.

  The disgusted shiver that runs through me can’t be disguised. “I’m leaving.”

  When I try to turn the handle again, he just presses against the door harder. Trapping me. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead. I don’t want to look at him. I’m too scared at what I might see. “I don’t want to do this.”

  “I don’t really give a shit.” His free arm circles around my waist and he spreads his hand across my bare stomach, fingers reaching, just brushing the underside of my breasts. “I already paid for you, remember.”

  “And you’ll get your money back, I promise.” Air is shuddering in and out of my lungs and my head is spinning. I swear if he doesn’t let go of me soon, I’m going to black out.

  “I don’t want my money back.” He squeezes his arm around my middle and then picks me up, hauling me away from the door. I kick my legs out and back, trying to somehow nail him in the knees, but I miscalculate my aim.

  I nail him with the pointy heel of my shoe right in the balls instead.

  “Fuck!” Greg’s arms fall away from me, and I practically drop to the ground. Scrambling to my feet, I glance over my shoulder to see Greg hunched over on his knees, his hands covering his crotch. He lifts his head, his murderous gaze meeting mine. “You fucking bitch!”

  I grasp for the door handle and turn it, crying out in relief when the door swings open so easily. Without looking back, I run out of the room, and make my way toward Don’s office.

  Don gives me a thousand dollars for “my trouble” as he called it. I wish he would’ve given me more. I tried to make him feel guilty over what happened with Greg, because let me tell you, I let him know exactly what happened—in full, explicit detail—when I ran into his office. He flinches with every detail I reveal, shaking his head as the words pour out of me.

  I’ve never seen Don move so fast when he leaps out of his chair and heads for the room where Greg still was. I follow after him, secure in knowing Don is there to defend me, but when we get to the room, Greg isn’t anywhere to be found.

  He simply vanished. And without asking for his money back either.

  “Guess you lucked out, doll,” Don murmurs when we’re back in his office.

  “Lucked out?” I ask incredulously. “Are you serious?” I can’t believe he just said that.

  “Trust me, it could’ve be worse.”

  “That creep tried to rape me,” I remind him.

  “Yeah, and I’m giving you a thousand dollars, right?” Don sends me a look, one that says I shouldn’t argue with him.

  Fine. I won’t argue. Not when so much money is on the line.

  I say nothing as Don quietly opens up his desk drawer, draws out a fat stack of hundreds, and starts counting them out, one by one, until he hit one thousand.

  “Sorry about that,” he says as he keeps his gaze fixed on his desk. Like he can’t look at me. “Don’t worry about that asshole. I’ll take care of him if he comes back. You can take the next few days off if you want.”

  Without a word I grab the money, shove it into my purse, and walk out, never once looking back. There’s no way I want to hang out at this rat hole for fear I’d see Greg again—if that’s even his real name.

  Over the next few days while I wallow in my misery, Savannah texts me a few times, asking why I’m not around and if I’m okay, but I ignore her. Rhett texts me as well, wanting to know if I want to get together sometime this week, but I ignore him too. Seeing Rhett is the last thing I want after what I went through with Greg. Not that Rhett’s to blame or anything, but I can guarantee he’s going to want to have sex with me, and there is no way that’s happening. Not right now.

  I feel too battered and bruised. Too raw and…ugly. Yes, ugly. Greg called me terrible names. He wanted to hurt me.

  And comparing what Greg tried to do to me versus my experience with Rhett the night before? How sweet yet aggressive Rhett had been, and how much I wanted him? My brain can’t compute all the conflicting thoughts.

  I skip school, something I can’t afford to do, considering I’m already behind. But I know I won’t be able to concentrate on the lectures, so why waste my time? I stay in bed for three days straight, until my hair is stringy and greasy and I’ve been in the
same clothes for so long I’m starting to smell funky. The entire time I do nothing but watch new movies on this illegal download site I find, and when that gets boring I watch a bunch of crime shows on YouTube.

  All the tales of murder, double-crossing and serial rapists get to me. Make me think my life was turning into a made-for-TV movie—or at least excellent fodder for one of these crime shows. They always say “based on a true story”—and my true story is so messed up. It just keeps getting worse.

  I cry too. I mentally ask myself a lot of questions. Like what the hell am I doing? Do I really want to be this person? I almost let some old guy rape me for thousands. Hell, I still got some of the money and I bet that pissed Greg off so bad.

  So what does that make me? A whore?

  Yes. In my eyes, definitely yes.

  I had sex with Rhett just so I can get closer to his stepmother, aka my mother. How messed up is that? Is what happened with Greg karma trying to get back at me for what I’m doing to Rhett? I’m using Rhett, so Greg used me?

  I’m starting to think that’s it. That’s why this happened. My decisions have led me down this path, and now it’s become so awful, so fraught with too many scary unknowns, I don’t think I can handle it any longer.

  When I can’t take myself anymore, I finally get out of bed and take the longest shower of my life, almost as long as the one I took Saturday night, when I tried my best to scrub Greg off my skin. I threw away the skirt and panties because they smelled like him and his expensive cologne, and the scent made me want to vomit.

  Just the mere thought of Greg makes me want to vomit.

  After my shower, I lotion myself up good, blow-dry my hair, apply some light makeup, and then start packing. Like, anything I can shove into my one old suitcase that once belonged to my dad, it goes in there. I don’t have a lot of furniture or personal items, so anything left behind I don’t care about.

  I need to get the hell out of here.

  After grabbing the biggest tote bag I own from my closet, I throw my old purse inside as well. I sit on the saggy pleather couch and go on the Internet, searching for a bus ticket back to my hometown, finding one that would leave in about ninety minutes. I could take city transit to the bus depot and leave. Forget school and Rhett and my mother. Forget City Lights and Savannah and Don and Chuck. It’s best if I leave everything behind and pretend Jensen never existed.