She’d give him five more minutes, and then she was going to her normal corner, to try to pick up some work. Coming home to Darren empty-handed was beyond unacceptable, it was nearly suicide. This would not be a problem for her; she looked good in what she was wearing. Two dragged at her cigarette, tasted flame hitting filter, threw the butt into the street.
It was at this moment that she became aware of the presence behind her. Before she could move, before even she could process this feeling, a hand gripped her shoulder.
“Hello Two,” said a voice, and behind it Two seemed to hear everything and nothing, now and forever, love and lust and hate. She drew in a gasp without meaning to, a surge of adrenaline bursting through her body. The touch of the hand scared her, and called to her, like driving by the scene of an accident.
Then it was over. The hand was a hand. The voice was a voice. She turned and looked at the man who stood behind her, wondering how he knew her name. In the momentary confusion that had swept over her, this was the question she’d clutched at to maintain her grip on reality. Darren never gave out his girls’ real names, nor allowed them to do so. It was forbidden. Clients had called her Ashley for the entire time she had been in his service. How did he know her as Two?
She looked at her client, for obviously this was whom she had been waiting for.
He towered over her. Maybe six feet, maybe more. Handsome face, tightened with what might be cruelty, what might simply be intensity. Jet black hair cropped close to his head, pale skin, oddly luminescent eyes that seemed tinged with yellow, the color of dust in a shaft of sunlight. He wore a black T-shirt, black jeans, black trench coat. His thin, lanky body seemed unaffected in some primitive way by the gusting wind, like he could not even feel it. He did not flinch as their eyes met, only stared calmly. Two couldn’t look away.
“I am Theroen.” It was a proclamation. It was the quiet whisper of a lover.
“Theroen.” Two was breathless, unable to proceed. Oh, I’m drowning, she thought, I can’t breathe.
She grasped again at her question. “Theroen. How did you know my name?”
Theroen smiled, looked away from her for the first time, glancing down the street to their left. Two followed his gaze, and felt again that surge of adrenaline, this time from excitement, and pleasure.
Not twenty yards away was a piece of art in chrome and fiberglass, black like his clothes, black like hers. A sports car unlike any she was familiar with. Certainly not the loud, rowdy, American Dodge Viper, nor any of the trim, mechanical Japanese imports. The lines of the car were -- must have been -- Italian. Two’s father was an auto mechanic, but this was a vehicle beyond anything she’d ever seen.
Without meaning to, without even thinking about it, she moved forward, looking over the car. Classic styling, modern conveniences. The prancing horse gave it away. Ferrari. No common one, at that. Two realized she was looking at a car that had to have cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. It was immaculate. The convertible top was open, and she could smell the leather from six feet away.
“What kind is it?” Her voice was a whisper, and she realized that he couldn’t possibly hear her. She had moved away from him, and not heard him follow her.
Yet when she turned, he was behind her, and he smiled again, a predator’s smile, beautiful and dangerous like his car.
“It’s a Ferrari 550 Barchetta, or it was when I purchased it. It’s something more now.” Theroen said. Two was again taken aback by the quality of his voice. She did not know the words tone or inflection, and might not have used them if she did. There was something inexplicably old in his tone, yet the man who stood before her could be no more than five or six years her senior. Barely out of college.
“Barchetta,” she echoed, peering at the tires, the lights, the smooth curves of the wheel wells and powerful side scoops of the doors, the reflection of the city lights in its flawless shine. She wanted to ride in it. Oh, yes. She thought at that moment she wanted this more than anything before in her life.
Theroen took her hand now, and again that flash of fear and desire. He led her around to the passenger side, opened the door, beckoned for her to sit down. Two let out some sound of disbelief. Surely this was not right. She was a whore. A junkie. The lowest form of life for miles around, a thing to be used and discarded. This car was beyond her, above her, in some other world.
