“Stand up.”
I do, but I can’t look at him. Not at his eyes.
“Turn around and put your hands on the wall.” I do that too. “Higher. Good. Walk backward.”
I take two tiny steps, but it’s enough. I know what he wants. My ass.
“Now look at me.”
I shake my head once, feel my hair on my naked shoulders. Wonder when it fell out of its clip.
“Look at me,” he repeats firmly.
I glance at him over my shoulder. I wonder if he wants my tears too.
“Good.”
I see from the corner of my eye he’s aroused. This could be worse. He could demand another, different sort of payment.
Who says he won’t?
“Get on the couch. Hands and knees. Ass to me.”
I want to weep. I want the earth to open and swallow me whole.
“Do it.”
I do. But then his hand is on me, on my hip, and I jump. He slaps my ass, snaps a picture.
“Just pictures. You said—”
“It’s just pictures.” His voice comes out hoarse, like his throat is dry.
I crane my neck to look at his hand. At the ring there—something big and ornate and old looking. There’s a dusting of dark hair on his arm and his watch is expensive. I can tell. It’s what I try to focus on until, with just the smallest tug of his thumb, he opens me. And I don’t know how or why because it makes no sense, but my belly feels strange and I’m holding my breath and when I look at his face, he’s got his eyes locked on my ass. He looks different again. He’s aroused, that’s obvious, but there’s more. There’s something darker about it.
He’s not taking pleasure in my humiliation. It’s something else now. And the second he snaps the photo, he seems to hurry to shove the phone into his pocket and get away from me.
“Get dressed. We’re done.” He walks out of the room. I hear him go into the kitchen. Open a can of something. It takes me a long minute to move. My dignity is in tatters, like my clothes. I pull my underwear and jeans on. Tuck the ruined bra into my pocket and draw the Henley over my head. There’s a hole at the seam. I finger it, try to think only of it. I don’t want to think about what just happened.
I can fix this later. Sew it back up. It’s not hard.
By the time I put my boots on, he’s back and he’s already got his coat on. He’s holding mine out to me.
I can’t look at him. I take my coat and put it on and zip it to my chin and, obediently and meekly, I follow him back outside. I get into the car when he opens the door.
“Where do you live?”
I give him the address. He starts driving and neither of us talk. Not during the drive. Not when he pulls up along my street. I live on Elfreth’s Alley, a historic street in Philadelphia. Vehicles are restricted and I’m grateful for it, especially tonight.
When I reach to open my door, he finally speaks.
“Remember what I said will happen if you talk.”
“I wasn’t ever going to talk.”
I slip out, my purse in my hand. I dig for my key in my pocket and he doesn’t drive away until I’m inside and Pepper, my fourteen-year-old German Shepherd greets me, and I’m sobbing. Sobbing on the floor of my kitchen.
5
