Broken and Beautiful

by Ryan, Kendall

  “Not curry,” she says, her voice trembling.

  How long has it been since she ate anything? “No curry, then. You let me decide. There’s a great place only a five-minute walk. You usually need reservations, but I know the owner.”

  6

  Ashleigh

  If I had thought about dinner, I would have thought about burgers or burritos from a fast food joint. Maybe, if we were dreaming big, I would have thought about a Styrofoam container of cheese fries from the diner. I could not have imagined this place.

  Intricate stained glass windows send shards of colors across pristine white tablecloths. Wooden arches soar above our heads. It was a church, the maître d’ explains as he leads us to a secluded table for two. A church from the 1920s that was restored for this restaurant. The other patrons are wearing suits and evening wear. I’m in a top I found in the trash and a skirt I found in the thrift store. Did Sutton bring me here as a joke?

  I glance at him, and he’s watching me with challenge in his blue eyes. He expects me to balk at the fanciness, and maybe I should. I’m probably going to make a fool of myself. I have to weigh my pride against my hunger. Hunger wins.

  I’m handed a large, leather-bound menu that has words I’ve never heard before and no prices. A bread basket arrives laden with thinly sliced raisin bread and thick slabs topped with caramelized onions. I take a piece of the onion bread with shaking hands and tear it apart. God, it’s so soft. And still warm from the oven. My mouth feels like it’s too full of saliva. I understand those cartoons with drooling animals in a real way. I’m not drooling, but this is how it would happen. Days without eating and then a gourmet bread basket in front of me.

  I shove it in my mouth. My eyes close in unwilling ecstasy.

  Sutton’s lids have fallen low, and I realize I made a sound. A moan.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, already pushing more bread into my mouth. Humiliating. That’s what this is. Maybe that’s how he meant it. It would have been less embarrassing for him to fuck me in the street, but I can’t stop eating now that food’s in my reach.

  “Slow down,” he murmurs. “You’ll give yourself a stomach ache.”

  How does he know? How does he know how starving I am? I inhale two more pieces of bread before I can bring myself to speak. “You’re making a joke out of me.”

  “No one’s laughing,” he says, and I have to admit that it’s the truth. His blue eyes are wholly serious. And knowing. As if he understands this level of hunger.

  “Then why did you bring me here? I don’t belong with these people.”

  “These people are nothing special. The fact that they have money and you don’t is mostly a matter of luck. Randomness. A game of chance, and you’re losing.”

  I take another piece of bread and force myself to eat it in slow, steady bites. “Is that why you have money? Because you won the game?”

  A ghost of a smile. “You could say that.”

  “Can you teach me how to play?” The question comes out before I can stop it, earnest and hopelessly naive. This is the part where Ky would shake his head. He knows about the world. About men. I’m the one stuck with my head in a poetry book.

  He’s saved from answering when the waiter arrives. Sutton orders a medium rare rib eye for the both of us, along with flame-grilled artichokes and beet and goat cheese salads.

  The waiter leaves, and we sit in silence. The quiet clink of silver against expensive china provides a backdrop. Somewhere in this restored church, around some corner or up those stairs, someone’s playing a harp.

  “You want to play the game,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “This is how you do it. You demand to be taken to places like this. There’s always going to be some sad fucker like me willing to do it. You don’t ask for two hundred dollars. You ask for a car. A condo.”

  He might as well be speaking another language. I understand organic chemistry better than this. “And you think men are going to pay for that?”

  “They already do. They’re paying some woman. Why not you?”

  I look down at myself, at this body that’s supposedly worth so much. It doesn’t make a difference. I hardly recognize myself. My arms, my legs. My breasts. I could be walking around in someone else’s skin. “That’s not how you made your money.”

  “The world isn’t fair, darling. I figure you already know that.”

  “I know that,” I whisper, thinking about throwing a softball and father-daughter dances. That wasn’t my childhood. I got indifferent words and wandering hands. I took it and took, until one day I decided I’d had enough. I ran away from home and never looked back. No matter how cold or hungry or desperate I get on the street, I never wish I was home.