Theroen only pressed gently on her shoulder, still smiling his dark grin. Two sat down. The leather enveloped her like a second skin. Theroen shut her door, and Two took the seat belt in a daze, buckled herself in. Theroen sat down next to her, turned the key, glanced over at her as the engine roared to life.
“Are you ready to leave?” He questioned, and the finality in his voice caught Two’s attention, the stress on this final word unmistakable. The words she had been about to say caught in her throat. She swallowed hard, unable to speak, some indescribable emotion welling up inside of her. Looking up at him, grinning, laughing, crying all at once. She nodded her head, emphatic. Yes, she was ready to leave. Yes, she wanted to leave. Yes.
Theroen’s smile became a wide-toothed grin for one brief moment, and there was something strange about it, but it flashed and was gone before any further inspection could be made. He put the car in gear and gently reversed, pulling out of his parking space and aligning the car. He revved the engine once.
Two glanced down the street and to the left, and saw Janice watching her. Look at me, Janice, she thought, I’m ready to leave. Janice seemed to sense this. She waved, grinned, nodded.
Theroen stomped on the gas pedal. Two was thrown back in her seat, unable to contain a laughing cry of fear and pleasure and joy, joy like she hadn’t felt in years.
* * *
Theroen took her through Brooklyn.
He drove as if anticipating not only every traffic light, but every possible interaction with anything at all. Never braking, never needing to swerve, he cut through traffic, making every green light, changing lanes before it even became apparent that he needed to. He guided the car with preternatural ability, at speeds well above what should have been safe. Two enjoyed every moment of it.
“Where are we going?” she asked at last, unable to sit quietly. She was too excited, nervous, full of something approaching manic glee.
“Food.” Theroen glanced at her. “Nice place. You’ll like it.”
“Food?” Two asked, bemused. At its core, she knew well that evening represented a business arrangement. Never before had a client taken her out for food first. Never before had a client done much of anything other than what was expected.
“Food.” Theroen nodded, and smiled his strange smile.
Pulling away from East New York now, moving west and slowly the neighborhood began to change. Brownstones replaced chop shops, the streets grew tree-lined. Ethnic restaurants, densely populated with young men and women out for a night on the town, sprung up. Theroen made a right turn and continued down the street, the car drawing stares from everyone they passed. They don’t know who I am! Two thought. They don’t know who I am! They just know I’m in this car.
Not herself, not the whore, not the slave. Not the girl who fucked for money and to earn the drug she could no longer live without. Just an anonymous girl in an amazing car with a handsome, if perhaps a bit odd, young man. Was this who she was supposed to be? Was this what life was supposed to be like?
Sudden emotion, so strong it was nearly pain. Understanding of a life lost, a world just beyond her grasp. This night would end. This pleasure would not last. Two took a shuddery breath, fighting back the onslaught of depression, the coming of tears. Theroen slowed the car, looked over at her.
“Don’t.” Not a request, not a command. Almost a piece of advice. Two looked up at him.
“I don’t deserve this,” she said.
“This is. You are here.” There was no sense of emotion behind Theroen’s words. He continued to look at her with his casual, nearly disinterested smile.
“I can
’t think like that.”
“No? I think you can.”
“But I’m...”
“No.” He cut her off, suddenly intense, the first time she’d seen his face animate, his expression change. He pulled the car over the side of the road and turned again to her. When she met his eyes, they seemed to pull at her, draw her in, command her entire attention. She felt her heart speed, her breathing deepen. Fear? Lust? She couldn’t be sure; she knew only that she could not look away.
“Who you were yesterday, this morning, two hours ago is immaterial. Understand that. Believe it. I do not choose to measure your worth by past actions. Of all of the women in this city that I could be with tonight, I am with you.”
Two considered this. “Why am I here, Theroen? You don’t need me. There’s no way you need to pay for what I’m selling.”
“Does it matter? Is it worth worrying about whether you ‘deserve’ this or not? Will it change what is?”
“No.” Two said, and was somewhat surprised to find she meant it. She felt the grip of despair loosen.
