I wash quickly, paying special attention to the little cuts. When I’m out and dry, I walk over to the bed. “Are these for me?” I ask, indicating the pajamas.
“Of course,” Lincoln says. “Get some sleep. In the morning I’ll bring you some breakfast and your paperwork. Then I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”
“Okay. Thanks, Lincoln.”
I put on the pajamas and climb into bed. Lincoln walks over and turns off the light. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and wonder what tomorrow will bring. Will Zane keep his word, or is this some kind of ploy, a trick to get me to relax? He said my pain gets him off.
And what about Jessica? I hope she hasn’t spent my three grand, but she probably has. Jessica and money can’t stand to be in the same room together. If she has some, it has to be spent.
I release another deep breath.
After a while I sleep.
Chapter 4
The following morning Lincoln brings in the promised paperwork, in triplicate, and I sign it all.
The contract basically says I won’t tell anyone anything, ever. It’s a promise I’ll gladly keep. John Zane wasn’t that bad. He was actually a lot more giving sexually than most of my clients. His pleasure and pain type of sex was better than I thought it’d be. At least my body thinks so. Every time I remember the pain when Zane whipped me or spanked me, my mind cringes but my pussy gets wet.
I heave a deep breath. It doesn’t matter what my body thinks. Our time together is over and I’m a free woman.
There’s a brush on the shelf next to the towels. I pick up and run it through my tangled hair. It dried without a hair dryer for days and it’s extra curly.
“Get dressed,” Lincoln says, and I see he’s got a pair of expensive jeans, a pink polo shirt, and a white pair of shoes in his hands.
So not my style, but I put them on.
“Thanks.” I’m surprised they fit so perfectly. Even the shoes fit. As I check my reflection I realize this is the first time I’ve worn regular clothes in years. In my line of work there’s only sleeping, eating, and fucking. I change from pajamas to hooker clothes and nothing else. My heart clenches. I’ve been hooking for such a long time I don’t even know my style.
Maybe that can change.
Since Zane has decided to let me live—though now that I think about it, I doubt he ever intended to kill me—I have options.
I’ll get my money back from Jessica, fuck a few more clients, and go to college.
If she’s spent my money… “Hey Lincoln, how many days have I been here?”
“Five,” he answers quickly.
Shit, I think. No doubt Jessica’s spent some of it, which means more time on my back.
For the first time ever, a sinking feeling fills the pit of my stomach. I realize I’m beyond sick of fucking men for money. The job has kept me from being homeless, but I’m tired of it.
Still, I’m not a complainer. “Life is tough. You gotta make the most of it. You gotta do whatever it takes to survive.” Those are the final words my mom said to me before she was carted off to federal prison.
“Ready,” Lincoln asks, bringing me out of my reverie and back into the Blue Room.
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
That gets a tiny smile from Lincoln.
“Right this way,” he says, opening the door.
***
When Lincoln drops me off at my apartment, he hands me a card. “Mr. Zane wanted me to give you this—just in case.”
“In case, what?” I ask. Just in case I want to fuck while being whipped, flogged or spun around on a strange wooden contraption. No thanks.
Lincoln shrugs. “Just in case was all he said.” He climbs into his black sedan and drives away.
“Alrighty then.” The card is black and in silver letters in his name—John Zane. Underneath is a number. On the back are two words: call me.
That’s it.
I tuck his card into my back pocket.
Early morning light filters through the darkness and dances on the water. I’m guessing it’s close to six. The waves and the salty air fill my senses, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
I’m alive. I’m home. I’m a survivor.
Opening the door to my apartment complex, I walk through the dingy lobby and press the elevator button. When I reach the top, I walk down the hall. My apartment is at the end of the hall, on the right. I can see that someone has propped the door against the entry.
I knock softly, hoping Jessica is inside and not some squatters.
“Jessica. Jessica.”
No one answers.
“Jessica,” I whisper shout.
“Go away. I’ve got a gun,” Jessica says, her voice heavy with sleep.
