My hand, holding it open for her.
In the picture, she’s chewing on her bottom lip, but her eyes are wide with hope. She looks nervous but excited. She wants this.
At first glance, this makes me happy. All that stress I’ve been feeling about her evaporates at this image. She’s alive. I’m getting to see her again. I have a way to connect with her, if even just to check in occasionally. I still want to help her, and now I can.
But then it sinks in that I absolutely should not be seeing this picture. This picture shouldn’texist. Neither should the next one that shows me walking in after her. Nor the one of her kneeling down in front of me. Definitely not the one of her pulling a wad of bills from out of my boot.
The next image comes from the same angle, but there’s a triangular play symbol on it. These must have been screenshots from video footage. Already, I’m tasting bile in my throat before I click on that play button.
“I own you,” I’m saying, and yeah, I might be in costume and the video might be grainy enough that it would be hard to say it’s definitely me, but my voice is crystal clear. “I offered to buy you for the evening for $87, and you agreed. Now take it.”
Oh, fuck.
She tucks the money into the pocket of her belt.
Oh, fuck.
“Now take my boots off.”
This looks bad. So fucking bad. I sound like a fucking asshole. The way I’m standing there with my crotch all in her face, but not in a sexy kind of way, makes me look like anasshole, too. Did she think I was an asshole? Is that why she sent me this?
I should be lucky.
“Have you whored yourself out to anyone else today? You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? Because I’ll know. If that’s a used cunt, I’ll know when I’m stretching it on my cock. So you better not be a lying whore, Trixie.”
I sink down to my ass on the driveway, dreading the last five seconds of the video that’s left when the screen goes black. Text comes up next, and I may not be the strongest reader out there, but I have no issue understanding this message.
$50,000 OR THIS GETS SOLD TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER
I’m still sitting there leaning against my car when the guys get home from the bar. It’s Vedder who spots me there, and he’s barely able to make it to me with the way he’s stumbling. “Broooooooooo,” he drawls. “You pass out, man?”
“Yeah, man. I, uhhh, just decided to nap next to my car.” My car’s worth five times what Trixie is asking for. I’ll pay her off, and everything will be fine.
Everything will be fine.
I want to throw up.
“You wann’ do s’m shots?” Vedder slurs.
“Yeah, man. I think I do.”
Chapter 8
Tilly
“You look great, Till.”
I give Emerson a warm smile as I attempt to hang the garment bag up on a hook, but there’s too much bag and garment andmeto really connect. It takes Emerson a minute to realize I’m struggling, but he immediately takes the bag once he catches on and easily settles it on the hook while I catch my breath.
Whether I look great or not is up for debate, but I definitely don’t feel great. I’m doing my best not to stress myself out too much, doctor’s orders, but I feel like I’m a ball and my life is ping pong mallets on all sides. My bank account, my giant belly, my apartment, my blood pressure, my sister, my back, my friends, my doctor, my feet, my job — or lack thereof because I’m a contract worker and I can’t currently takeanother contract — are bashing me from all directions. I want to take control, but I’m just kind of flying through the air.
Emerson is the latest mallet. He’s asked me to make the costume for the next Titan movie he’s going to be in, which is being filmed in my absolutely-not-available period this summer. I thought I’d be able to ship it to the set, and I trust the lead costumer who’s going to be working this one to do the final fitting, but Emerson insisted on flying over to Wilmington to have me do the fitting while I’m able to work on it.
I overestimated myself and my availability, it seems. The first two trimesters were a breeze. The doctors, all four of them because of my extensive medical issues, were shocked. My oncologist called the pregnancy itself a miracle and then crowed about how my luck was turning around. One of my nurses gave me a God’s plan speech, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her I haven’t been in a church since I was a kid. I just smiled and thought if this had anything to do with God, it was Him paying me back because of how badly He screwed everything else up.
But now I’ve entered my third trimester, and I feel like one of those stress balls that maintains its shape as you squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, and then suddenly a random bit of it just distends wildly. I hurt everywhere, and my asthma is kicking my ass. Joss is dragging me to a party tonight, and only the fact that she’s pregnant too and has promised that I don’t have to do anything except sit in the hot tub or the pool has me agreeing to go.
I just want to sleep.
