by Marata Eros
They're on their knees. Cuffs like fine jewelry slip onto the wrists of the men who may have guarded me from Ronnie.
A cop looks up and meets my eyes. His gaze narrows, and he shouts to a free cop, “There's one of them.”
I turn and run, expecting to see Ronnie with open arms, his shirt stained from my high heeled move.
But he's gone.
And so am I. I scatter to the back entrance and leap down the stairs. My head is on fire, my temples pounding. My sense of balance feels as if it's permanently gone. I grip the cold metal handrail, smack the paddle handle of the emergency exit, the alarm shrieks, and I jog into the night.
I take a right at an alley I know then a left. I hop on one foot and ditch the heels in a trash can. I get caught in the reflective headlights of a cat, indignant and hissing when I disturb his hunt for a midnight snack.
I really run then, pouring on the speed as my bare feet slap sidewalks full of dirt, gum, and eighty years of pedestrian traffic. I see First Street as my lungs burn.
I think of nothing but getting to my apartment.
I run to the main door of my building, slapping my palms against it and fumble with the security number for the coded lock. I jerk it open and run inside, feel the cool hex tiles on my bare feet and look down. My foot is a nightmare of red. A large bruise forms with a deep knot of color in the center.
From a nose.
I shut the door and pray that I lost the cop. My forehead feels hot against the metal door. My heartbeat slows, and my bad hand stops shaking.
But not my body. It trembles, proof of my adrenaline drying in a fine sheen against my skin.
I hope the freight elevator works tonight, because if it doesn't, I might sleep right where I am.
A small mirror with flaking paint hangs crooked to the right of the elevator, separating the stairs from the fine mesh of the metal elevator doors. I catch sight of my face. Relief pours through me.
The mask.
I never took it off. The cops don't know who I am.
With a quaking hand I remove it, and reveal my gaze to the mirror. It's me in there somewhere and I give the girl in the reflection a sad little smile.
I faced my worst fear tonight and survived. My anonymity is still intact.
I leave the mask on the shabby table just beneath the mirror. Probably meant to hold something while a person adjusts their tie.
Or cufflinks.
I slowly open my left hand. Uncooperative in battle but faithful in this. I turn my palm up and peel my thumb away. My stepfather's cufflink glitters at me, solid gold with a small diamond in the center. Tears blind me as my bad hand holds onto that tangible evidence of my success.
It’s a token of my survival. Maybe I'm like the cat I met at the dumpster. Nine lives. I could use one about now.
I move through the elevator doors and close them with a clank. I shut my eyes as the elevator moves to the fifth floor. The soft rocking motion lulls me as I move closer to my haven of solitude.
The bell chimes when the elevator arrives at my floor, and I walk the short distance to my apartment door.
Opening it with my right hand, I shove the door open and close it behind me, turning to latch it.
I lean against the familiar surface. Finally safe. Not for always but for today.
I turn and see Jared McKenna sitting on my couch, long legs stretched out.
His face changes to a look of concern when he takes in my disheveled clothing.
Or it could be my wide, shocked eyes.
“Faren,” Mick says, unfolding from the couch.
I watch his big body move, and I can't hold my emotions in check anymore.
I know it's wrong to use him like he wants to use me. I should be ashamed but all I feel is relief.
“What happened?” Mick asks, those dark eyes raking down my torn dress to my dirty, shoeless feet. His expression darkens. “Who hurt you?”
I meet his eyes, and they're full of protection.
For me. My bottom lip trembles from the aftershock of the night, his concern, my revelations.
He takes my hands and my left isn't prepared. The gold cuff link rolls out onto the floor with a clatter of metal against wood. Mick's eyes sweep to the trinket.
He scoops it up and holds it in front of my face. “Who. Is. He?” he asks with quiet menace. Not directed at me, but the phantom attacker.
My mouth parts, and his eyes move to my lips. “Nobody,” I reply.
It's the truest lie I've ever told.
~ 2 ~
“Faren.” Mick grips the cufflink, and it winks its damnation at me.
