Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jennifer
The next two weeks follow a similar pattern of Mase walking me home in the early morning hours.
Sometimes we talk about mundane things, like the weather or work at the gym. Sometimes I’m too drained from the night to open my mouth. Sometimes I sit with him on the steps. Sometimes I resist the temptation.
I’ve been tempted to invite him inside, but ultimately, I decide against it each time.
There’s a little buzz of anticipation fluttering in my belly at the end of each shift, wondering if I’ll see him standing there, looking alluring while leaning against the brick wall, shoulders wide, jaw defined, hair tousled.
I haven’t asked him again why he still insists on walking me home, but the question lingers, popping up every time I see him waiting.
Regardless of why, there’s a part of my weary soul that relaxes and takes comfort in his presence.
A seed of trust was planted the moment he apologized for grabbing my wrist that first night, and it has been growing with each of his altruistic acts.
Unfortunately, with each show of kindness, I hate myself a little more for allowing the comfort and companionship he gives. I hate myself for allowing that little bit of peace and warmth I’ve been feeling whenever I’m around him.
He would absolutely hate me if he knew the truth.
I can’t tell him.
He would definitely speak up, and Dylan would find out I talked, then my father would lose everything, and all those people would be out of a job. Everyone else would suffer while the person who should pay would walk away, whistling a cheery tune.
And so, I keep my mouth shut, torturing myself with each unsaid word.
Sometimes when I’m lying in bed, after Mase has finally left for the night, the memory of Jason’s death will pop up to haunt me, and my mind will try to claim it as my fault.
I now understand why Dylan harassed him so much. It was a deflection tactic to act so outraged on my behalf, all while hiding his despicable crime. I wonder if Mase endured the same level of harassment?
I ended up hiring the private investigator I stopped in to see the other day, and I talked to him yesterday. Bill is a burly man with a handlebar moustache and tattoos that crawl up his neck to the back of his skull.
He told me Jacob is being released in three weeks. If I hadn’t disappeared and changed my number and address, I would have automatically been informed as the date crept closer.
My stomach has been unsettled ever since. Not because I’m not relieved that he’ll be out—because I am—but because it means he’s served ten years in prison for something he didn’t do.
I asked Bill if he’d be able to keep me informed about where Jacob ends up living and any other information he can find for me.
I watch the steam rise from where my hair is wrapped around my curling iron, releasing the section from the wand when it’s been long enough.
I’ve been dreading today for the past few weeks—months, really—each day leading up to it like a countdown on a bomb.
It’s my night in the private rooms, and Chester has five people booked for me already, each for forty-five-minute sessions. Who knows how many people I’ll end up dancing for in there by the end of the night.
I can do this.
I willed something to happen, begged for the universe to intervene, even though it shouldn’t.
But all I got was Mase plopped on my path to walk me home, along with all the guilt associated with it.
I don’t know why I’m surprised by that. It’s rather fitting, really.
The heavy thumps of my heart bashing against my ribcage sound in my ears as I grab another section of hair and wrap it around the wand while staring at myself in the mirror.
My gray eyes are dull and lifeless tonight, not that they’re usually full of life these days.
But even the makeup lights surrounding the mirror can’t brighten them up.
I tried my best to cover the dark circles surrounding them, but they’re painfully present under this lighting. At least it will be darker in the room.
Darker. Secluded. Closed in.
My stomach roils.
I can do this.
Melody, wearing a purple glittery bikini set, comes up behind me and grips the back of my chair. “You doing okay, girl?”
I nod, forcing a smile that looks a little demented. “I’m fine.”
Melody clucks her tongue. “You’re a bad liar, honey.
” Taking the curler from me, she takes over doing my hair.
“I’m going to do my best to stay nearby, so if something happens like the last time .
. .” She gives me a pointed look through the mirror that says everything without actual words.
“But there’s only so much I can do without Chester throwing a fit. ”
That familiar pang stabs my chest from her kindness. “It’s okay. You don’t need to do that.”
“I know I don’t need to.” After checking her watch, she curses and hands the curler back to me. “I need to get out there.” With a final lingering glance at me, she dips her chin, then walks through the door of the changing room.
I can do this.
As I finish up the last section of hair, I can’t help but wonder if I should have attended another one of Mase’s classes before tonight, in case I need to defend myself.
I’ve been resisting going, telling myself that I can’t accept his help to better my life more than I already have.
During one of our nights on my front steps, he told me that feeling physically stronger helps with feeling safer, then suggested I do a few workout sessions each week to improve my strength.
He even told me about some of the female trainers at his gym who might be a good fit for me if I were interested.
Of course, I said I wouldn’t be doing that.
I lean closer to the mirror, applying the last bit of my makeup just as Charity—one of the girls I’ve rarely spoken to—comes and leans against my vanity beside me. “Hey.”
She’s shorter than me, with petite features that make her look young and innocent. Very pretty. Her natural hair color is light brown, but she always wears a different colored wig for her shifts. Tonight, it’s a blue bob.
“Hi,” I answer, popping open my pink lipstick and glancing at her through the mirror.
“You’re in a private room tonight, right?”
Pressing my lips together to make sure the color is even, I turn and look up at her. “Yes. You?”
Charity shakes her head, then leans closer, looking over her shoulder as if to check if anyone is nearby. “I have something if you want a little help . . .”
“What?” I ask, my brows pinching together.
“I heard through the grapevine that it can be pretty tough for you.” Her voice lowers further. “If you want, I have something you can take so you’re relaxed.”
I pull back. “You mean drugs?”
Diluted memories flash through my mind: darkness and dizziness, the damp ground beneath me, limbs that don’t work.
The last time drugs were in my system, I didn’t have any control over myself, and I was sexually assaulted.
“Shh.” Charity gives me a disapproving look before peeking over her shoulder again.
“You know Chester likes us sober when we’re working.
It’s just . . . some days are tough for me, too.
So, I take one of these, and it helps me get through it, you know?
” She holds out her hand and reveals a little pill.
“What is it?”
Shrugging, she leans closer. “I’m not too sure. I just know that after taking it, I don’t give a fuck, and I feel really chill and loopy.”
“Loopy doesn’t sound good,” I mumble, eyeing the pill in her hand.
“I don’t mean like losing control of your senses. It’s more like feeling lightheaded, free.”
“But you don’t even know what it is?” Even as I stare at her hand with wariness, I can’t help the temptation snaking through me, whispering to take it and not feel so much. Just for one night.
Be free.
“No. But Sascha takes them, too.”
My eyes flicker to hers. “Is that supposed to be a winning argument?” I don’t know much about Sascha, except that she actually likes giving private lap-dances, and she’s been here longer than most.
The fact she gets requested a lot is probably something to be noted. She either takes whatever this is because she’s requested a lot, or she’s requested because she takes one of these pills and is more “free” with them.
Charity sighs, exasperated. “Look, I heard the private rooms were a struggle for you, and I just wanted to help, okay? I’m not some pill-popping junkie or a pusher.
” She slaps her hand with the pill palm-down on my vanity.
“You can think on it for a minute and take it or leave it. But if you’re not going to take it, you come find me and give it back.
Those things aren’t free, you know.” She walks away, leaving the pill on the vanity.
It sits there like a little beacon of . . . what? Hope? Hope that I can make it through the night without breaking down?
Or is it hopelessness that it symbolizes? Will it be so amazing, so freeing, that I don’t know how to get through a regular night without one?
I grab the pill, open the drawer in front of me, and shove it in there before pushing back.
It’s a bad idea.
I can do this.