Chapter Three
Cyn
The bouquet of peonies, lilies, and wildflowers from the market is so big I have to hug it to my chest with both arms. It’s a five-minute walk straight uphill, but worth it for the exercise and fresh flowers daily.
“Cyndi, love, matcha latte?” the barista from my favorite coffee stand calls to me.
“Not today, Maurice,” I answer, but I still drop a ten in his tip cup as I pass.
I’ve got an oversized, thick magenta hoodie on and tight black yoga pants that ride all the way up my ass and flare at my ankles.
My lips are glossed, my lashes on point, my brows colored, and my hair falls in luxurious waves over my shoulders.
My nails today are blush pink and pointy, with glittery plastic daisies decorating them.
Mr. Graves paid enough that I decided to take a month off. I don’t want to think about Peter again, and I don’t know why he popped into my brain again after so long. My palms itch, and I try not to squeeze the flowers. He’s locked up. They’ll notify me if he comes up for parole.
I need time to decompress. Plan. Think about the future.
A number I don’t recognize flashes across my screen, and I freeze. It’s probably just Mom. I blocked her, but she likes to test the waters every few months.
He didn’t mean it. He doesn’t deserve to be locked up with all those animals.
You don’t understand how they treat him.
She’d shouted at me, crying actual tears for the man who raped her daughter.
What did you do? Did you seduce him? You always looked older than your age.
He just wants a chance to apologize. You need to talk to him. Hear him out.
It took me two full years of listening to her daily blaming me for how her husband molested me, starting at age thirteen, before I finally left.
I worked as a server at a dive bar in Belltown for a year. Barely made enough to get by. When he caught me sobbing over a notice to evict, my boss offered to pay me a month's rent if I let him fuck me.
It didn’t even take me two seconds to accept his offer. It wasn’t like I was saving my body for someone special.
I enter my building and ride the elevator up to the 17th floor. I tap in my 4-digit code to enter. 2328.
My phone rings again as I’m arranging my bouquet. This time I recognize the name.
“Trini, hi. What's up?”
“Hey, Cyn. Sorry to bother you. I know you said you weren't seeing clients, but you know you’re my girl and I had to throw this your way first.” She sounds excited. Weird.
“A new John?” I ask, my mind whirring. Trini’s business is exclusive. I charge a lot, sure, but the people who pay also have to get checked out. Black cards upfront. NDAs on both ends.
“Yeah. I know it’s last minute, but he’s paying triple and has specific requests.
Nothing crazy, don’t worry. It’s actually gonna be easy cash.
” Trini speaks fast, and I can hear her typing away in the background.
The clacking sends an unwanted shake down my back, reminding me of Peter typing away at his keyboard.
I don’t need the money; I’ve got plenty in savings, and I’m set to pay off my condo in just under five years.
But thirty grand is nothing to sneeze at.
“All-nighter?” I ask.
“Four hours. Out by 2 AM. I can send a driver if you want.”
“Hotel?”
“Penthouse with a view of the needle.”
“What’s he want?” I’ve dealt with some kinks—foot licking, ball crushing—but really most guys just want to fuck me hard and rough, guilt-free. And that’ll never be the worst thing to ever happen to me.
“I fucking wish I could share his name,” Trini cackles, “Fucking NDA! Anyway, you might get a look at his face. But apparently he’s a virgin.
His friend is setting all this up for him.
He wants someone pretty; that was his only stipulation on looks.
Thank goodness he didn’t ask for huge tits, or you'd be out. He wants you just to lie there and let him take his time. Use you or whatever. He said it’s not gonna be out of pocket; he just doesn’t want you to talk to him.
Nerves, I guess. Maybe his little buddy has problems staying upright. ”
“That’s it?” Thirty grand to lie there and think about Love Island while he works up a boner? It’s too good to be true.
“Yup.” She pops the P gleefully.
“When?”
“Sunday night. Apparently, he’s flying into town that day for a business meeting on Monday.”
Probably a tech guy. I tap my teeth with my cute press-ons.
I can get a blowout Friday as I’d planned.
Brighten my ash gray tips. I’ll call Denise for an emergency wax tonight.
My vulva should be all healed up for work on Sunday.
I had planned a dermaplaning facial for Saturday; luckily, there’s no healing time for that.
“Okay. I’ll do it. Text me the info.”
“Yes, queen! We’re gonna need to meet up for drinks after this one.”
I tap out of the call and sit staring out of my windows for a while.
I see the stadium, and Beau Bradley pops into my mind unbidden.
An image of him from high school, not the pro photos they share online or on TV before a game, where he stares darkly into the camera, his jaw clenched and lantern-shaped, with a couple of days' growth of dark beard. No, I see him running backward away from me, eyes a warm brown and face still smooth and youthfully plump. He’s grinning widely, his teeth perfect because his mom made him get braces in the seventh grade.
His hair is short on the sides, a few inches longer on top.
He started growing it out during our senior year.
Catch, he’d called out. And he’d thrown the ball at me, knowing I sucked at sports and claimed period pain to get out of PE class as often as I could.
I screamed and waved my hands ineffectually, nearly tripping on the oversized jeans that got dragged under the heel of my sneakers as I walked.
The ball plopped on the grass next to me.
You jerk! I cried back, but he was already laughing, and I couldn’t help the smile that pulled at my lips.
I don’t want to smile. I want to tell him the things Peter does to me at night when my mom’s at work.
I want to scream and shout and call the cops.
But then Beau would know. He would know it all, and I couldn’t stand for him to stop looking at me just as he is right now.
Would he find me disgusting? Dirty? Or would he treat me like glass and baby me?
He would pity me, and because of that, I wouldn’t be able to trust anything that happened between us.
He would lose something too, I know it. That innocence that came with being the beloved football player with involved parents and a stable home would disappear. And it would all be my fault.
So I didn’t say anything. I pretended to be fine. But it managed to seep out in other ways. In my suffering schoolwork. The grungy clothes that I hoped would make me unattractive to Peter. My unwashed body. None of it worked.
The one time I tried to tell my mom, she slapped my face, and I had a fat lip for days.
Don’t you ever insinuate something so vile, you ungrateful little bitch.
I’m finally happy, and you want to ruin it for me?
What is wrong with you? She’d hissed like a snake, strands of her brown hair vibrating.
I hid away from Beau and played hooky at school, watching from my window as he waited for me outside, looking hurt and confused whenever I didn’t show up.
Beau Bradley girlfriend. I press search.
There are a few pictures of him with women.
The gossip columns say he’s too focused on the sport to date.
But I see a grainy cell phone shot of him with Malia Sesay at some San Francisco club.
They’re huddled up close, and his arm is around her waist. A fucking supermodel.
Any itch I had to send him a message fades.
Oh, hey, remember me? Your former best friend, who you caught being raped by your neighbor?
Thanks, by the way, for that. And for the video.
He probably would’ve gotten away with it if it weren’t for you.
You saved my life. Probably saved a bunch of other kids in the future, too.
Anywaysssss, I’m a hooker now. Yeah, I know, that’s not PC.
I’m a sex worker. Yeah, I fuck people for money, and I’m super good at it.
So, would you wanna catch up sometime? I’d love to see your parents again. No? Okay, cool, good talking to you.
The sun is starting to set, the heat of the day waning. It’s my favorite hour to get out and people-watch. I may not have any real-life friends, but I still like to touch grass and brush shoulders with other humans—an easy distraction from thinking about the past.
“I need to go for a fucking walk.”