by Tara Sue Me
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he continues his walk past my bookcases and moves around to the front of my couch. “Sit down.”
Because he’s a power freak and will never sit down while I’m standing. I don’t even think about disobeying. I walk over and sit down.
It’s not until he very slowly and very deliberately draws every bit of tension possible from the moment that he sits down himself.
That has to be a good sign, I tell myself. He can’t kill me if he’s sitting down, can he? Unless he has a gun. I squint. Does he have a gun?
I cross my legs and kick my foot up and down, bouncing an imaginary strappy sandal. He won’t get the best of me this time. I’ll sit here for as long as it takes him to get to his point. Longer, if I need to. I start counting in my head: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. . .I’m up to ten Mississippi before he breaks the silence.
“I had an interesting conversation with Isaiah Martin last night.”
My foot stops bouncing.
Isaiah.
I shouldn’t care. Thinking about Isaiah, much less talking with Mike about Isaiah, has brought me nothing but trouble. One of these days I’ll learn.
Just, you know, not quite yet.
“Oh?” I ask, hoping I’m instilling enough I-Could-Care-Less attitude in that one syllable.
But as much as I try for I don’t care in my tone, my mind works franticly. Why had he met with Isaiah? What did they talk about? Why had he felt the need to come to my room to tell me about it? I look back at his eyes. Still dark and dangerous.
Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask.
“How’s Isaiah doing?” The question flies out of my mouth, not caring at all how my head feels.
Victory surges in his eyes and I curse my mouth for not listening and myself for not having more self control.
His response, when it comes, is very thought out, very deliberate. “I wasn’t surprised you didn’t tell your childhood friend exactly what you are.”
It hits me then, why he’s here. I’m not going to have to worry about telling Isaiah I’m a prostitute. Mike has already done so and came by to gloat over.
But Mike isn’t finished yet.
“Isaiah has the potential to be a man of influence in the community,” he continued, “And it would be a good idea for me to be on his good side.I asked myself, what could I do? What could I offer to ingratiate such a man? What could he want?”
Why he came by my apartment is now clear. What he’d decided last night that he could offer Isaiah hurt more than what he’d done to me days before. I can only hope my guess is incorrect.
He shrugs. “I offered him you.”
With those simple words, it’s like he’s doused me in ice water. My body is frozen and I want to cry. But I’ll be damned if I do so in front of Mike.
Oh, no. Not Isaiah. Please, God. Please, anyone but Isaiah.
I think of Mike offering my body to Isaiah. Like I’m something to be bought or sold or given away.
And at that moment I realize the truth of what I am, of what I’ve become. I am a commodity to be bought or sold or given away. Mike can give me to Isaiah or use me, because that is the right I’ve given him. I vow to take it all back. No matter what it costs me, no longer how long it takes, I’m taking it all back.
Before I unintentionally expose my new revelation to Mike, I drop my eyes in pretend submission. Close them and force my body to stop its inner trembling.
“Ask me what he said.” His tone of voice leaves me no choice but to obey.
“What did he say?” I ask, all the while looking at my carpet. Out of here, I promise myself, I’ll find a way out of here.
“Look at me.” Amusement fills his eyes when I look up. His mouth twists into a horrific smile. One I remember all too well. “He said no.” Before relief can sweep over me, he adds, “He asked to use the piano in Playmakers instead.”
An evil laugh fills the confines of my room, and the walls feel smaller than ever before. “You must be the worst kind of whore there is,” he says. “To be desired less than a piano.”
***
I can’t go back to sleep after Mike leaves. My cozy apartment is feeling like a prison, and I have to get out and escape for a few hours. I dress carefully, doing my best to cover my bruises and step outside inhaling deeply. Though I normally stay away from it, I decide to head for the Strip. For some reason I find myself longing for the crowds. I want to lose myself fin a mass of strangers. I have to get away from the solitude for a few hours.
I walk for half an hour. It’s one of those standard hot as hell, dry to the bone days and I’m not used to being outside much. But the thought of going back to my apartment isn’t appealing, I want to stay in the open air. Where I can at least pretend for a few minutes that my life isn’t what it is. There’s a bench near the Bellagio that’s my thinking spot. I head toward it.
It isn’t surprising that someone is on my bench. After all, it is Vegas and the Bellagio is a nice place to sit and rest for a bit. What is surprising is the person sitting on it.
Isaiah Martin.
Chapter Five
My first thought is that it’s a setup and Mike’s somewhere nearby watching. It’s without a doubt something he’d do: make a rule and then tempt me to break it. I glance around to make sure he’s not nearby. I even try to peek into the windows of the buildings that look out onto the bench, but of course, I can’t see anything.
I still don’t move. It’s like my feet are encased in cement. Only when someone bumps into me do I realize I’m standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Watch it,” the person who bumped into me says.
“Sorry,” I reply. I plan to walk past my bench and pretend as if I don’t see Isaiah.
But of course, right when I’m within a few feet of where he’s sitting, he looks up.
“Athena.”
Damn. Damn. Damn.