“Good. We’re here.” Theroen gestured to the right of the car. Two saw a small Italian restaurant, clean and well kept, full of people. Most of the patrons sitting on the terrace -- it was not yet cool enough to be closed -- looked in amazement at the Ferrari.
“Does it bother you that everyone is constantly staring at your car?” Two asked, stepping out onto the curb. Theroen grinned.
“No,” he said. “It keeps them from looking at me.”
* * *
The restaurant proved to be warm and inviting on the inside, upscale without being formal or pretentious. Theroen was recognized at once, given a table near the back, in a dim area lit by candles. The noise of the crowd on the terrace was a dull roar in the background. Theroen ordered two glasses of red wine with an Italian name. He watched Two. She studied her menu. Theroen was seemingly uninterested in his own.
The waiter returned with their wine, and Two regarded it with caution. Beer she knew, and hard liquor, but wine was a new experience, something unknown, and she wasn’t sure what to expect.
The drink, a merlot, bit gently at her tongue and spread warmly over it. Two smiled, relaxed. Theroen nodded slightly at this, as if to himself.
“Good?” he questioned. Two nodded. He smiled, sipped at his own glass, took her in with his eyes.
“You look lovely,” he said at last. Two felt herself blushing, a reaction she would not normally have expected from herself. Compliments from clients were de norm, nothing to be surprised at. This, though, felt heartfelt. More to the point, it seemed as if Theroen was truly enjoying her as a person rather than an object. She smiled, lowered her eyes, took another sip of wine, unsure how to respond.
A waiter arrived, asking if they were ready to order. Theroen waved him away, saying he didn’t want anything, directing the attention toward Two.
“Whatever you want,” he replied to her questioning look. “Don’t concern yourself with me, I’m not hungry.”
Normally, Two would have demurred, insisted that she couldn’t eat if he wasn’t going to, that she would feel odd. Normally, that would be the truth. Tonight she was hungry, and felt at ease, as if she could do or say anything with Theroen. Around him, she felt both as odd and as completely natural as possible.
She ordered chicken with angel-hair pasta in a red-wine sauce. The waiter took their menus and left them alone. Theroen sipped again at his wine, his eyes glinting above the glass, never leaving Two.
They were quiet for nearly fifteen minutes. Looking, drinking, tasting the air, the wine, each other’s presence. Theroen did not prompt her for conversation, and Two did not volunteer. The silence was oddly comfortable, nearly intimate. She seemed to fall into Theroen’s eyes, as if they need not talk, as if he knew what she would have said. Finally, Theroen broke the silence.
“Your parents?”
“Dead, or forgotten.”
“Your... employer?” a slight sneer, not directed at her. Two laughed slightly, turned her eyes down momentarily, not from embarrassment so much as because it seemed she should.
“No.”
“Friends?”
At this, Two looked momentarily pained. “A few. They’re... we’re...”
“Estranged?”
“Something like that.”
Theroen nodded, regarded her again with his inscrutable calm.
“Why do you ask?” Two couldn’t help it. She wanted to hear it out loud, wanted to know if the intentions he seemed to be so clearly communicating were true. Theroen shook his head slightly, looked away for a moment, smiled his maddening smile.
“The food is here,” he said, glancing over her shoulder.
So it was, and it was very good. Theroen watched her eat, sipping at his wine. Two, who had subsisted for years on food of a far lesser quality, relished the pasta; the dark wine sauce, full of tomato and garlic, herbs and oil, tiny bites of chicken; the loaf of crusty bread. She reflected later that this was most likely the best meal she had ever eaten. At the time, this would strike her as rather fitting.
She didn’t eat a lot, ever mindful of the fact that, until it was stated otherwise, this evening had a predetermined end. Sex on a full stomach had never been something she enjoyed, and Two didn’t know how long Theroen might wait, after dinner. She wondered now if that was the eventual goal. It seemed there was that -- the connection between Theroen and herself too strong to ignore -- but more. Other plans, other expectations she was not being allowed to know.
