He stared at me, and I stared back at him. What did he want? Why did he think it was okay to go from flat-out rape and torture to these post-sex gazing sessions? These gentle caresses lying beside each other on the bed?
“Something’s wrong with you.” I spread my fingers over his cheek where I’d slapped him earlier. “You’re a horrible person.”
He didn’t flinch, didn’t frown. He only covered my hands with his. “I know I’m a horrible person. Do you want those kisses now?”
Damn him. Yes, I wanted them, and I hated myself for wanting them, because he wasn’t nice. He was horrible. I know you’re all pouty and hurt because you didn’t get enough attention, because I didn’t fawn all over your pretty dress and your fucking lingerie. It was all true, and I hated that he said things like that to my face, that he called me on all my faults and insecurities. He made me feel awful.
And then he held me and kissed me like this.
His fingers eased along my neck, gentling me, collecting me as his lips played over mine. When I responded to his caresses, he pulled me closer and upped the violence, nipping me, biting my lower lip.
I opened my hands on his chest, needing this closeness and connection, even though I knew it for a lie. He was so handsome, so sexy, and he could sweep me away so easily if he wanted to. It wasn’t fair. Every session, he tormented me and tied me into emotional knots, and then kissed and caressed me afterward, like that took away everything he’d done to me. It didn’t.
His kisses weren’t sweet, or passionate. They were lies. I turned my head away so his lips ended up on my cheek. I closed my hands and drew them away from his chest.
“What?” he said.
“I don’t want to kiss you.”
“I’m paying you, and I want to kiss you.”
“You’re mean to me.” I hated how childish and whiny I sounded. He made me feel childish and whiny and ridiculous and desperate for his small gifts of affection.
“I don’t understand you,” he said with mock annoyance. “Last week you were mad because I raped you. Now you’re mad because I choked you, beat you, and sodomized you. I don’t know how to make you happy.”
“This isn’t a joke. It’s not funny.”
“No, it’s not funny. It’s sexy. You enjoyed everything we did today.”
I moved to get up and he pulled me back down. I fought, hitting out at him, but as usual he was one step ahead of me, deflecting and trapping my hands.
“You need to stop hitting me,” he said in a stern tone. “I mean it. I’m paying you. Show some respect.”
I gazed into his eyes, trying to see the humor, the irony. Trying to understand. “Are you for real right now?”
“I’m very real, and I’m very honest. Why won’t you be honest and admit that you like these scenes we do together? The world won’t end because you lose yourself in a little rough sex. I don’t hurt you. I don’t really hurt you,” he qualified, when I gave him a look.
“You hurt me every time.”
“Sexy games. I’m a sadist. It’s what I like.” He touched my cheeks, dragged my face up to his. “And I like you because you fight me,” he murmured against my lips. “Even when you submit, you fight me. That’s a hard thing to find. Do you know how happy I was when I found you, Chere? After our first session at the W, I went home and masturbated so hard I almost injured myself, and then I called your pimp and set up our next date. I couldn’t wait to see you again. You made me so happy that day. You make me so fucking happy every time you struggle and fight me.”
I gazed into his intent blue eyes. His sadistic blue eyes.
“What’s the reality?” I asked. “The way you hate on me when we have sex—”
“I don’t hate on you.”
“Or this now, this kindness and sweetness? What’s the reality between us?”
“There’s no reality between us. You know that.”
I turned away from him in a huff. He turned me back to him and this time he didn’t look sweet.
“Okay, here’s the reality,” he said. “You excite me. You push the right buttons for me. But you need to remember something, starshine: you work for me. I don’t want to deal with any of your girly, emotional shit. Do you like me or do you hate me? Who the fuck cares? I pay you so I don’t have to deal with that.”
“By ‘girly, emotional shit,’ do you mean crying when you’re anally raping me?”
