GOODGIRLS SAY PLEASE

by Dani Wyatt

  This fucker, for whatever reason, made it clear that staying in the US was mandatory. So, he gets to be Mr. Paul Finkle with a one-bedroom shithole above a laundromat. But he gets to keep his dick alive and for most guys that’s the primary focus.

  The timer dings in my head and with cold, deliberate movements I clear the table top. As I stand, I kick back the worn metal folding chair and tuck the files into my briefcase. Without another word I’m out the door and pinging the driver to be ready to make record time back to the airport.

  I’m done with this. I don’t know how. I don’t have any idea how to get out of the corner I’ve painted myself in, but this...what just happened. This piece of shit knowing my name. The veiled threat that I have something to lose.

  If she knows everything, I could fucking lose her. Every scenario I devise has a fatal flaw, but I can’t keep doing this.

  I won’t put her in harm’s way. Not anymore. That is my promise to her and to myself. I’ll find a way. Even if it means we become Mr. & Mrs. Paul Finkle.

  S I X

  Ginger

  “LET ME DIE ALREADY.” George pulls the white handkerchief of surrender out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket and waves it over the board. “Why do you insist on dragging this out? You could have stomped me five turns ago.”

  George got here a couple hours after Daddy left. Brought me Churches chicken strips. I worked outside in the garden for a while and played with Romper and Geisha and all the other animals.

  George worked on his phone and laptop in Daddy’s office while I did other things, but it’s enough just to know he’s here. We ate lunch, now we’ve been playing RISK for hours and it’s pushing ten o’clock.

  “What fun would that be? I like to watch you suffer.” I try to snatch his white flag from mid-air but he jerks it back, stuffing it into its front pocket. He reaches up and runs his massive hand back and forth over his bald head then down his face with a sigh to grip his salt and pepper beard.

  “Careful there, little girl.” George is fun, but he’s also a Dominant and I watch my P’s and Q’s around him, much like I’ve been trained to do with Daddy.

  “Yes, Sir.” I smile, tossing up the respectful title and I watch his face soften. These Dominant men, I didn’t understand it before I met Daddy, but I do now.

  They are in charge. But never arrogant.

  It’s comforting to know the level of care they have. They are hard when necessary but have hearts as big as any I’ve encountered in my life.

  “Your roll.” George hands me the dice. “So how did you get so good at strategy games? You know you’re good, right? I mean, every game Stas or I ever play with you, you trounce us.”

  I shift in the chair and play with the smooth ivory dice in my palm while I calculate my answer.

  A wave of guilt covers me as I begin. “Back at the village—that’s what they called it—” the well woven lies I’ve created spill out of me so easily now it’s scary. “We didn’t have television or electricity in the evenings. They ran the generator only when needed and I guess at night it wasn’t needed.” The level of detail I put into this fantasy life surprises even me, but getting out of the tangle of it all now would surely end things for Stas and me.

  I just hope someday it will all just fade away. He will realize there is not much to talk about regarding my past and it will become a non-issue. “We had books and games for any free time. I wasn’t much of a reader—you know that, right?” The part about not being a reader is about the only truth in my statement.

  I’m honestly not sure how I’m so good at strategy games, I didn’t start playing them until I came here. Just came naturally.

  “Yes, I have a niece who is severely dyslexic. She sort of has her own language when she writes.” George chuckles. “But once you decode it, it’s easy to understand. Most people just don’t want to take the time.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “Well, back where I grew up...” I stall, choosing my words with thought. “...no one tried to understand. But they didn’t care all that much either. Free love, free range parenting and smoking pot, working the garden, things like that were what mattered more. Until I left I had never even seen a cell phone. I never even knew my parents’ real names. They were just Sam and Diane and I was just Ginger. Every once in a while, they would say our last name, Murphy, but truth is I think they just made it all up.”