  “Now I’m going to ask you again: Come home with me.”

  * * *

  His house is a ranch in the outskirts of Tanglewood. Every mile away from the west side erodes my confidence. Ky’s going to freak when he gets back. I can’t turn back now. Not only because I wouldn’t have a ride. I can’t turn back because this man wants me. For some reason, he wants me. And I need the money enough to see it through.

  Headlights flash across a copse of trees. Gravel rumbles beneath the tires. He stops the car, and we sit in the quiet, with only the pops of the engine and the croak of crickets to guide us. “Having second thoughts?” he asks, his voice husky.

  Yes. I’m afraid. Hold my hand. “Of course not. We made a deal.”

  Soft laughter. “We did.”

  I unlatch the seat belt and turn to face him. He looks miles away from that man earlier tonight, except I’m in the same position. Aren’t I? About to have sex with a stranger. I reach over to place my palm on his thigh. It’s not quite where he would want it, but it’s as close as I can bring myself right now. I squeeze gently, feeling muscle and heat. It’s awkward in a car. That’s what I learn in the next few minutes while I propel myself closer to him, while I press a clumsy kiss to his lips. He remains seated, hands dropped to his sides, head resting back. He doesn’t make any move to hold me, touch me. Fuck me. But he doesn’t push me away either. And when I manage to lick across his bottom lip, he sucks in a breath.

  It would be so easy for him to reach for me, for him to turn a few degrees in my direction. Then I could pretend that we were two people making out. We had gone to the college football game. He bought me a large Coke and a pretzel as big as my face. I hung on his arm while he cheered on his team. After the game he brought me home and turned to kiss me good night. One kiss turned into another. We’d both be panting, urgent. The windows would turn foggy. That’s what I could pretend. Instead Sutton stays straight in his chair, watching me from beneath slitted eyes. He lets me fumble with the fabric of his slacks. At least he’s hard beneath them. Very hard. Very large. Enough to make me wince in anticipated pain. There’s no steam on the windows, because he isn’t breathing hard. He’s watching me make a fool of myself, stroking clumsily through the wool, trying to figure out how to please him. And failing.

  “Do you make guys come like that?” he asks, all droll politeness.

  “Yes,” I snap, even though it’s a lie. I pull my hand back, because clearly I was doing it all wrong. Despite his hard cock, I was doing it wrong. My words come out stiff. “If you want something different, you only have to ask.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” Shadows hold him in a tight embrace. I see glittering eyes and full lips. A square chin with gold-dark scruff. “There’s something sweet about it. As if you never touched a cock before. But that can’t be true, can it?”

  My cheeks heat, and I’m grateful for the darkness. “Of course not.”

  “You make me feel like I’m in high school again.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  His thumb lifts my chin. “Tell me you aren’t in high school.”

  “I’m not in high school,” I recite.

  “Seriously, Ashleigh. I’m going to lose my shit.”

  “I’m not. Really. God.” O
f course I’m not in high school because I dropped out six months ago. Hard to go to school when you don’t have a place to sleep. Or running water. I don’t bother telling him that. Let him think I’m a couple years older if it helps him sleep at night. It doesn’t matter whether I’m seventeen or twenty-seven when the lights are off.

  Some men are gentle. Some are rough. All of them want the same thing—my mouth wrapped around their dick. Sutton? I don’t think he’s different. Not when he stiffens. A groan fills the warm vehicle. My mind’s already going to that faraway place where nothing and no one can touch me. I reach for the hard, throbbing heft of him in his slacks, and he grunts. “What the fuck, Ashleigh?”

  I don’t bother stopping, because he can catch up. He must know what I’m going to do. A kiss. No one pays two hundred dollars so they can lick my lips. He wants this kind of kiss. I feel his desire hot and thick in the air. My fingers find his zipper and tug, tug, tug.

  He grasps my wrist, forcing me to stop. “I said, what the fuck?”

  My gaze meets his. “I’m doing what you want.”

  “A blowjob in my driveway? No, sweet thing. Not even close.”

