flesh, releasing against a hand towel over his front.
Jay holds me against him as if I'm precious. That's worse than if he’d just let me go. I disengage, scuttling off his lap in an awkward lurch and averting my eyes from his crotch.
He stands up, limp and spent, and uses the little toiletries provided to clean up his inconvenient mess.
I'm numb as I adjust my top and scoop up the fifty, adding it to the five hundred. As I walk out of the room, his eyes commit me to memory.
I realize I never said a word. He doesn't even know my name. Jay didn't ask.
At least there's that.
In the restroom, I gaze into the wall of gilded mirrors. Toiletries, makeup, and wipes of every variety litter the vanity. I put my head in my hands and sit there for moments that become minutes. When I lift my head, I turn on the tap, wait for it to steam, and yelp as I wash my hands raw. Then I unwrap a toothbrush and wash my mouth, brushing viciously. Twice.
I thank whatever's holy that I never kissed him. I couldn't stand that. It's the final insult. No kissing.
Because this is closer to prostitution than dancing. I get that now. I take deep breaths, concentrating on inhaling, then exhaling.
I stand, straightening my beaded dress borrowed from Kiki, and head back out into the room.
They bid again, and I head back into the room of the damned. This one wants to touch my breasts.
I let him.
And leave with twelve hundred dollars.
Only forty-eight thousand and change to go.
~ 6 ~
Present day
“Sir,” someone says to my right, but my eyes are shut.
“Please step away.” The timbre of that voice is commanding, authoritative.
My eyes open slowly as I take in the tactile wave around me.
I hear a low curse, and that warm presence moves. I feel cold, bereft as a beefy man in a navy uniform crouches next to me and smiles. His clear blue eyes scan the street. I hear car doors open and close, sirens cut off. The silence is deafening, a deep well to get lost in. All around me, people's legs appear, like clothed tree trunks.
I'm in the middle of a people forest and it makes a slightly hysterical giggle erupt from my mouth.
That's when I realize I'm higher than a kite.
All the while, the man in blue has been talking to me quietly in soothing tones. My eyes sort of spin before focusing on his. I lift my hand to try and touch him, and I hiss in pain.
A moment of panic tries to rise up in my throat because it's my good hand. Please God, don't let that be wrecked too.
“Shh,” he says.
He calmly takes my struggling hand, and his finger moves to the underside of my wrist. I feel the subtle pressure of him taking my vitals. A loop of transparent tubing swings in my vision. “I've got ya,” he says and I notice his name tag: Johnny.
My body becomes weightless. I feel them place me on a stretcher. My thigh shrieks in pain, and I whimper. The paramedic's eyes move to the needle in my arm, and he adjusts something. I float deeper in the haze of the drugged.
“It's going to be okay,” he says, which fills me with instant dread.
I hear that melodic voice in the background. It grows loud in argument, and I know it's my angel trying to shelter me with his wings.
Johnny the paramedic loads me into the back of an ambulance. I try to move. I have work.
I have to die. I remembered Matthews's words perfectly. The drugs can't soften that.
“Let me through!” the angel says. His face appears above mine, seeking me through the safety of blue men, through the onlookers in the multi-colored forest of people.
They can't save me.
No one can.
But the one who held my hand when I was laid out in the middle of the street takes it again. The sedative works in collusion with the hit to my head as I begin to fade.
His deep brown eyes in a strong face are the last thing I see as the sedative takes me from consciousness like a thief.
That undeniable face is the last thing I see.
Then it hits me: I don't have to deny myself anything. When one knows the
Jay holds me against him as if I'm precious. That's worse than if he’d just let me go. I disengage, scuttling off his lap in an awkward lurch and averting my eyes from his crotch.
He stands up, limp and spent, and uses the little toiletries provided to clean up his inconvenient mess.
I'm numb as I adjust my top and scoop up the fifty, adding it to the five hundred. As I walk out of the room, his eyes commit me to memory.
I realize I never said a word. He doesn't even know my name. Jay didn't ask.
At least there's that.
In the restroom, I gaze into the wall of gilded mirrors. Toiletries, makeup, and wipes of every variety litter the vanity. I put my head in my hands and sit there for moments that become minutes. When I lift my head, I turn on the tap, wait for it to steam, and yelp as I wash my hands raw. Then I unwrap a toothbrush and wash my mouth, brushing viciously. Twice.
I thank whatever's holy that I never kissed him. I couldn't stand that. It's the final insult. No kissing.
Because this is closer to prostitution than dancing. I get that now. I take deep breaths, concentrating on inhaling, then exhaling.
I stand, straightening my beaded dress borrowed from Kiki, and head back out into the room.
They bid again, and I head back into the room of the damned. This one wants to touch my breasts.
I let him.
And leave with twelve hundred dollars.
Only forty-eight thousand and change to go.
~ 6 ~
Present day
“Sir,” someone says to my right, but my eyes are shut.
“Please step away.” The timbre of that voice is commanding, authoritative.
My eyes open slowly as I take in the tactile wave around me.
I hear a low curse, and that warm presence moves. I feel cold, bereft as a beefy man in a navy uniform crouches next to me and smiles. His clear blue eyes scan the street. I hear car doors open and close, sirens cut off. The silence is deafening, a deep well to get lost in. All around me, people's legs appear, like clothed tree trunks.
I'm in the middle of a people forest and it makes a slightly hysterical giggle erupt from my mouth.
That's when I realize I'm higher than a kite.
All the while, the man in blue has been talking to me quietly in soothing tones. My eyes sort of spin before focusing on his. I lift my hand to try and touch him, and I hiss in pain.
A moment of panic tries to rise up in my throat because it's my good hand. Please God, don't let that be wrecked too.
“Shh,” he says.
He calmly takes my struggling hand, and his finger moves to the underside of my wrist. I feel the subtle pressure of him taking my vitals. A loop of transparent tubing swings in my vision. “I've got ya,” he says and I notice his name tag: Johnny.
My body becomes weightless. I feel them place me on a stretcher. My thigh shrieks in pain, and I whimper. The paramedic's eyes move to the needle in my arm, and he adjusts something. I float deeper in the haze of the drugged.
“It's going to be okay,” he says, which fills me with instant dread.
I hear that melodic voice in the background. It grows loud in argument, and I know it's my angel trying to shelter me with his wings.
Johnny the paramedic loads me into the back of an ambulance. I try to move. I have work.
I have to die. I remembered Matthews's words perfectly. The drugs can't soften that.
“Let me through!” the angel says. His face appears above mine, seeking me through the safety of blue men, through the onlookers in the multi-colored forest of people.
They can't save me.
No one can.
But the one who held my hand when I was laid out in the middle of the street takes it again. The sedative works in collusion with the hit to my head as I begin to fade.
His deep brown eyes in a strong face are the last thing I see as the sedative takes me from consciousness like a thief.
That undeniable face is the last thing I see.
Then it hits me: I don't have to deny myself anything. When one knows the
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