But no, the guy across the street was heading toward another girl whose name Two didn’t know, and who looked nothing like Two. The guy who had contacted Darren had known exactly who he was looking for. This couldn’t be her man. Her client.
Darren insisted they call them “clients.” Never “Johns” or, God forbid, “tricks.” Two supposed he thought that girls who were forced to behave in a professional manner when it came to the little things would do so instinctively for the big things.
Two leaned against a lamp-post, looking down the street at the glowing pink neon perched in the window of an adult bookstore, waiting for the night to begin.
* * *
Two dragged at her cigarette, blew smoke out into the October night. There was no hint of rain in the air, and barely a cloud in the sky. The moon was a bright sliver, not the bloody, bloated full October moon that would arrive later in the month.
Normally Two used this time to prepare, strengthening herself mentally and emotionally to deal with whatever lay ahead. Tonight, though … tonight was different. It was more than the simple promise of an extra ration. In truth, this was already slipping her mind. Tonight her heart was beating a little too fast. Her lungs pulled in air differently. The smoke from her cigarette, which had not bothered her in years, made her cough. She felt shaky, without shaking. Wound up tight in anticipation of something, but unable to determine what that something was.
Tonight felt new.
The client, whoever he was, was late. Two had been standing at her corner for nearly half an hour. Three cigarettes consumed, she loaded up on nicotine. She guessed it would do no good, that she’d be dying for one within a few hours, but the instinct was always to try. It never struck Two as odd that she was, and had been, as much a slave to these little white sticks as ever she would be to heroin. Two had not gone for more than a day without a cigarette since her eleventh birthday. They were as much a part of her life now as breathing, but they could be easily bought or stolen, and Two had never wanted for them like she had for heroin.
She’d give him five more minutes, and then she was going to her normal corner, to try to pick up some work. Coming home to Darren empty-handed was beyond unacceptable; it was nearly suicide. This would not be a problem tonight; she looked good in what she was wearing. Two dragged at her cigarette, tasted flame hitting filter, threw the butt into the street.
It was at this moment that she became aware of the presence behind her. Before she could move, before even she could process this feeling, a hand gripped her shoulder.
“Hello Two,” said a voice, and behind it Two seemed to hear everything and nothing, now and forever, love and lust and hate. She drew in a gasp without meaning to, a surge of adrenaline bursting through her body. The touch of the hand scared her, and called to her, like driving by the scene of an accident.
Then it was over. The hand was a hand. The voice was a voice. She turned and looked at the man who stood behind her, wondering how he knew her name. In the momentary confusion that had swept over her, this was the question she’d clutched at to maintain her grip on reality. Darren never gave out his girls’ real names, nor allowed them to do so. It was forbidden. Clients had called her Ashley for the entire time she had been in his service. How did he know her name?
He towered over her. Maybe six feet, maybe more. Handsome face, tightened with what might be cruelty, what might simply be intensity. Jet black hair cropped close to his head, pale skin, oddly luminescent eyes that seemed tinged with yellow, the color of dust in a shaft of sunlight. He wore a black T-shirt, black jeans, black trench coat. His thin, lanky body seemed unaffected by the gusting wind, like he could not even feel it. He did not flinch as their eyes met, only stared calmly. Two couldn’t look away.
“I am Theroen.” It was a proclamation. It was the quiet whisper of a lover.
“Theroen.” Two was breathless, unable to proceed. Oh, I’m drowning, she thought, I can’t breathe.
She grasped again at her question. “Theroen. How did you know my name?”
Theroen smiled, looked away from her for the first time, glancing down the street to their left. Two followed his gaze, and felt again that surge of adrenaline, this time from excitement, and pleasure.
Not twenty yards away was a piece of art in chrome and fiberglass, black like his clothes, black like hers. Two’s father was an auto mechanic, and she knew her cars, but this was not a vehicle with which she was familiar. The lines of the car seemed Italian.
