I follow him, trying not to stare at the large wad of bills that flash when he goes to pay, tapping his card against the machine and not even staying for the receipt. Outside, I blink in the sudden brightness, my eyes watering in the strong afternoon sun.
“Over here,” he says, taking my elbow to guide me to a large vehicle. He opens the rear door and I’m halfway inside before I realise there’s already someone waiting in the driver’s seat. When Wilber gets in the back seat opposite, he pushes a button, and a divider rises to cut off my view of the man.
“D’you always have a driver?”
“Yes. Do you have a car?”
I shake my head, crossing my fingers that he won’t ask to see a driver’s licence. A friend mocked up some ID, but it’s just a birth certificate. His equipment isn’t nearly advanced enough to produce a passport or a licence or an 18+ card.
“Then he’ll be at your disposal, too. If you need to pop out and buy anything for me or if you need a ride to and from work.”
A driver. At my disposal.
I hug my knees to my chest in a burst of glee. This is so elevated from what I had imagined that I’m afraid to breathe in case it all puffs away into nothing. “That sounds good. Do I have to do an interview?”
He bursts out laughing and his hand drops onto my knee again. “What d’you think this is?”
Far too easy is what I think, but don’t say. I’m not looking gift horses anywhere I shouldn’t. Once this is over, when the job is mine, there’ll be plenty of time to find the strings he’s attached and work out a way to sever them. “What hours would I work?”
“I’ll start you on three days a week. From four till eight. How does that sound?”
Like I won’t even have to skip school, which is pretty freaking amazing because I had no idea how I was going to pull that off long term. “Great.”
“You have a bank account?”
I bite my bottom lip as I think it over. There was one I’d set up back in Intermediate School, but goodness knows where the ATM card is now. Mum probably took out the five dollars she originally gave to me to open it—either that or it would have been eaten up in fees.
“To tell you the truth, I’d rather pay you in cash,” he admits before I can answer. “That’s easier for me.” I think of the wad of money I saw fattening his wallet and nod.
Hundreds. Maybe thousands. And that’s just his walking around money.
“That’d be good.”
The car starts and my smile hitches as I scrabble for a seat belt.
“Don’t worry. We won’t take you far.” Wilber twists my body so I’m sideways on the seat. His right arm is on one side of my body and this time, his hand doesn’t graze my knee. It goes straight on my upper thigh. Its weight increases the longer he leaves it there. Unbearably heavy. “I’ll just take you home now, for a paid test run. See what skills you have already.”
His hand makes my stomach feel all funny. Tight and hot. Like I’ve eaten something bad, but it hasn’t yet rejected it. Then he squeezes tightly and lets go, and I take a deep breath.
See? Everything’s okay.
“You’re so grown-up, you don’t need all that makeup.” Wilbur reaches over to a pocket mounted on the back of the passenger seat and pulls out a container of wet wipes. He holds my chin steady while using a couple to clean my face. Doesn’t even ask if he can.
“That’s better,” he says, running his thumb over my newly cleaned cheekbone. “You’re so pretty. You’ve grown up so much since I last saw you.”
Trapped in the back seat of his moving car, the words sound a thousand times more ominous than when he said them earlier.
And it’s my fault. He got the wrong idea, and it’s all my fault because I wore the wrong thing to meet him. I should have gone with the A-line dress where you can’t see my bum or legs oranything.
I try to pretend I can’t feel his hands wandering over my body, grabbing wherever they like while my tongue lies heavily in my mouth, too heavy to raise an objection.
Four hours I spend at his home. When I leave, the thrill of a private driver now lost under a thousand other concerns, I have a wad of cash shoved in my pocket and a time and date for my next appointment.
I tell myself for the next day and a half that I won’t go again. That I’ll just ghost him until he gives up and goes away. If he pressures me, I’ll threaten to tell someone.
Not that I ever would. Not in real life. Just the thought of doing that makes my whole face throb.
And when the car pulls outside school, waiting to drive me to his house, I don’t even make a fuss climbing into the back seat. Even knowing what waits for me at the other end.
