“Then it’s time to eat again. There’s a small boutique and a few other stores in the complex I’m staying in. You can grab an outfit there. Nothing fancy. Just something clean.”
I squeeze my canvas work tote bag close to my body, almost as a security blanket, as I figure out the right way to say ‘no thank you’ without offending him. I can’t afford to buy a meal at McDonald’s, much less a new outfit from a boutique, especially when I already have clothes at Ruby’s that I can wear. I just didn’t think I’d be such a sweaty mess. The job today was much more extensive than we were told it would be.
“I don’t need to buy anything new.”
His brow furrows, as if the sentence does not compute.
“So you want to go to dinner in that?”
“I just–“
“Hey, if you’re fine with it, I’m fine with it.”
I exhale in complete frustration with this man. I just want the information about my brother. Why is it mandatory that I go to dinner to get it?
“You know I’m not very hungry,” I say, trying to sound convincing. “Let’s just talk here.”
“Here, in my car, on a random neighborhood street?”
“Yes, why not?”
“I want to eat.”
I swear I just saw him lick the corner of his mouth like he’s a ravenous panther, stalking his prey. Then suddenly I visualize him as a big cat on all fours approaching me, ready to lap me up like a saucer of milk. My core tightens as I imagine the fantasy, and then I blurt out the dumbest thing in the breathiest voice ever.
“Eat who?”
10
Karma
If I could, I would literally slink away and hide in a corner, but that’s pretty much impossible since I’m in a car and there’s nowhere to run.
What is wrong with me?
Did I just really say ‘eat who’ like an out of practice porn star?
It’s almost as if my body is starved for sex and is starting to say the weirdest things to get what it wants. Or maybe I’ve always craved it. Because while I’ve had lots of sex in my life, none of it’s been good. That’s if you use movies and books as your guide to determine how fantastic sex is supposed to be.
“I’m sorry, I was barely paying attention to what you were saying,” I lie. “I said, let’s eat. How far is your place?”
“Seven minutes.”
A bass heavy rap song that I don’t recognize is playing that Bronx mouths the words to until he looks over at me. “You can change the radio station,” he offers as we pull away from the curb. “I’m sure there’s some sort of retro 90s station on there somewhere. Maybe you’ll get lucky and catch an old NSYNC hit,” he says, as if that’s the most unlikely thing to happen.
I don’t know anything about his fancy satellite radio station service, so I keep pressing the arrow button on the dashboard until I land on a station playing an old Justin Timberlake song.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he says. “You found one.”
“That’s not NSYNC,” I tell him. “It’s Justin Timberlake.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“He had a huge solo career after the band,” I huff. “This song is Cry Me A River. A huge hit.”
“You sound very disappointed in me,” he says with amusement.
“I kind of am.”