“Jessica, it’s me. Cadence.”
“Cade?” She peeks through one of the cracks. The light from the hallway catches her worried blue eyes.
“Yep.” I smile encouragingly.
“Fuck me. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she says through sobs.
I help her move the door just enough to squeeze through, and then we move it back together. Before I can turn to face her, she’s got her arms around me and is squeezing the life from me.
“It’s okay. I’m here.”
She lets go and turns me around. “You said you’d call, bitch. You never did. I thought you were dead. Every time someone found a dead body I thought for sure it would be you.” Tears stream from her eyes and drench her cheeks.
I wipe them away. “I know. I wanted to call, but I didn’t have my phone.”
She sniffles and wipes her nose on her tank. “Where the fuck were you?”
I shrug, trying to act nonchalant since I can’t tell her anything. “Just with a client.”
She grabs my face in her hand, making my lips squeeze together. “You gave me all your money and sent me out the window. Some guy with a gun forced his way into our apartment. It wasn’t just some client. Don’t fuck with me.” Her eyes are burning with worried anger. She sniffles.
“Yeah,” I look away, yanking my face from her grasp. “It was the guy I was supposed to fuck for Fileze. He was pissed I didn’t show up when I was supposed to. The guy who broke in was one of his thugs.”
“Oh. My. God. Are you okay?” She notices what I’m wearing and does a double take. “Did he fuck you or take you shopping in the uppity stick-up-your-ass part of town?” She touches the edge of my shirt with her fingers.
I walk past her into the kitchen. It consists of two cupboards, a microwave, a sink, a stove we use to store our large sugared-cereal boxes, a refrigerator, and our coffee pot. None of the appliances match. The cupboards are the color of honey. The refrigerator is white. Our microwave is mustard yellow and the stove is pea green. The counters are covered in cream linoleum that’s peeling in several places.
The one thing that’s nice about the kitchen area is the small window above the sink. If you look hard enough you can see the ocean, but a quick looks gives you a view of the dumpsters in the alley behind our apartment complex.
It’s better than most.
I flip on the coffee pot even though I’m exhausted. There’s no way I can sleep right now. “We fucked. Of course,” I finally say.
“And the clothes?” she asks, sitting on one of our rickety barstools.
“He gave them to me.” I shrug and get two mismatched mugs from the cupboard.
Chapter 5
“Do you still have my money?” I blurt out the question after two cups of coffee and a blueberry bagel with strawberry cream cheese smeared thickly on both sides.
She scoffs, blusters. “Yes,” she says, but there’s a hint of deception in her voice. From between her mattresses she pulls out a wad of cash. Tosses it on the counter. “Here you go.”
There’s a lot of ones, fives, and twenties. I gave her hundreds. I slowly organize them, counting as I go. When I’m finished it’s clear she spent most of it. “This is it?” I ask, and try not to let my emotions g
et the better of me. Tears have clouded my eyes, but I blink them away.
“Yeah, Cade. I thought you were dead, and I needed some pick-me-ups.” Her face is sad, but she grits her teeth. “I fucking thought you weren’t coming back.”
I nod. “I know.” I tuck the remainder of the money into my back pocket. “It’s no biggie.”
But it is a big deal and I’m devastated. At this rate I’ll be able to go to college when I’m fifty.
“Sorry,” Jessica says.
I try to discreetly wipe at my eyes. “It’s okay. I gave you the money. It isn’t your fault.”
She frowns, but perks up suddenly. “At least Fileze-the-fucking-Sleaze isn’t your pimp any longer. You can do what you want, when you want, and with whomever you want.”
“Right,” I agree.
“Did you hear Fileze got his ass kicked? He’s still in the hospital. He may never walk again.” She pulls her frizzy blond hair into a ponytail. “At least that’s the word on the streets.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Jessica goes over to our grungy plaid couch and sits, then flips on the old TV with tin foil on the antennae.
“Wanna watch 90210 reruns with me?”