  He doesn’t want a blowjob? Well, he’s the first one. Panic beats against my rib cage. He’ll want something I don’t know how to give. Empty, brainless sex. That’s what I’ve been taught. He wants that strange kissing and feeling and aching deep in my core.

  Home was a beige house in suburbia. Ours had white crown molding and granite countertops. Those are the things that made it a nice house. An expensive house. Those things are nothing like this. Columns of stone and wood stand like sentries around the front door. Windows with little hand-welded arches march across the entrance hall. Thick plants of wood are knotted and gouged and scraped in an agreeable texture. This is not a nice house. It’s a ranch-style mansion, every piece strong and rough and beautiful. Like the man who closes the door behind us. A wide-open floor plan reveals multiple seating areas, a ten-foot dining table, a kitchen with bright red appliances. My attention is drawn by a bank of tall, wide windows at the back of the house. A view of rolling hills in the moonlight takes my breath away. And is that—“Do you have horses?”

  7

  Sutton

  Knotted wood and worn-smooth leather. This place is my sanctuary.

  The shiny fake satin of her mini skirt looks out of place. Her heels wobble in the thick pile of the carpet. Part of me expects her to sit on the couch, as if I’m going to interview her before fucking her silly. Or maybe she’ll drape herself across the kitchen countertops—a sexual offering. She does neither. Instead she crosses to the metal sculpture mounted across the back wall. A wild horse gallops, its hooves flying, its mane proud in the wind. She runs her hand along the curve of its breast. “It’s beautiful.”

  Christ. Horses. With her lithe body and world-weary eyes, she looks all grown up. Then she gets excited about horses, and she could be twelve years old again. It’s a strange dichotomy, one I shouldn’t find alluring. Even as my brain works out the ethical implications, my blood beats with a low, primal beat. Mine. She’s mine. And nothing, not even my own personal morality, will keep her from me.

  "Where did you get this?"

  I don't have to answer. An art gallery. Walmart. It doesn't matter where I got it. She's a prostitute. Get on your knees. That's what I should tell her. "I made it."

  Her eyes widen. “You did?”

  “It's nothing. A blowtorch and some scrap metal.”

  “What are you talking about? It's beautiful. I can feel the wind.” She traces the curve of his breast with her fingertip. I can almost feel the caress across my pecs.

  Her hand keeps moving, onto the mane.

  “They look like flames,” she says.

  “Some say the world will end in fire.” It’s a foolish, maudlin thing to say, made even more ridiculous by the fact that she won’t understand. She’ll think I’m a crazy prepper or something, counting down until doomsday.

  She glances back at me without missing a beat. “Some say in ice.”

  Surprise roots me to the ground. “From what I’ve tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire.”

  “But if it had to perish twice,” she says, reciting the poem in a melodic voice. It’s a siren song. “I think I know enough of hate, to say that for destruction ice, is also great, and would suffice.”

  “You like Robert Frost.”

  “I like poetry.” She touches the tip of the mane.

  I open my mouth, because the edges are rough there. They're not polished smooth, not made to be touched. Her breath sucks in. It's a quiet sound, but I feel it in my bones, that prick of pain. She pulls her hand back. I'm across the room in a few seconds, turning her palm in mine. A small drop of blood forms on her forefinger.

  “Hell.”

  “It doesn't hurt,” she whispers.

  I should run her hand under water. Probably get Neosporin and a Band-Aid. And then drive her back to the street corner, because what the fuck am I doing here? Instead I dip my head and suck her finger into my mouth, licking away the salt-metal drop. Her eyes are dark pools that reflect the metal horse. When I let go of her, I expect her to back away. To cower in the corner, like I'm some kind of vampire. That's what I am, in a way. Drinking down her youth and life force. She drops to her knees, slow and graceful, keeping her gaze on mine.

  This isn't the place for it. I should take her into the bedroom, at least. Dark windows watch from every angle, miles of ranchland a witness to what I'm about to do. My cock feels hard as iron in my slacks. She's probably not even wet beneath that cheap black fabric. I want her too bad to care. I could reach down and finger her until she came, slick and swollen. I could whisper a few dirty words to make her damp.