Without meaning to, without even thinking about it, she moved forward, looking over the car. Classic styling wrapped around a modern dash with air conditioning, an eight-speaker stereo, and scooped bucket seats. The prancing horse gave it away: Ferrari. It was immaculate. The convertible top was open, and she could smell the leather from six feet away.
“What kind is it?” Her voice was a whisper, and she realized that he couldn’t possibly hear her. She had moved away from him, and had not heard him follow.
Yet when she turned, he was behind her, and he smiled again, a predator’s smile, beautiful and dangerous like his car.
“It’s a Ferrari Five-Fifty Barchetta, or it was when I purchased it. I’ve made some upgrades.” Theroen said. Two was again taken aback by the quality of his voice. She did not know the words tone or inflection, and might not have used them if she did. There was something inexplicably aged about the way he spoke, yet the man who stood before her could be no more than five or six years her senior.
“Barchetta,” she echoed, peering at the tires, the lights, the smooth curves of the wheel wells and powerful side scoops of the doors, the reflection of the city lights in its flawless shine. She wanted to ride in it. Oh, yes. She thought at that moment she wanted this more than anything before in her life.
Theroen took her hand now, and again that flash of fear and desire. He led her around to the passenger side, opened the door, gestured for her to sit down. Two let out some sound of disbelief. Surely this was not right. She was a whore. A junkie. A thing to be used and discarded. This car was beyond her, above her, in some other world.
Theroen only pressed gently on her shoulder, still smiling his dark grin. Two sat down. The leather enveloped her like a second skin. Theroen shut her door, and Two took the seat belt in a daze, buckled herself in. Theroen sat down next to her, turned the key, glanced over at her as the engine roared to life.
“Are you ready to leave?” He asked. The finality in his voice caught Two’s attention, the stress on this final word unmistakable. The words she had been about to say caught in her throat. She swallowed hard, unable to speak, an indescribable emotion welling up inside of her. Looking up at him, grinning, laughing though tears had sprung to her eyes. She nodded her head, emphatic. Yes, she was ready to leave. Yes, she wanted to leave. Yes.
Theroen’s smile became a wide-toothed grin for one brief moment, and there was something strange about it, but it flashed and was gone too quickly for inspection. He put the car in gear and gently reversed, pulling out of his parking space and aligning the car. He revved the engine once.
Two glanced down the street and to the left, and saw that Molly had come outside to sit on the stoop and smoke a cigarette. The younger girl was watching Two and her client with interest.
Look at me, Molly, Two thought, I’m ready to leave. Molly seemed to sense this. She grinned and waved.
Theroen stomped on the gas pedal. Two was thrown back in her seat, unable to contain a laughing cry of fear and pleasure and joy, joy like she hadn’t felt in years.
* * *
Theroen took her through Brooklyn.
He drove as if anticipating not only every traffic light, but every possible interaction with anything at all. Never braking, never needing to swerve, he cut through traffic, making every green light, changing lanes before it even became apparent that he needed to. He guided the car with preternatural ability, at speeds well above what should have been safe. Two enjoyed every moment of it.
“Where are we
going?” she asked at last, unable to sit quietly. She was too excited, nervous, full of something approaching manic glee.
“Food.” Theroen glanced at her. “Nice place. You’ll like it.”
“Food?” Two asked, bemused. At its core, she knew well that evening represented a business arrangement. Never before had a client taken her out for food first. Never before had a client done much of anything other than what was expected.
“Food.” Theroen nodded, and smiled his strange smile.
Pulling away from East New York now, moving west. Four miles, maybe five, the neighborhood began to change. Brownstones replaced chop shops, the streets grew tree-lined. High-end restaurants, Italian and Japanese and Turkish, packed with young men and women, sprung up. Two watched them, jealous of these people out eating and drinking, going on dates, living their normal lives. Theroen made a left turn and continued down the street, the car drawing stares from everyone they passed. They don’t know who I am! Two thought. They don’t know who I am! They just know I’m in this car.