  I hate this. After Stas and I had been together about a week, he’d asked more about my family. I lied. He’d talked about his family. Gave me that speech about how much family meant. How family loyalty was everything and he never understood anyone that would turn their back on their family.

  At that time, I didn’t think what we had would grow into this and I just lied to avoid the topic.

  Now I’m trapped in it all.

  I was so scared he wouldn’t want me if I told him the truth. I mean, I don’t want my family to find me either, so in my head I rationalized the whole thing. I’d been pretending I didn’t have a family for years, so in a way, it felt real to me.

  I’ve been re-creating myself since I left and it also terrified me that somehow, if I told him the truth and he didn’t kick me to the curb, he would force me to be involved with them again.

  I should have been honest. Maybe I could have explained that not all families are as close as his, that not all parents have their child’s best interests at heart. I could have tried.

  The irony is, I grew up lying. It was our family legacy, and when I left, I swore I would change. And I did. Until I screwed up and told Stas I grew up in a commune.

  I told him my parents died from the flu. Said they got sick and in our ‘village’ doctors were taboo, so they ended up dying along with the majority of the other members and that’s when I left. I said that was when I decided to find a new life, but it’s been hard because I have no birth certificate. I never went to school. There is no record of me anywhere.

  Lies.

  Lies.

  Lies.

  But I knew if I gave him real information about me, he could figure out who I was, that my name is not really Ginger Murphy, and then he would never trust me again. I rack my brain, day in and day out, trying to figure out a way out of this.

  But nothing seems plausible. I only pray I can just keep up and actually become Ginger Murphy in every way and never have to reveal anything about my past.

  My only slip up, was I told them the cult I lived in was in Herald, Virginia, which is where I actually grew up. That was my mistake, but I’ve never mentioned the town again and I just hope that Stas doesn’t remember that little tidbit.

  “Must have been a fun way to grow up, I would think, in a place like that. Utopia.” George counters, leaning back in his chair and arching his back. He’s several inches taller than Daddy and broader as well, his chest filling out the white shirt on a deep breath. “Maybe we take a break? My ego and my back could use it.”

  I stifle the laugh and am relieved at the change of subject. “Sounds good. You hungry? I’ll share my chicken strips with you.” I stand and stretch, feeling the hours of sitting on my still-sore rear end from a little play spanking I got yesterday, as well as the reminder that Daddy was inside me there just after.

  He waves his hands in front of his face. “No, thank you. It’s bad enough you eat the spiciest ones they serve, but then you add that ghost pepper salt to them. Christ, that will peel the bark off a tree.”

  “Suit yourself.” I snicker, walking into the kitchen and retrieving a box of the chicken from the warming drawer. George was nice enough to bring me a decent supply and I’ve been munching on them all day.

  I hop up onto the counter and take a bite as George shakes his head at me.

  “Well, I’m hungry too, just not for those. I’m going to run to Marcio’s and get a pizza. You want anything?”

  I shake my head, chewing a mouthful of the deliciousness, and he laughs as he pulls his keys from his pocket, already heading toward the back door.
>
  “I shouldn’t be more than forty-five minutes. Maybe an hour, it’s a ways to town from here. You have your phone?” He asks, pulling the door open and stepping into the garage. His phone dings with a text. “It’s Stas asking if we’re good. Says they had to land for another mechanical problem that delayed them a few hours, but he’s hoping to be home before morning.”

  I watch as George taps a reply.

  “You want me to tell him anything?”

  “Tell him I miss him.”

  He nods and goes back to the phone as I lean back on a locked arm, making halfway dirty moaning sounds while I chew, swinging my feet off the edge of the counter.

  Part of my love of this food is that I was so restricted with what I was allowed to eat for all those years growing up. Everything was chosen for me, portioned out, every calorie counted including whatever might be in the whitening toothpaste I was forced to use three times a day.