  Instead I put my hand on her head, stroking gently, feeling the shape of her, the impenetrable strength of her. I sift her hair through my hands. It's a pale straw color, but it doesn't feel like straw. It feels soft and pliant. Like her.

  "You gonna take me in your mouth, sweet thing?" My accent comes out thicker when I'm aroused. It's thick as goddamn molasses right now.

  She nods slowly. "If that's what you like."

  "There's no man alive who wouldn't want that pretty mouth."

  A blush darkens her cheeks. "Should I—?"

  She doesn't finish the question. Her hands go to my belt. She fumbles with the hammered gold clasp and the soft leather. Next she works on the button. The zipper, which curves over the bulge of my erection. She goes slower there, as if careful she might hurt me. I'm hard enough to pound steel. Her gentle hands won't do a bit of harm. Except those featherlight touches make me grit my teeth. When she tugs at the elastic, so soft, I almost come in my pants. With a grunt of impatience, I push down my briefs. My cock falls heavy against her hand. The back of her fingers feels cool against the iron brand of me. She whimpers in surprise. Or maybe fear.

  Hell, I’m big. But not a monster. If she’s scared of my dick, it’s because someone hurt her with one. That should be enough to make me stop.

  I touch my thumb to her bottom lip, rubbing softly. “Open for me.”

  God help her, she does. Her lips part. I push my thumb inside. She’s wet and warm. My cock throbs, wanting inside. I fist it with my other hand, stroking once, twice. Casual enough to keep me from coming. She waits for what I’m going to do next.

  “You’re so open. So vulnerable. You know that, don’t you? I could do anything to you right now. I could fuck your throat. Block your air until you pass out.”

  A hitch in her breath. “Do you want to do those things?”

  “You would be shocked at the things I want to do to you.” I want to tangle in the sheets with her and talk until the early hours of morning. I want to fall in love. That’s what’s wrong with me, my fatal flaw. The insistent desire to enmesh myself with another human being.

  Do I want to fuck her throat?

  No, which is why I’m going to do it.

  “I’m not sure I ca
n—”

  “You can take it,” I say, implacable. “Put your hands behind your back.”

  She moves her hands slowly and clasps them together. I have to clench my teeth to keep from coming. Such undeserved trust. That’s her fatal flaw. I shouldn’t find it so goddamn beautiful.

  I put the head of my cock to her mouth. I’m already slick at the tip from precum, and I slide against her lips, painting them. We’re feeling each other in our most sensitive places, learning an intimate terrain. It takes herculean effort to pause and sheathe myself in a condom. Then I push inside. I rest myself on her tongue. She closes around me, her eyes wide, her movements clumsy. It’s like she’s never done this before.

  It’s like she’s never done this before.

  The thought is almost enough to make me stop. Almost.

  She might be used to a hand at the back of her head across the gearshift. I’m going to teach her how to do this right so she’s not afraid of it. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, nominate Sutton Mayfair for sainthood. I’m going to show a prostitute how to suck dick.

  “Easy,” I tell her. “Slow down. Hold on to the tip, nothing more.”

  She calms, quiets, holds the tip in her mouth. God, she’s incredible like this. I could stare at her for hours, my very own Renoir in the form of a mouth on my cock.

  “That’s right. That’s good.” I stroke her hair, the way I’d tame a wild horse. “You feel so good and wet and warm. This is the only place I want to be right now.”

  Her eyes are liquid gold looking up at me. Slowly, slowly, slowly, she runs her tongue along the crest. I shudder, and she sees her power. I watch the realization dawn in her. A blowjob isn’t a form of worship. It’s a way to bring me to my knees.

  She strokes her tongue in a sweeping circle, her gaze never leaving mine. My responses give her clues. My groan, the forward shift of my hips. The way I run her hair through my hands, sifting for gold. “Yes. Fucking yes. Right there, sweet thing. I’m yours.”