He leaned his head on his hand, like I was so misguided and unreasonable, and had to be set straight. “You weren’t crying from the assfucking,” he said. “You were crying because you dressed up for me, and I didn’t care. Because I don’t want you to dress up for me. That’s not our dynamic. I’m not your lover or your boyfriend or your best pal or anything like that, and I never will be. Please remember all this, so we don’t have to go over it again.”
Oh, I was going to remember every word. I was going to remember that he was a megalomaniac and an asshole, and that I shouldn’t have warm and fuzzy feelings for him. Maybe I’d read a little too much into his kindness at the end of our last session. He was probably just being nice so I wouldn’t call the police.
“I think you’re giving yourself a bit too much credit,” I said coolly. “I was a prostitute for a good decade before you came along, and I’ll still be turning tricks when you’re no longer my client. You don’t mean as much to me as you think. I dressed up to please you as a client. I’m friendly and conversational because most clients like that. Please remember all this, so we don’t have to go over it again.”
Ha. I mentally dropped the mic, but he didn’t react to my sassy comeback. He was staring at my lips.
“I’m paying you a lot of money for your exclusive service. I want oral without condoms,” he said.
“I can’t. That’s against company policy.”
“So is exclusivity. Anything can be bought.” His head was still propped on one hand. The other hand traced lazy trails up and down my thigh, occasionally meandering over a sensitive welt. “What do you want in exchange for full access to your warm, wet mouth?”
“Your name,” I said. “Your real name.”
Irritation twisted his features. He gave me a look.
I shrugged. “I’d need an STD test, and that would have your name on it.”
“You don’t need an STD test. For fuck’s sake, I’m as concerned about protection as you are. I’m clean.”
“If you’re so concerned about protection, why do you want to have oral without condoms?”
“Because I know you’re clean, and I’m clean.”
I glared at him. It was the principle of the thing.
“Okay, fine,” he said in exasperation. “I’ll show you a clean test, but it’s not going to have my information on it. Your pimp promised me privacy.”
“Weekly tests, if you want to keep doing it.”
He rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Chere. I’m only sleeping with you at the moment.”
“Why should I believe that?”
“Because I’m too self-centered to bother with lies.” His fingers moved up my side and caught my right nipple, and pinched it. “That’s all you want? A clean bill of health? What kind of whore are you? Name a price,” he prompted. “Something reasonable.”
It felt unbearably icky to haggle with him, to talk about money and what I would do for him for money. I felt like a scrabbling stripper again, willing to gyrate my ass as hard as necessary to make the next rent check.
He waited. I waited. I wasn’t going to name a number and he wasn’t either. The truth was, he was already paying me too much.
“Bring me some test results,” I finally said. “And we can go without.”
“Swallowing too, right? No spitting, or I’ll lose my fucking shit with you.”
“And how would that be different from any other session?” I blinked at him, once, twice. “If you want me to swallow your cum, then you’ll just have to force me to do it, won’t you?”
He pinched my nipple agai
n, so hard I pushed him away, which only resulted in a grasping struggle. Of course I lost. He laid over me, still pinching me, still hurting me. “You little flirt.”
I wasn’t the flirt. He was. He was stroking me, kissing me, flirting with me when he was the one who’d just lectured me about client-escort boundaries.
He stood up then and went into the bathroom, and turned on the shower. He’d gotten what he wanted—oral without condoms, pending his test results. No need to lie beside me and pretend to be nice anymore.
“Are you coming in?” he yelled over the water.
Hell no, I wasn’t “coming in.” Boundaries, you asshole. I’d shower after he was gone, because if I went in there now and got in the shower with him, he’d start kissing me and being lovey-dovey and I’d fall for it hook, line, and sinker, which would only give him the chance to mock me again.
I must have fallen asleep to the sound of the shower. By the time I woke, the room was dark and silent. Empty.
I sat up, feeling grungy and unsettled. He’d left the key for me on the table. He always left the key so I could stay if I wanted, but I was looking for something else. My poetry. Why hadn’t he left me any poetry?