“Isaiah,” I say, hoping I’m wrong and Mike isn't nearby. And then it hits me: Why would Mike be nearby? It’s not like he’s following Isaiah around just to see if I’m going to show up. My smile for Isaiah grows bigger.
“Come have a seat.” He scoots over to make room for me.
I tentatively sit down and his eyes widen as I remember my visible bruises.
He reaches a hand up, but hesitates and doesn’t touch me at my slight flinch. “What happened?”
I touch a spot that’s still sensitive on my cheek, probably the one he’s looking at. I finger it gently. “Oh, that. It’s nothing.”
“From the party?”
“Huh?”
“The party you were on your way to when I ran into you at the hotel the other night.”
Right. I’d told him I’d been going to a party. “Yes,” I say. “It was a bit wild. Dancing, you know? One of my girlfriends swung her arms a bit too vigorously.”
“And hit your cheek?”
“We were dancing really close.” I can’t decide if I want to let on that I know Mike told him what I do.
“I know you weren’t at a party,” he says. “Mike told me.”
His voice doesn’t hold any judgement, but I still feel shame. “I didn’t want you to know. Not yet anyway.”
“Did it happen when you were sixteen?”
“Yes, it’s a long story. I don’t want to go into it.”
He nods, but I get the impression he knows there’s more I’m not telling him. I need to change the subject. Get the focus off of me and my job and how I look.
“How’s the church going?” I ask.
“Set up’s slow, but the first service is Sunday. If you’d like to attend, you’re more than welcome. Playmaker’s Lounge at ten o’clock.” He smiles the sweet smile that reminds me of my childhood, and the sight of it hurts something in my chest. “It’ll be nice to know at least one person.”
I swallow my snort before I offend him. He’s trying to be nice, and while I appreciate that, there’s no way in fucking hell I’m
going to church. Casino or not. “I’ll have to wait and see.”
“It’s so hot here,” he says changing the subject. “You’ve been here ten years. I can’t imagine being here that long. It’s so different from home.”
I shrug. “I’ve gotten used to it over the years.”
“I guess I’ll get there eventually.”
“You will,” I assure him and I want to kick myself. What am I doing? Why am I trying to help? I should be doing everything in my power to get him to go back home.
“It’s so good to talk to someone from home.” He leans forward, inching closer. “You have no idea how hard it’s been. Moving here. I haven’t met very many people yet.”
If I wasn’t a prostitute, this would be my cue to ask him for a lunch date. We’d meet at a nearby deli and talk and get to know each other all over again. But I am a prostitute. One who has explicit orders not to be around Isaiah Martin. And while it’s possible luck will be on my side and I’ll be able to have this moment without Mike finding out, there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to tempt fate by meeting him again.
“I’m sure you’ll soon have more friends than you know what do with,” I say.
“Can we meet tomorrow?”
I shake my head and start to stand. “No, I’m sorry.”
He narrows his eyes, analyzing my reply. Does he see through me? “No problem. Later then.”
Yes, later. Like never later.
But I nod. “I look forward to it.”
I’m walking back to my apartment, replaying the conversation with Isaiah in my mind. I don’t plan on seeing him again, and I want to catalogue every moment, every detail, so I can recall it years from now. Hold on to the part of me that was once normal and free.
Something’s off, though, and I dig further into the conversation to try to find it. Isaiah had been a perfect gentleman. Such a change from what I’m used to. I replay his words, and it hits me.
I never told him I’d been in Vegas for ten years.
***
I’m conflicted by the emotions running through my head. How could he possibly know how long I’ve been in Vegas? I finally convince myself that he’d simply done the math, or Mike told him. That was probably how he knew. I bet Mike really enjoyed telling him exactly how long I’d been a hooker. There’s no other explanation.
I’m so focused on Isaiah, I don’t see him until it’s too late.
“Athena.”
Harris is standing in front of my apartment, and I hate myself, because for a second I was thinking about how nice looking he is. He has an easygoing self confidence about him that doesn’t seem diminished when he’s around Mike, and that’s more than you can say about most people. Plus, there’s the way his eyes always seem to dance, almost like he knows what’s going to happen before it does.
Idiot.
How can I possibly think such a thing about Mike’s second in command? His eyes? Seriously.
I toss my hair behind my shoulder. “What do you want?”
“What I want has nothing to do with this visit.”
“Right,” I say. “You’re nothing but a message boy. What does your big, bad boss want?”
I think I see a slight flash of amusement in his expression before he scowls. “You need to watch the way you talk to him, Athena. Unless you want a repeat —”
I wave my hand to shut him up. “Save it. What does he want?”
“He wants to see you in his hotel office.”
My stomach falls to my feet, and the earth tilts.
I hear Harris mumble, “Damn it,” and seconds before I fall down, he grabs me and brings me to my feet.
“I’m fine.” I try to push him away, but he doesn’t listen and for a few precious seconds I lean on him. He’s strong. I feel hard muscle under his shirt. The way he’s holding me isn’t sexual, and it’s a very odd, almost comforting feeling.
“You’re not fine,” he whispers, those knowing eyes of his searching my face. For what? “Come with me, Athena. Let me take you from here. Let’s leave.”