Dessert, a light pastry with exquisite dark chocolate hidden away inside, came all too quickly and with few words spoken, dinner concluded. Two noticed that Theroen paid for his dinner in cash, and that the tip he left appeared extraordinarily large. Ferraris, restaurant dining, gigantic tips. A life unlike anything she had ever experienced. It was fascinating.
“What do you do for a living?” She asked as they left.
Theroen smiled, said nothing, held the door open for her. Two sat down.
“Come on. I’m curious. Are you mafia or something? I won’t mind.”
Theroen laughed. “No, not that.”
“Then what?”
“Let’s just say that I’ve had a lot of good training on how to invest, from someone who’s done it for an awfully long time.”
Theroen backed the car out. Two mused for a moment, then laughed. “Will I get any straight answers from you tonight?”
Theroen’s eyes gleamed. “Anything’s possible.”
Whatever response Two might have had was swallowed by the rush of wind as the car roared into motion.
* * *
The road, again, and that same feeling of complete control emanating from Theroen in waves. The car moved over the bridge, into Manhattan, cutting across the island and then moving north. He joined with the fast-moving, late-evening traffic on the west side of the island. They passed Trinity Cemetery, again the smell of death, never closer nor further away.
Theroen took a haphazard course as they moved north of the city, not concerned with time, giving Two the chance to digest her meal, to see parts of New York she had never seen. He merged with Saw Mill River Parkway, moved north through Yonkers, across the Tappan Zee Bridge on 87. They were leaving the city, and Two came to suspect that Theroen was giving her this opportunity to enjoy the car, enjoy the ride, enjoy the night, enjoy looking at her city as she had never looked at it before. Some suspicion crept into her, not unwelcome, that he was also allowing her the time to say goodbye.
Cutting over west, now, route seventeen, and following it along the lower border of New York State, and then off, sometime before Binghamton, in the woods, in the dark. The Ferrari now the only car on their road, traveling fearlessly, speedometer hovering at more than double the posted fifty-five speed limit. Two, filled with fear, energy, excitement, and a strange tension that had little to do with the car and more to do with its driver, lay back, eyes closed, feeling the wind rush through her hair, dragging it ou
t behind the seat.
“Faster?” Theroen questioned, and his voice was a whisper cutting through the noise of the wind, the sound of the engine.
“Yes!” Two cried, knuckles white against the hand-hold molded into the door. Theroen let in the clutch, shifted rapidly, stomped again on the gas pedal. The Ferrari’s engine roared to life, throwing Two back in her seat. Terrified, unable to stop laughing, she alternated between glancing ahead for curves, deer, obstacles, and peering at the speedometer, watching it rise.
And rise. And rise. The needle moved past 150 miles per hour, and Two, still laughing, still terrified, shut her eyes. We’re going to die, she thought. We’re going to die and I don’t care, because I’ll be in a beautiful Ferrari with good food and wine inside of me, and I’ll be with Theroen. I’ll die with him, and then it won’t matter. No one will know. Who I am. What I am. I’ll just be the girl who died in the Ferrari.
But they didn’t die, and finally Two felt the car losing speed. Theroen was letting down on the gas, bringing the car down to a normal level. No more danger, but the joy remained. Two wanted to kiss him. She felt warm in her belly, between her thighs, places she’d sometimes thought dead since coming to work for Darren. Theroen looked over at her, as if hearing these thoughts, and Two gave him a radiant grin.
Was he ready? She asked him with her eyes. Told him with her eyes: It didn’t matter that he had paid for her. She wanted it, badly. Her clothes seemed hot, scratchy, cumbersome. She wanted to be naked somewhere with this man.
Theroen stopped the car at the side of the road, nothing visible for miles but trees and sky, and Two’s first, confused thought was: But... there’s no back seat? Then she laughed at herself. Theroen was already getting out of the car. Whatever this was, the Ferrari was not a part of it.
The Blood That Bonds Page 3