I was disappointed enough to turn and look at my back in the mirror. When I didn’t find any words, I inspected my entire body, as if I wouldn’t have woken up while he was writing on me. No. Nothing. Nothing but a bunch of ugly bamboo welts.
Well, this had certainly been an ego-bashing session. I thought he’d at least leave me with some poetry, something he’d picked out especially for this fucked-up moment between us, but he hadn’t, and I was left feeling small and ridiculous again. Ugh.
I took a long shower and tried to summon the glamorous, sexy Miss Kitty from the depths of my despair. Men paid a lot of money to spend time with me, to sleep with me. I had clients who paid just to take me out to dinner and have conversation. I was worth something besides fucking. I was kind and caring. I cared for Simon, who was a mess, and I didn’t complain about it.
I tried to build myself up, tried to avoid pitching into a depressive spiral. I felt a little better once I dried my hair and put my dress back on. It was a gorgeous dress, and it looked good on me. If W didn’t like it, he could go fuck himself. Someone would like it. I decided that I needed to be around people tonight, happy, uncomplicated people who didn’t know me as Miss Kitty, or Chere, or anybody.
I wasn’t a huge drinker, but tonight, I was going to the Gansevoort bar.
In Between
The Gansevoort’s rooftop bar wasn’t the scene it was in its heyday, but it was classy and elegant, and a really nice place to chill out under the night sky. Patrons crowded the tables, but it didn’t feel suffocating, and the sultry, jazzy music created a laid-back vibe. There were plenty of dark places and alcoves to hide in if you felt like it, but I sat at the main bar. I needed to be seen. I wanted to be admired. W was right about that, he was just too mean and sadistic about throwing it in my face.
The bartender smiled at me as he handed over my Old Fashioned. See, a friendly smile. That was all I needed. I felt some taut misery within me begin to uncoil. I knew in my heart that I was more than an escort. I was more than a “whore,” as W was so fond of saying. He didn’t know how much those careless comments poked at my tender spots. Or...wait. He probably did, which was exactly why he said them.
The dirty, depressing truth was that I hated escorting. The money was good, sure, but the work was so soul-deadening. So many of my clients annoyed me or disgusted me, and I felt disgusted by myself when I played along with their fantasies and desires. The whole thing was just so fake. I didn’t feel okay about my life. I didn’t feel authentic when I was playing that damn Miss Kitty role, because that wasn’t me.
And W was the one who’d made me face these truths, with his blatant disdain for my Miss Kitty persona and my profession. W was to blame for ninety-five percent of my unsettled feelings at the moment, which freaking made me mad. It’s not like I could quit and do something else. I had no degrees, no qualifications, no way to do any other job that would pay me enough to support Simon. I had to keep escorting until he made it through this rough patch, but maybe, just maybe, he was on the other side of it. He’d started painting with more energy and inspiration, getting ready for his show at Boris White’s gallery.
If Simon could straighten out his shit, get cleaned up and start making money again, then I’d feel more secure about killing Miss Kitty. I could go back to school, study fashion or art or design, and start a new career where things could be beautiful rather than squalid. W had told me he worked in design. If the two of us could have talked, really talked like friends, I might have asked him about design careers. But no, that wasn’t happening because he wasn’t my friend.
Ugh. I didn’t want to dwell on the distancing lecture he’d delivered down in the hotel room. I didn’t want to get all depressed again. Take a drink, lift your chin, be normal. I looked around at the other bar patrons. What did they do at their jobs? This was New York City, the land of endless opportunities. If I was going to find a real job, I’d have to get on the ball soon. I was pushing thirty, for God’s sake.
I took a big swig of my drink, wanting to quiet my stresses and regrets, wanting to quiet every thought and feeling. Hell, I wanted to get so wasted I could barely stumble back to my hotel room. I was just signaling the bartender for another Old Fashioned when the man next to me turned around and looked at me. His generous mouth tilted up in a smile.
“An Old Fashioned girl, huh?” He studied me more closely. “Wait, do I know you?”
