“There’s a boy,” I start, then choke as a sob takes hold.
“Oh, a boy,” she says with a chuckle. “They’re the worst.”
The comment makes me laugh, and I close my eyes, feeling content in a way that’s been missing for far too long. “Yeah, they are.”
For a long time, we stay like that, her rocking me slightly just like she did when I was five years old and scraped my knee.
Once I’m calm enough to talk, I take the hand cream from the bedside cabinet and massage her fingers, rubbing the moisturiser in with slow, smooth strokes, easing out the knots near her wrists where the cramps strike deepest.
“I thought he was going to ask me out. Instead, he tried to book me for a job.”
She winces in sympathy, clutching me with the hand I’m trying to massage. “That sounds hard. You were disappointed?”
I nod, then remember to say it aloud because her eyesight’s worse with every visit. “I couldn’t even do the thing he wanted and now… he’s talking like maybe I got the wrong idea.”
“He doesn’t sound like the type of client you need,” she says softly. “Have you told him to bugger off?”
“Finley would kill me,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “He keeps buying us dinner, so she’s in love with him.”
“Such a slut.”
She’s joking but the quick retort makes me giggle. “Like either of us can talk.”
She laughs, then reaches for the container of water by the bed. I lift it to her lips, wincing at the two-handled plastic sippy cup. I hate how the disease infantilises her. The last time she needed this type of implement, she must have been a toddler. Now she’s stuck with it again.
“Did you want him to be more than a client?”
“Yeah.” I try to add more but another sob threatens so I concentrate on not crying instead.
“You deserve more than someone who can’t tell the difference between a girlfriend and a hooker.”
I nod, letting the words soothe my insecurities like an emotional balm. “He’s rich,” I confess. “Like really, really rich.”
“Then you’re better off out of it,” Mum declares. “The world’s already being fucked by billionaires. You don’t need one of them fucking you directly.”
The pronouncement hits my funny bone so hard that I convulse with laughter, eyes streaming tears, unable to even think about saying another word because I can barely get a breath in, let alone coordinate the rest.
“He offered to pay my expenses through university. Even through to a PhD if I wanted that. Rent, bills, anything.”
She rests her hand on my cheek, eyes opening wide so even with her damaged retinas it’s like she can clearly see my face. “My girl can’t be bought like that,” she says, and there’s so much pride behind the words that I’m overwhelmed with gratitude that I still have her here, can still come to her for comfort.
I cement the words in my memory, the tone, the fierceness. I write them so deeply that I’ll always be able to bring them out if I need to.
She doesn’t need to know how Trent looked while he was making the offer. His desperation. The lost expression, like he didn’t know how he wound up at this point or how he’d ever make his way back to where he should be.
I need to extricate myself.
I’ve let my emotions overtake my self-interest. Instead of spending the past week working out the details on how to cater to a client who doesn’t feel like a client, I should have spent my time working out how to get away. To sort out my own problems just like I’ve done for every problem in my past.
That’s the way forward. Much as I leapt at Caylon’s suggestion of them tracking the culprit and killing him, I should have stuck to common sense. I should go to the police right after my visit and tell them what he discovered in my home.
Once they understand the urgency, I can call off the hit.
The hit.
Even whispering the words inside my head, it feels unreal. That’s not the person I am. I’ve never trawled through the dark web finding out what price people place upon a life.
Go to the police. Tell Trent everything’s off. Thank Caylon for his help but insist on taking over from here.