  Where I developed the taste and tolerance for wildly hot spices I don’t know, but nevertheless it’s an oddity that brings me pleasure. Stas says it is one of the parts of me he loves. The part that enjoys the pain and somehow twists that pain until it becomes pleasure. Who knows? What I do know is these chicken strips are bringing me more pleasure than is probably legal in many states.

  George adds as he pulls the door closed behind him, “Alright. Enjoy yourself. Don’t burn your tongue off. I happen to think Stas would be a little pissed about you losing a valuable body part to some fire breathing chicken strip.”

  He starts to tap the keys on the alarm as his phone rings. He glances my way before answering in a hushed tone and rushing out the back door.

  These guys and their oh-so-secretive business calls. I shake my head, finish the food and lick each fingertip, listening as the garage door goes up, tires scrape on the gravel, then it clatters back down.

  I look over to see the red light on the alarm blinking slowly, which means George must not have hit the right code or the right buttons in the right order when he hurried out the door.

  I take a deep breath, telling myself I need to work on my irrational anxiety when I’m here alone. I mean, there’s a gate at the road, hardly anyone drives all the way down to the end of the cul-de-sac where Stas’s home is situated on forty-six acres. It’s not the main drag. Besides, I’d rather face my fear of not having the alarm on than the risk of setting it off again.

  And, Daddy says, sometimes I need to pull up my big girl panties. Not just about the alarm but about other things. I decide a nice shower and getting into my jammies is a good next step for the evening.

  After working in the garden, playing with the animals and cleaning out their sheds, a shower would do me good and I’m sure George wouldn’t fight me on that as well. I’m sure I smell like donkey poop.

  I grab a Post-it off the desk and scribble a note to George so he will know where I am and what I’m doing if he gets back. Don’t need him coming to look for me in the shower. We are friends, but I know that wouldn’t sit well with Stas and would make our future interactions a bit awkward.

  A minute later, I’m out of breath from bounding up the stairs, taking them two at a time. It’s part of my exercise routine. Stas loves me like I am, but I feel uncomfortable still with my too fluffy back side and the way my love handles squish out over the waistband of my clothes.

  I shed my outfit from the day and turn on the water in the enormous marble shower. The multiple jets and showerheads make it almost an adventure rather than a routine.

  In the steaming hot water, I wash my hair with the lavender shampoo I make myself. That’s something I love to do, and I love knowing that Stas enjoys using my handmade, natural products: shampoos, soaps, even cleaning stuff. It started with my love of plants and trying to treat them with nature instead of chemicals, and just kind of went on from there.

  Soon after I’d moved in, I stopped taking on new jobs. Daddy didn’t like me going to strangers’ homes by myself, and truth is, once I thought about it, I didn’t either. Besides, I’ve got enough around here to keep me busy. Taking care of our own gardens, the babies, the donkeys and Daddy.

  He said if I ever wanted to go back to school, or work somewhere else, we would come up with a plan, but truth is, I’m just enjoying my life for the first time while I figure out what it is I really do want.

  I reach outside the shower where I have set my phone and grab it. Bringing it in the shower to snap a few pictures and send them to Daddy. I don’t expect a reply, because I’m pretty sure he’s flying now, but I know how much he will enjoy seeing them when he lands. When I’m done I open the glass door and set my phone back on the table outside the door.

  I’m surprised when a few minutes later my phone rings and it’s him.

  I reach out the glass door again and answer, putting him on speaker.

  “Hi, Daddy.” I’m happy to hear from him.

  “Baby, you okay?” His voice is harsher than I expected. “I should be home by morning.”

  “Goody.” I do a little dance. “And yes everything is fine, I’m taking my shower.”

  “Okay, my goodgirl.”

  “George told me you were coming home. We’re having fun.”

  “Alright, baby. We’re taking off again now so I have to hang up. Had some trouble with the plane. I’ll see you soon.”

  With that he clicks off without his usual ‘I love you’ or ‘Bye for now’ and I stare down at the phone in my hand, wondering what’s up.

