Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
And he gave me none of himself in return.
“Get out of me,” I said when he finished, using my limp arms to push myself up.
“Stop.” He grasped my hips with enough force to still me, and pushed himself deeper. “Stay there.”
“Get out of me,” I said more loudly.
He slapped my ass. Hard. “Don’t fucking order me around. I’ll get out of you when I fucking feel like it.”
Escorting wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to be violent and antagonistic.
“I’m not seeing you again,” I said, and this time I meant it.
His fingers moved a little on my hips. “Did you learn anything just now?” he asked. “Anything at all?”
“I learned that we hate each other, and that you’re a stalker.”
He made a gruff noise that sounded like disagreement and pulled out of me, and got up off the bed. He went in the bathroom and started the shower. I stayed where I was, too heavy with self-loathing and depression to ever move again.
“Chere,” he yelled, when I didn’t join him. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t spend any more time with him right now.
I heard him get in the shower, heard the change in the water’s patter. I got up and dressed in record time. My eyes fell on his briefcase. What was his name? What did he do?
If I went digging through his briefcase, and he caught me, what would he do to me? I was afraid to find out.
Anyway, I knew he wouldn’t leave any identifying information in there. If there was anything in that briefcase I could use, he wouldn’t have left me unattended with it. His wallet was with his clothes in the bathroom. That might have provided some identifying information, and I could probably go in there and grab it before he could stop me, but then I’d be no better than him. A dishonest, aggressive stalker. I wasn’t sure I cared about his name anymore. I didn’t want to care. I didn’t want to see him again.
I made sure I had all my shit, and then I whipped open the curtains with the same snapping flourish he’d used to draw them closed.
“Chere,” he yelled from the bathroom. “Get your ass in here.”
The water shut off and I ran for the door. I didn’t check to see if our session had timed out. If he didn’t want to pay me because I left early, he didn’t have to.
Sometimes running like hell was more important than money. Sometimes saving yourself was more important than sticking around for the payout, and this qualified as one of those times.
In Between
The whole way home, I looked over my shoulder, like W might be coming after me. He wasn’t, of course. He might be angry, but he’d have to hash things out with Henry, not me. I wasn’t seeing him again. I’d let Henry straighten everything out.
When I let myself into the loft, it was almost a relief to find Simon passed out, snoring, on the couch. I couldn’t handle a blowup tonight, or some drug-fueled drama. He’d probably be a mess later though, when he woke up. I’d sleep in the spare room, with the door locked.
What had happened to me, that I was sleeping behind locked doors? Why was this my life now? Because you’re weak, and a loser. Why don’t you change?
Maybe walking out on W was a start. Maybe it was the first step in figuring out my shit. Getting Simon under control was the second part, but that wasn’t all me. He had to get to the point of wanting to change too. Maybe this upcoming show would do it. I hoped so. I hoped so desperately hard.
I tiptoed through the living room and kitchen, past my snoring partner, into his artist’s studio. I looked at all his works-in-progress while I had the time and privacy to do it. I wondered if they were good enough to bring him back, to revitalize his career. The thing was, they looked crappier than his earlier works. Sprawling, messy, unfocused.
I was so tired. I needed a shower. I stood under the hot water, but it didn’t wash away the soreness of my nipples or the welts on the backs of my legs. My pussy was still wet and my jaw was still sore from the blowjob, and I didn’t even get any poetry or kisses to make it better. That was my fault, but first steps required sacrifice. Getting better required sacrifice. I stayed in that shower and washed W off my skin until the water started to run cold, and I still didn’t feel like I’d gotten rid of him.
I ate a little bit of leftover Chinese from the refrigerator, and I would have made coffee, but I was afraid the smell would wake up Simon. I grabbed a bottle of water and a self-help book about codependency, and went to hunker down in my locked room.