I always freaked out when men asked, “Do I know you?” because my first thought was always, is he a former client? But on closer inspection, I knew he wasn’t. I would have remembered those eyes. They were big and expressive, and looked brown at first, until he leaned closer and I realized they were a very, very dark hazel that looked nice with his curly black hair. He wasn’t model-gorgeous, or hyper-masculine like W, but he was attractive in a friendly kind of way.
I needed friendly, so I smiled and said, “I don’t think I know you. Maybe we live in the same neighborhood or something.”
“Lower Manhattan? Tribeca?”
After playing twenty questions, we figured out that we did live pretty close to each other.
“So what are you doing here?” he asked. “Cocktail after work?”
I almost choked on my drink. Yes, this was essentially a cocktail after work, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. “I was supposed to meet a friend here,” I said, “but she flaked out on me.” Already with the lies. I gestured down at my get-up. “I came out anyway since I was already dressed.”
“Why waste a great dress?” he agreed, giving my outfit the appreciative once-over that W had so angrily withheld.
Ah, he was charming. He had a bit of a Mediterranean look, the way I pictured W before I met him. Actually, he looked a lot like Simon—yes, Simon, remember him, Chere? Your boyfriend?—but I could tell this guy was nothing like Simon. He wasn’t artsy and haunted by demons and complicated. He was clean-cut and well-adjusted, a businessman probably. An ad account exec or something. Maybe a lawyer, for the prosecution, not the defense.
“Are you having a cocktail after work?” I asked, indicating his dark suit and patterned tie.
“Yes. Well, I’m celebrating with some people from work. We nailed down a huge account today, closed out the books—”
He interrupted himself, jabbing a finger in the air.
“And I’m not going to talk about work, because it’s boring, and I’m an accountant, and I try to forget it when I’m in a situation like this.”
“When you’re on the roof of the Gansevoort?” I joked.
“No. When I’m talking to a beautiful woman who’s not looking over my shoulder and planning her exit strategy.”
“You know, I can plan exit strategies without looking over your shoulder. I mean, with eye contact and everything.” I held his gaze and smiled. “So
me of us are that good.”
He gripped his chest, the universal gesture for you wound me. I took the opportunity to check for a ring. Was it possible he was just a normal single guy having a celebratory drink with some coworkers?
A couple of them sidled up, right on cue. He introduced them to me. One was Vince, an older dude with a comb over—the absolute visual of an accountant—and the other was Randy. And they were nice, and all of this was so nice, and I felt like I could have wrapped myself up in this nice normalcy and lived like this for the rest of my life.
“Vince and Randy were great,” I said, after his coworkers left us. “But I don’t know your name.”
He seemed so pleased that I’d asked. “It’s Tony. Tony Pavone.”
No secrecy, no mind games, just the offer of his name. I wanted to kiss him for it. Tony and Pavone rhymed, and he was Italian, and he signaled the bartender casually, not like an asshole, and ordered me another drink. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Chere.” Chere, who shouldn’t be talking to you, because she has a drugged-out, failed artist boyfriend, and bamboo welts all over the backs of her thighs. “Chere Rouzier.”
“And what do you do for a living, Chere Rouzier? Nothing so boring as accounting, I hope.”
“I’m a...consultant. Physical therapy. Physical therapy consultant.” I had no idea if such a thing existed. I headed off any further questioning by saying, “But we shouldn’t talk about work. I need a night where I don’t think about work.”
The bartender brought my drink and Tony held up his glass as if to make a toast. We clinked and gulped, and he was so perfectly normal I wanted to cry.
“My friend is a bitch,” I blurted, meaning W. “And work is a bitch sometimes, you know?”
“Oh, I know. I could tell you some stories. But I won’t.” He grinned at me. “Because we’re not talking about work. Let’s talk about not working. What do you like to do for fun? What would you do all the time, if you didn’t have any other responsibilities in the world?”
Torment Me (Rough Love Part One) Page 11