What had possessed me to take it?
“I got mugged.” It's not a smooth lie, but it's all I have.
Mick searches my face, and his arm falls to his side.
His eyes drill me for a heartbeat, then Mick sets it down carefully on the small table that holds my keys. He frowns and puts his strong hands on his hips. “You were mugged by a man wearing cufflinks?”
What can I say? “I... yeah.” When his eyebrows pop, I quickly expound, “I think he was a pimp or something.” The web of deceit grows and sounds even more ridiculous.
And it does circle the truth fairly well. Of course, the whirlpool remains, and its vacuum is trying to suck me in.
Mick's gaze shifts to the cufflink again. “What did he look like?” Mick's trying to take charge, flesh out the culprit, exhaust the inconsistencies.
I don't lie. He and Ronnie don't run in the same circles, I bet. “He's about my height.”
That hot gaze slides to mine, full of rage, and I step back.
“Don't look at me like that. It's not my fault...”
He rakes his hand through his neat hair. It spikes and makes him look younger, though I know he hasn't seen thirty yet. Who the hell is worth a billion dollars and doesn't even have a gray hair? My distrust builds as quickly as my lust, and they jockey for position inside me like enemies.
“I know that.” His eyes sweep back to mine, the black of his anger bleeding into the deep chocolate of his gaze. “I'm not blaming the victim.”
His earlier comment about me leaving in this outfit stains the air between us, spoiling our breaths as he stares at me, yet he never references it. His brooding gaze seeks me like a heat missile, and I see something different in their depths.
“Come here.”
I take two steps that put me close to Mick, so near I feel the heat from our bodies. He makes me feel small, and I'm tall even without heels. He must be 6'3”. His hands land on my shoulders and stroke the skin. Mick moves those hands back and forth, warming me. His touch causes a riot of goose bumps that run to my nipples. They rise like small peaks on the mountains of my breasts. Mick's eyes flick down before they slowly rise to mine, holding my gaze prisoner. He captures me easily as though he understands on some basest enigmatic level... I never want to let go.
I step back. His hands slip down my arms, his fingers moving into my hands. Our fingertips cling for a breath before parting. My left hand twitches as he releases me, and I see him smile.
I smile back, reminding myself that he has the means to learn anything about me. He's already investigated me enough.
“I'm going to get cleaned up,” I say.
“You should call the police,” he says, his eyes tracking me as I make my way to the bathroom.
I nod. “You're right.”
His eyelids drop, covering his skepticism. “But you won't, will you?”
I shake my head and dip my head to hide my smirk.
Neither of us ask the biggest question: What was I doing that got me mugged by a man who wore solid gold cufflinks?
Why doesn't Mick demand to know where I was? His eyes ask, but nothing comes out of that sexy mouth of his.
How can Ronnie Bunce run from the law but do well enough to pay ten thousand dollars for a lap dance?
“I'm staying,” Mick states as he strolls to my couch and gracefully falls into.
“Suit yourself,” I murmur, when its all I can do to breathe through him being here.
His lips twitch and I stalk into the bathroom. I crank the shower faucet on, and it groans to reluctant life. I let the water run because it takes so long for hot water to travel through a thousand feet of eighty-year-old cast iron piping.
I strip out of my outfit and toss it into my small waste basket. It's garbage, like the memory it symbolizes.
There's so little material it fills up only a third of the hole in the can. My eyes fixate on the glittering sunset material and tears threaten. I know deep down that just because I've thrown away the evidence of what I do doesn't mean I won't do it again. I know Thorn will move the lap location like he does each week. He'll stay just one step ahead.
I just can't do it with that monster. Not now, not ever.
I can't tell Jared McKenna that my stepfather tried to attack me tonight. Jared can’t serve justice to Ronnie because the job I perform places me before him like a platter of forbidden fruit. My mom's sacrifice will be for nothing if I keep dancing.
I can't go back.
I must.