“Sure.” Why the fuck not? I’ve got nothing better to do. It’s going to take years to earn enough for college. No bank will loan me the money and the government won’t approve any federal aid. I’m royally fucked. It was a stupid dream anyway. Girls like me aren’t supposed to go to college. I never would’ve fit in.
Whore turned businesswoman, I think with a snort.
It definitely wouldn’t have worked. And in a few hours I have to put on my hooker clothes and go out. The prospect doesn’t excite me.
I lean my head against the couch and close my eyes. John Cruze’s face is there. His brilliant eyes and gorgeous smile light up my insides. It’s his fault I don’t want this job anymore. It’s his fault I want more.
Damn you, John Cruze.
“John Cruze is so hot,” I hear Jessica say. My eyes pop open. How did she know I was thinking about him? She staring at the TV and I look. A slightly younger John Cruze is playing a hunky young love interest. He’s cocky. One of the actresses says something and he responds with a smile, flashing his dimple.
My dimple, I think, and then internally kick myself.
“I’d forgotten he guest-starred on this show before his career really took off.” Jessica makes kissing noises.
I chuckle, sit up. My eyes are glued to the TV. “Yeah, me too.”
I’m mesmerized as John Cruze saunters closer to the girl on the screen. My body responds. The characters are going to kiss, and every ounce of me wishes it was me instead of that damn actress.
“Did you hear he was caught with some prostitute? He took her to the hospital. All the tabloids say he beat her.” Jessica is talking to me, but she’s still staring at the screen.
While she’s talking my face heats up with embarrassment. “He didn’t beat her,” I say quietly.
“How do you—” She starts to giggle. “Oh. My. Fucking. God. You’re the prostitute he was with, aren’t you?”
I’m sure my face is the color of beets at this point. “No,” I say, but it’s obvious I’m lying.
She scoots closer so she’s practically in my lap. “Tell me everything. How was it? Does he have a teeny dick? Please tell me that totally hot man has no weaknesses.”
I scoot back. “Jessica, he was good.”
She snorts. “Good? Fuck that. He was either a rock star or a total weeney. Which is it?” She pulls a menthol cigarette from a pack sitting on the messy coffee table and lights it up. Sucks in and blows out.
“I so need one of those,” I say and light up one of my own. After I’ve taken a couple of drags and am happily feeling the buzz, I look at Jessica. “His cock is huge and he fucks like a champion.”
Jessica bursts out laughing. “You’re such a cunt. You always get the good ones. Did he pay you?”
I pause, thinking about what I want to say. Finally I decide on the truth. “I fucked him by mistake.”
“You did what?” Her face lights up with shock. “How is that possible?”
I tell her about the text, about meeting John at the Bel Ayre, about how amazing he was. When I’m finished, she sighs.
“You’re seriously the luckiest person I know. And the stupidest.”
“Stupid? Why?” I ask, putting out the butt of the cigarette on an ashtray. I’m watching the television again. John Cruze’s character and the female are in bed. Talking. Laughing. I can’t help but feel jealous. I want to be in bed with him. I want to talk and laugh with him.
Just the idea makes me happy and angry at the same time.
“I would’ve stayed. Better to fuck him than fuck some random client, don’t you think?”
I turn to her. She has a point. The problem with that thinking though is I like him. I want him for more than a client. But I can’t tell her that. Instead I say, “No, I don’t fucking think so. Otherwise I would’ve stayed.” A part of me wants to kick myself. I should’ve stayed. But it’s too late for second-guessing my decisions. No sense dwelling on it.
I light up another cigarette.
“So what are you going to do now?” Jessica pats my knee.
I sigh and stand. “I guess get my ass back to work.”
Chapter 6
I’m wearing a short black mini, my red platforms and a red spaghetti strap top. My hair is up in a high ponytail and I’ve got an inch of makeup on. I don’t look half bad. Jessica is wearing pleather hot pants, black heels, and a white halter. She straightened her blond hair and lined her blue eyes in glittery blue-blue eye shadow.