If it weren’t for his two arms around me, I would probably slide to the ground. What the fuck? “Are you insane?” I ask. “He’d kill us both.”
“I can protect you.”
I hesitate for a second, pretending his offer was real and possibly just that easy. But I’m not new to the way this game’s played. “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to trick me. I’m not stupid.”
I push him away and start walking toward the hotel, but my legs are weak and wobbly. Within a few seconds, Harris falls in step beside me.
“I’m sorry, that was out of line,” he says.
“Damn straight.” I wish he wasn’t walking with me. I need time to get back inside my head, to prepare for the meeting I have facing me. I don’t allow myself to think about why Mike wants me. There’s nothing good that will come from trying to figure it out.
However, instead of building up the wall I need to face Mike, the wrong thoughts run through my head: Isaiah and how much I really want to have lunch with him tomorrow, Harris and how in the deepest, darkest place in my soul, I want his offer to run away to be for real.
Fortunately, he doesn’t talk anymore on the way to the hotel, and I manage to pull together somewhat of a breezy, I-don’t-care attitude once I make it to Mike’s office. I turn and look over my shoulder.
Harris is texting. I can probably guess what it says.
She didn’t fall for the ‘Let’s run away’ ruse.
I glare at him. Bastard.
Chapter Six
I find I’m unable to keep up my nonchalant attitude once I knock on Mike’s office door in the hotel. I’m visibly shaking. I wish more than anything I could stop so Mike won’t know how terrified I am to see him again.
“Come in,” he calls in reply to my knock.
I open the door and find him standing in front of his desk, arms crossed. I drop my eyes to the floor.
“Athena. Have a seat.”
I risk a peek through my eyelashes. He doesn’t look particularly angry. Maybe this won’t go as badly as I fear. My breathing comes easier.
“Have a nice walk?” he asks and I gasp.
He nods toward a chair. “Sit.”
I sit in a modern-looking chair that reminds me far too much of last time in his other office, and close my eyes. The shaking is even more pronounced. My entire body is one violent tremor.
“I believe I asked you a question.”
I wonder if it hurts to die. “Yes, Sir, I had a nice walk.”
His footsteps echo, but I keep my eyes closed, my head down, and count his steps. He moves ten steps away from me. Toward the window, if I remember the layout of this office. The room grows silent. After a few minutes, all I hear is the beating of my heart, the whoosh of air from my lungs, and the steady hum of his office refrigerator.
“I had an interesting conversation this morning. Led to an even more interesting request.”
I can tell by the sound of his voice that he isn’t facing me. I lift my head and open one eye. He’s looking out the large span of picture windows, his back to me, arms still crossed.
This time, I tell myself I won’t speak unless he asks me a direct question. I can’t let him goad me into blurting out the first thing popping its way into my head.
I don’t care. I don’t care.I don’t care.
I repeat my mantra a dozen times, but the truth is, I do care. If the conversation and request didn’t concern me, I wouldn’t be in this office. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from asking. He turns to face me, and even though I know better, I keep my eyes on him.
His smile is ugly.
“That must have been some performance you put on for Theo.” He walks back toward me, and I force myself to keep my gaze steady. Focus on my breathing. “Much better than I would have expected after you were so horrifically late.”
His words brought it all back: the meeting with Isaiah, the shock of seeing Harris, Theo’s hungr
y gaze. I swallow hard.
Mike has reached me now, and he strokes my hair. “Hearing him talk reminded me of our early days.”
I close my eyes against the onslaught of memories, but it does me no good. His fingers brush my cheek. “Remember?”
I don’t want to. I don’t want to remember the me who once was. How I’d looked at Mike like he was the answer to all my problems. How he seduced me into thinking he could do anything for me.
“Our first night.” He is insistent today, and his fingers slide under my shirt. “You were so shy. You were perfect.”
And he’d been gentle. I’d thought I was the luckiest girl on earth. Little by little, as he drew me in, he’d lost that gentleness.
“That night in the moonlight,” he continues. His breath tickles my neck and my skin crawls, but I hold still. “Remember?”
I find myself sinking further and further into the depths of who I am. Slowly, my mind answers Mike’s request and his relentless fingers. I am sixteen again, completely consumed by what I think will be the easy life. I am naïve and willing to do anything to charm the man I think will help me obtain that life.
“The first night I gave you to another. Remember?” he asks, and Isaiah slips away completely. The hands under my shirt grow rough.
“Yes,” I whisper against the pain of the memory.
The hands stop. “Good girl.”
He allows me a minute or two to compose myself, and it’s not until he steps away that I feel the tears on my cheeks.
“I think today’s walk will be the last of its kind for a bit,” he finally says, and I nod helplessly.
“Besides,” he continues. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you about this morning.”
I don’t dare ask about the request. Instead I watch him walk to his desk and sit down.
“Theo was quite taken with your performance.” He leans back slowly in his chair. His smile is still ugly. “He’s going to be in town for a few days working with the new operation.”
It would probably be a good idea if I knew what operation he was talking about, but at the moment, I’m too sore, tired, and emotionally drained. I just want him to spit it out and get on with telling me so I can go back to my apartment and take a nap.