The water hits my neck, and I lift my chin and let it pool and run down the front of me. My billionaire... whatever he is, is sitting in my cramped living room while I bathe mere steps away. Arousal beats a path between my legs and pulses there. I leisurely soap myself, forgetting my brush with danger.
I take extra time between my legs. My guilt roars up in a hot flush when I remember how Mick assaults my lips.
My breasts.
I want him to do everything to me and know nothing about what I do, I bury the shame of using him deep.
It's a dangerous game that I've set myself up to lose. I simply don't have Mick's fiscal resources. I have to follow the path I've set, but I don't have to like it.
I finish washing my hair as the water cools. The tank in the old building blows through hot water in less than fifteen minutes.
I step out, towel myself off, and wonder if Mick wears a suit to bed. How does he look without it? My cheeks singe.
My cell rings outside the bathroom, and I let it go. After the fifth ring, it cuts off, and I hear the melodic tones of Jared McKenna.
Jesus, maybe it's Thorn. Or someone equally awful. My heart starts an unlawful rhythm.
Why would Mick answer my cell? That... He just thinks he can do anything.
I jerk the towel around myself and stomp out to the living room. My long hair wet enough to drip a trail of pissed off behind me.
Mick's eyes flick up. His large hand holds a big rectangular cell. One I don't recognize.
He finishes his conversation. “Yes, I’ll be there.” His eyes glitter as he takes in my lack of clothing. “I've said yes twice. Handle it.” His head dips, and his gaze slides away.
Mick listens to the anonymous caller and says, with finality in his voice, “I won't revisit this conversation, Jimmy. That's what I hired you for.”
He swipes the cell and it appears to power down, the screen brightening like a falling star before winking into velvet blackness. Mick's shadowed eyes return to mine. He points the cell at me and cocks his head. “You know... I like what you're wearing, don't get me wrong, but shouldn't you have clothes on?”
My face flames. Images of where my hands were on my body filter through my mind like a shuffling deck of cards and I reply in anger as I often do when I'm nervous.
Or cornered.
“You answered my cell,” I accuse.
Mick smiles. “No.” He lifts his own in answer.
I feel my face furrow.
He expounds, “Same ring tone, perhaps?” He crosses his leg casually. His eyes belie the aloof mannerism. Holding heat, his gaze never leaves the bare skin my towel reveals.
I back up and want to cross my arms so badly I almost drop my towel. He smirks again. Nothing so obvious as that. When Mick smirks, just the corners of his lips turns up.
“Prove it,” I bark.
And with a thumb press, his phone blinks back to life and my ring tone sounds from his phone.
“So it's a coincidence,” I say quietly, mollified.
“It appears so.” His eyes touch mine then look away. “Though I am not a believer.”
My head whips to his. “In what?”
Those eyes lock on mine as he stands and stalks toward me. He watches the water drip around the hollows of my collarbones, running to the shadow between my breasts.
“Coincidence.” His breath whispers against my face as he reaches me.
~ 3 ~
He inserts a finger inside the terrycloth that tightly circles my breasts. I clutch it with my good hand while my bad hand loosely holds the fine material of Mick's lapel.
“I want to finish something between us,” he says. Mick's eyes roam over all my exposed flesh.
“And I want to know what you're doing in my apartment,” I answer, and Mick chuckles.
It seems as though he's always laughing at me, but nothing I'm doing is funny. Time's at a premium. I barely escaped from “psychotic daddy: and now I have sex-on-a-stick moneybags who blanks my thoughts every time he's within a mile of me. That's a good thing. I’m not much for introspection at the moment.
I need to take back the reins. I glare at him, wanting him while despising his assumptions.
Mick spreads his hands inoffensively. “I am a man of many talents.”
“Okay.” My death grip on the towel tightens without mercy. “This is your modus operandi? You pick girls' locks as an attraction maneuver? Because I've got to say, pal, that’s a creeper move.” My brows rise. “For the record, after the whacked out night I've had, coming home to you was the cherry on top of a freaky cake.”
Mick's eyes crinkle and he laughs, filling my small apartment with the genuine and wonderful sound.