We’re across the street from the TCL Chinese Theater. It’s lit up, old and beautiful, except for the scaffolding surrounding part of it. The city is refurbishing the building, turning it into a giant movie theater.
That’s life though.
Everything changes.
Jessica and I are in front of a tattoo parlor. There are papers scattered all over the sidewalk. People amble by, some whistle, some ask how much, but my heart isn’t in it.
Jessica takes off with a client and I’m left alone.
I cross the street and walk over to Marilyn Monroe’s shoe prints, permanently engraved in the concrete. My feet are bigger than hers. Marilyn had tiny feet.
“Hey, you selling?” Someone asks.
I turn around. There’s a tall young man, early twenties, dark hair and darker eyes. He’s standing in front of me. Watching me. His features heavy with lust. It’s obvious what he wants.
“How much?” he asks, moving closer.
I grit my teeth, steel myself. “Depends on what you want.”
He whistles low. “I want to fuck, whore. What’s that gonna cost?”
“Fifty bucks,” I say, wishing I could be anywhere but here.
“Sold,” he says and grabs me by the arm. I walk with him to his car. Once he’s shut the door and is sitting in the driver’s seat, he turns to me. “I’ve got a room down the street.”
“That’s fine,” I say, touching his thigh, pretending I’m so excited to be with him.
As soon as he closes the door to the room, I open my mouth. He needs to pay me first. And I want to tell him my rules. Before I can, the asshole pushes my on the bed and lifts my skirt. I’m wearing a black thong. He pushes it to the side.
“Condom,” I say trying to turn out of his grasp. I have my rules for a reason.
“With pleasure. I certainly don’t want to catch anything.” I hear a wrapper tear. Seconds later he slams into me. His dick isn’t very big, thankfully.
I bury my face in the disgusting smelling comforter, grinding my teeth together. He goes for a long while but I finally feel his body tense.
Soon, I think and let out a moan, hoping that’ll hurry the dirty business along.
He has his orgasm. Pulls out and pushes down my skirt.
“Thanks, whore.” I hear his pants zip.
Then he grabs my wrists, puts them behind my back and cuffs me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to get a handle on what game he’s playing.
“You’re under arrest, whore. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“What? Is this some kind of game? I don’t mind playing, but I need to know what’s going on. I need to know the rules.” Shock racks my body. My arms hurt.
“This is no game. You are under arrest. And if you say anything about what just happened in here, I’ll make sure you don’t live to see another fucking day. Understood?”
“Yes,” I say, fighting back angry tears.
“Good.” He lifts me and turns me so I’m sitting on the bed. Then he pulls a radio from his jacket pocket and calls in the crime.
I can’t hold back the tears any longer. And when he puts me into the back of his partner’s police cruiser I let them flow.
***
The asshole cop books me and tosses me into a cell with three other hookers. Two I know. Sylvia and Megan.
I sit on the edge of a bench and they walk over.
“Hey cunt. Nice to see ya in here. You know Fileze is still in the hospital because of your sorry ass,” Megan says.
Sylvia chimes in. “Yeah, stupid Cadence can’t even fuck the right guy.”
They both laugh.
The third prostitute looks terrified.
“This is Nikki. She’s new. First night and her last, I’m sure.” Megan strokes the girl’s shiny black hair. “Sure are pretty though. Fileze woulda loved you, prolly even made your ass his pet.”
Sylvia laughs. “Just ask Cadence here. She was Fileze’s pet. Until she thought she got too good for him and decided to bail. It was good while it lasted though, wasn’t it?”
I don’t acknowledge her. It was good—at first. Until he started to make advances and think that being my pimp meant he could fuck me anytime he wanted.
Nearly fifty percent of the girls who decide to become prostitutes end up quitting, strung out on drugs, or dead. You have to be tough to deal with this life. And beyond tough, you have to know how to shut yourself off.
Distorted Lines (Blurred Lines Volume 2) Page 2