Not herself, not the whore, not the slave. Not the girl who fucked for money and to earn the drug she could no longer live without. Just an anonymous girl in an amazing car with a handsome young man. Was this who she was supposed to be? Was this what life was supposed to be like?
Sudden emotion, so strong it was nearly pain: here only a few miles from where she lived was a world just beyond her grasp, a world that she would never have. This night would end. This pleasure would not last. Two took a shuddery breath, fighting back the onslaught of depression, the coming of tears. Theroen slowed the car, looked over at her.
“Don’t.” Not a request, not a command. Almost a piece of advice. Two looked up at him.
“I can’t help it,” she said. “I’m not used to this.”
“Then you should focus on enjoying it.” There was no sense of emotion behind Theroen’s words. He continued to look at her with his casual, nearly disinterested smile.
“I can’t think like that.”
“No?”
“I’m just a–”
“Stop.” He cut her off, suddenly intense, the first time she’d seen his face animate, his expression change. He pulled the car over the side of the road and turned again to her. When she met his eyes, they seemed to pull at her, draw her in, command her entire attention. She felt her heart speed, her breathing deepen. Fear? Lust? She couldn’t be sure; she knew only that she could not look away.
“Who you were yesterday, this morning, two hours ago is immaterial. Understand that. Believe it. I do not choose to measure your worth by past actions. Of all of the women in this city that I could be with tonight, I am with you.”
Two considered this. “Why am I here, Theroen? You don’t need me. There’s no way you need to pay for what I’m selling.”
“Does it matter? Is it worth worrying about? Will it change what is?”
“No.” Two said, and was somewhat surprised to find she meant it. She felt the grip of despair loosen.
“Good. We’re here.” Theroen gestured to the right of the car. Two saw that they had stopped in front of a small Italian restaurant. There was a raised terrace in front, where people were dining under heaters, their tables covered with long white cloths, silverware resting beside china plates. Most of them had turned to stare in amazement at the Ferrari.
“Does it bother you that everyone is constantly staring at your car?” Two asked, stepping out onto the curb. Theroen grinned.
“No,” he said. “It keeps them from looking at me.”
* * *
The restaurant was dim, lit by small sconces on the wall and by candles flickering on each table. It was warm, and smelled like herbs, garlic, and oil. The woman at the door raised an eyebrow at Two’s appearance, but another woman behind her recognized Theroen and quickly ushered them to a table near the back. Theroen requested a bottle of wine with an Italian name and watched Two as she studied her menu, seemingly uninterested in his own.
The waiter returned with their wine, and Two regarded it for a moment with a small amount of trepidation. Beer she knew, and hard liquor, but wine was a new experience, and she wasn’t sure what to expect.
The drink, a Chianti, bit gently at her tongue and spread warmly over it. Two smiled, relaxed. Theroen nodded slightly at this, as if to himself.
“Good?” he questioned. Two nodded. He smiled, sipped at his own glass, watched her with his preternatural calm.
“You look lovely,” he said at last. Two felt herself blushing, a reaction she would not normally have expected from herself. Compliments from clients were common, nothing to be surprised at. This, though, felt heartfelt. More to the point, it seemed as if Theroen was truly enjoying her as a person rather than an object. She smiled, lowered her eyes, took another sip of wine, unsure how to respond.
A waiter arrived, asking if they were ready to order. Theroen waved him away, saying he didn’t want anything, directing the attention toward Two.
“Whatever you want,” he replied to her questioning look. “Don’t concern yourself with me, I’m not hungry.”
Normally, Two would have demurred, insisted that she couldn’t eat if he wasn’t going to, that she would feel odd. Normally, that would be the truth. Tonight she was hungry, and felt at ease, as if she could do or say anything with Theroen. Around him, she felt both as odd and as completely natural as possible.
She ordered chicken with angel-hair pasta in a red-wine sauce. The waiter took their menus and left them alone. Theroen sipped again at his wine, his eyes glinting above the glass, never leaving Two.