“What's so funny?” My tone changes into clear suspicion.
His grin stays as he answers, “You.”
“Fine, you park out here like the rich stalker you are. When I come back, I expect a full explanation.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Mick answers. It sounds more like come and get me.
Or maybe that's my overactive imagination. I’ve been doing a lot of that since I met Mr. McKenna.
I slam the door to my bedroom, rip off the towel, and fling it into the corner. I stride to my dresser, tear open my top drawer, and hunt through my panties and bras. I pick, without shame, my sexiest matching set. They remind me of the outfit I threw away. That I can't afford to throw away.
The memory that sunset dress represents is worse than keeping it around to remind me. I slide the all-lace thong onto my body, the edges glowing like a deep burning sunset along my creamy skin. I throw my bra on with a vicious hook and twist, dumping my breasts into the wide lace. The thickest part barely covers my nipples.
I take a quick look in the mirror, the adrenaline from my escape the fuel to the fire of my eventual consumption by Mick.
I want answers. Why is he in my apartment? Why is he taking over my life?
Why am I allowing it?
I know why but can't admit it. Too many truths in too short a time. I feel as if a fuse in my brain has short-circuited. A trend where he's concerned.
Mick hit me with his motorcycle. Even I have to concede how weird that is. Mick knows a lot about me, but he doesn't know about my terminal illness. He doesn't know that Ronnie Bunce bought me for ten thousand bucks and never got his dance because of a fortuitous raid. What's with his relaxed attitude? Wasn't his “classy” Black Rose going to get tarnished now that his revolving lap dance club got nailed by the police?
Exchanging sexual favors for money is illegal. A spike of shame pierces me. It feels so real, the hot poker of my embarrassment is there regardless of my justifications for why I do it.
Mick would probably die a thousand deaths before he'd date a dancer. Unlike him, I know what will happen. My fate is set. My eyes slide down my body in the reflection, noting the healing bruises. The one high on
my upper inner thigh is a pale gold smudge. The one from McKenna's bike is solid with the faintest trace of tread. I fight the urge to laugh, Mick’s ownership is a stark duality. I work at his club, and it bruises me; his bike hits me, and I bear his mark.
Bruised but not beaten. The final consummation remains.
An idea forms, and my lips twitch. I can taste whatever I was before drowning in my current reality. The truth sets us free.
I slip on a pair of shorts so skimpy the bruise from the bike is in full relief, a lash of purple against my leg. The proof of my occupation lays hidden where Mick can't see. Yet.
I want the pole bruise to show like the brand it is. I want His Hotness to be acutely reminded of how we met. Though I know he remains blissfully ignorant of that pivotal first meeting.
I'll never forget the way that filthy money felt as I clutched the damp bills.
I throw a pewter cami over my bra and turn slowly in front of the mirror. The soft pewter sweatpant shorts look like mist against my pale skin.
The color is a perfect compliment to the bruise, showcasing it. I slip on platform flip flops with a glitter thong of silver and walk out of the bedroom.
Project Guilt Trip is in full throttle. I want to provoke Mick. Shatter his reserve.
I'm shaking off my stepfather trying to resume abusing me. I'm moving toward my goal of spending my remaining life the way I want. People always think about what they'd do if they have no time left, but I surprise myself every day. My plans morph as time unravels.
I walk out of my bedroom and pause when my eyes catch Mick reclining on my couch. His long arms flow along the back, nearly spanning the length of it, and I gulp. Mick's sheer size moves me, makes my attraction to him more acute. I like the idea of being overwhelmed by him.
He has shed his jacket. His cufflinks glitter on the bare glass of my coffee table. As I move toward him, Mick studies me with eyes that stand at half-mast. He appears casual, but I'm familiar with pain and anxiety. It's how I gage how much torture my physical therapy patients can endure.
I smile when I see how I'm playing him perfectly. His eyes roam my form and skitter to a pulse-freezing stop at the large bruise. Mick takes a cleansing breath and the exhale shudders out of him in an empty echo.