  Soap runs out of my hair and into my eyes. I close them, reaching for the door handle to set my phone back down when I lose my grip and my phone slips.

  “Darn it.” My eyes burn when I try to open them and retrieve it off the floor of the shower. “Ow! Ow!” I shut them tight again, rushing to rinse the soap away.

  When I finally can see, I pick up the drenched phone and blow out a breath.

  “Crud crud.” It’s soaking wet, I try to turn it on but it doesn’t respond. I hurry to finish my shower, knowing if maybe I hurry and put it in a bowl of rice it may survive.

  I run my hands down my breasts, rinsing the last of the soap suds away. Down farther, I run them along the front of my tummy where my fingers find the series of uneven textures, the indented scars that remind me of why I am here, living as Ginger Murphy instead of Stephanie Lukus.

  Stas has asked me about the scars, too. I told him it was an accident, that I fell through a glass window.

  Another lie.

  I shiver in the near scalding water as the faces of my mom, my dad and my grandmother flash through my memories. I’ve worked hard at forgiveness. Stas and I talked about what that means and even without him knowing anything about my past, he’s helped me tremendously. I’ve managed to let go of a lot of my hurt and resentment toward them, but I still can’t forget that past.

  Daddy says forgiveness isn’t about the other person or even their actions. It’s about knowing that what is done is done. Holding on to the negative feelings attached to the person or things they may have done only limits ourselves. It keeps our hearts from being able to give as much as we can to the people in our lives that deserve our love and care.

  Still, a twist of learned fear clutches around my throat as I push away the memories and finish up and get out of the shower.

  A few minutes later, I’m dried off and slipping into the donkey pajamas Daddy had made special for me. The fabric is a light lavender background with tiny donkeys dancing and playing cards and rolling on their backs.

  He said he spent an entire night searching the internet for fun donkey things for me and when he found the fabric, he bought it in an instant and sent it out to a seamstress with instruction to make a nightgown, a pajama set and two pillowcases for me.

  He is the best gift giver ever. He listens to little things I say and before I know it, whatever I mention shows up.

  He even found donkey slippers, panties and coloring books. He hired a mural artist to paint a scene on my playroom wall of the donkeys on m
y pajamas, only life-size. I cried when I saw it finished.

  He surprised me with the playroom a few weeks ago and it’s become my favorite room in the house for good reason. I play in there, but Daddy also included some furniture that is special for us as well. Secret hooks and places to lay me down when he needs to have play time of his own.

  When I hear footsteps in the hall I quickly tug on my top, not wanting George to see anything that would get in the way of our well-balanced platonic friendship. But I wonder for a split second why he is up here anyway. My note said I would be down as soon as I was finished, but I guess maybe he overlooked the neon yellow Post-it plastered on the countertop.

  “Your eyes need to be checked?” I shout through the closed door, running my fingertips through my soaking hair as the footfalls stop just outside. “I’ll be out in one second, are you so eager for your imminent defeat you can’t wait?”

  I work the last two buttons on my pajama top and step toward the door.

  On my last step the knob turns.

  “Hey! I said I would be—”

  The door flies open, barely missing cracking me in the nose as it sails by. But it’s not George I see muscling forward as I stare down the barrel of a grey metal handgun. It’s a man I don’t recognize, with the dead eyes of a shark and the smile of the Cheshire cat.

  Before I can react, his words stop me cold.

  “Hello, Stephanie. Your family misses you.”

  S E V E N

  Stas

  “HOW THE fuck?” I shake my head as I steer the car like a maniac, pushing the engine hard, doing 110 mph toward home. Nothing is working in my favor.

  The fucking plane gauge that was a problem on the way down, went out again and we had to land, wait for a new one to be delivered and installed. Then tested. I about lost my damn mind.

  Everything seemed fine at the house when I talked to Ginger and George when we were down for repairs, and honestly, Calfus knew my name but even with that there’s not much other information about me, even where I live that is easy to find.