They were quiet for nearly fifteen minutes. Looking, drinking, enjoying the air, the wine, each other’s presence. Theroen did not prompt her for conversation, and Two did not volunteer. The silence was oddly comfortable, nearly intimate. She seemed to fall into Theroen’s eyes, as if they need not talk, as if he knew what she would have said. Finally, Theroen broke the silence.
“Where are your parents?”
The question should have upset her, sudden and personal as it was, but Theroen had delivered it in a tone which belied any judgment. It was nothing but a simple question, and Two answered it as such.
“One’s dead. The other might as well be.”
“And this man who … employs you? What of him?” a slight sneer, not directed at her. Two laughed slightly, turned her eyes down momentarily, not from embarrassment so much as because it seemed she should.
“I hate him.”
“Have you any friends?”
At this, Two looked momentarily pained. “A few. They’re … We’re …”
“Estranged?”
“Something like that.”
Theroen nodded, regarded her again with inscrutable calm.
“Why do you ask?” Two couldn’t help it. She wanted to hear it out loud, wanted to know if the intentions he seemed to be so clearly communicating were true. Theroen shook his head slightly, looked away for a moment, smiled his maddening smile.
“The food is here,” he said, glancing over her shoulder.
So it was, and it was very good. Theroen watched her eat, sipping at his wine. Two had subsisted for years on instant noodles, microwave burritos, and fast-food value meals. She relished the pasta, with its dark wine sauce, full of tomato and garlic, herbs and oil, tiny bites of chicken.
This was the best meal she had ever eaten, but she didn’t eat a lot, ever mindful of the fact that this evening had a predetermined end. Sex on a full stomach had never been something she enjoyed, and for once Two wanted to enjoy the act. She felt a connection with Theroen, too strong to ignore, and found herself looking forward to the rest of the night, whatever it might bring.
Dessert, a light pastry with exquisite dark chocolate hidden away inside, came all too quickly and with few words spoken, dinner was over. Two noticed that Theroen paid for his dinner in cash, and that the tip he left appeared extraordinarily large. Ferraris, fancy restaurants, gigantic tips. A life unlike anything she ha
d ever experienced. It was fascinating.
“What do you do for a living?” she asked as they left.
Theroen smiled, said nothing, held the door open for her. Two sat down.
“Come on. I’m curious. Are you mafia or something? I won’t mind.”
Theroen laughed. “No, not that.”
“Then what?”
“Let’s just say that I’ve had a lot of good training on how to invest, from someone who’s done it for an awfully long time.”
Theroen backed the car out. Two mused for a moment, then laughed. “Will I get any straight answers from you tonight?”
Theroen’s eyes gleamed. “Anything’s possible.”
Whatever response Two might have had was swallowed by the rush of wind as the car roared into motion.
* * *
The road, again, and that same feeling of complete control emanating from Theroen. They moved west on Flatbush Avenue, crossing over the Manhattan bridge and into Chinatown. Theroen cut a haphazard course across the island, avoiding heavy traffic and eventually joining with the fast-moving, late-evening traffic on the island’s western side. They passed Trinity Cemetery, and Two thought again about sitting at her window and looking out over the rows of gravestones, waiting for death. Right now those moments seemed far away.
They left the city and began the drive north through Westchester County along Route 87. This was further out of New York than Two had ever been before, and she supposed she should worry about how she would get back to Brooklyn, but found it difficult to care. She was racing along the highway in a Ferrari, the distance between her and her unsavory past widening at nearly a hundred miles per hour and, for the moment, everything felt right.
Theroen neither spoke, nor turned on the radio, but simply drove in silence. It seemed to Two that he was giving her this opportunity to enjoy the car, the ride, the night. A small idea, not unwelcome, began to grow within her mind: Two thought that he was also allowing her the time to say goodbye.
The II AM Trilogy Collection Page 3
