From the backseat, my eyes fixated on the very top of the twenty-five stories, staring at each of the high windows, wondering if perhaps the penthouse was my destination tonight. I didn’t know the details of where the thing would take place, only that I was to meet The Man in the main bar. Of course, I’d googled the hotel before I came, researching the exits and the number of floors and restaurants. Like it mattered. I was committed to doing this deed.
I’d made my decision and there was no changing it.
The cabbie turned down Bruno Mars on the radio. “It’s fifty-one dollars,” he said, turning to face me, tapping his fingers on the cracked vinyl of the seat, eyeing me. I knew exactly what he saw. A girl in a party dress and stilettos that he’d picked up in Ratcliffe. A girl who didn’t belong here.
I dug around my purse and pulled out the roll of quarters I’d taken from the shoe box under my bed. I held it out to him. “Sorry about the change.” Things were tight at the moment.
“It works,” he shrugged, taking the five cylinders of change and the extra one dollar bills I’d tucked in there as a tip.
“You headed to a party tonight? Nice place for one,” he commented, giving me another inquisitive glance. Just a nosey man looking for conversation, trying to make the night pass, but it made me fidgety.
“Something like that,” I said, keeping it brief.
“You meeting somebody?”
“Yeah,” I said, and as the truth of that statement settled in me, nausea unfurled in my stomach. I didn’t help that the backseat smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke. The need for fresh air clawed at me, and I opened the door with unsteady hands and stepped out onto the pavement.
A bellhop opened the door for me, giving me an approving once-over as I passed. Fingering my vintage dress, I tugged on the hem. Made of soft black silk with a lace overlay, it had understated class, but was short, as most dresses were on my long legs.
The concierge at the front desk directed me to the hotel bar. With brisk steps, I passed posh sitting areas, a couple of boutiques, and even a steakhouse restaurant. People milled around everywhere, making me nervous about seeing my classmates.
But, it was nearly eight o’clock which meant the BA dance had started an hour ago. I gave myself a pep talk, trying to convince myself I was fine and safe, that no one would see me. But then, all of a sudden, I wasn’t safe when I walked past a ballroom where live music drifted from under the closed double doors. A fancy easel sign outside the room told the story: Welcome Briarcrest Academy Students to the Sweetheart Dance.
Cuba and Spider were both in that room, having fun, living their lives.
I paused, pulse racing as the band cranked up. I told myself to run, to get the hell away from that door, but I waited, catching the sound of a singer belting out a Train song, the timbre sending shivers over me. Had to be Sebastian.
And then I heard Spider’s guitar in the mix. His sound took center stage, reminding me of all the times I’d listened to him play for me in his apartment. He sounded perfect, and in the middle of my own hell, I smiled.
Have to go.
I flew past the door, continuing my journey.
A few more minutes, and I entered the spacious bar, my eyes searching the faces of the men. The Man wasn’t hard to find. In fact, he came to me, his eyes roving over my dress, lingering on my breasts and legs. Perhaps he knew me from my pale face and young age. I mean, he’d wanted a virgin, and at eighteen, I wasn’t one, but he didn’t know. All part of this dangerous game. My heart felt like it might thump right out of my chest at his perusal. I held it together by picturing Sarah and how I’d left her at home, playing checkers with Heather-Lynn as they’d sipped on tea. I clung to that image.
“Dovey?” he asked, stopping in front of me, his body towering over me.
I nodded, hiding a cringe at my name on his lips.
He led me over to a quiet table where he ordered me a martini and him a scotch from a hovering waitress. He hadn’t asked what I wanted, not that I cared.
The waitress sat the mostly clear drink in front of me. I took a sip. And another. It was the first time I’d ever had alcohol.
We made small talk, or he did, and I listened, nodding in all the right places, too numb to really participate. I sensed he liked control by the way he ordered the waitress around, so I lowered my chin and kept my eyes downcast. It wasn’t an act. He didn’t tell me his name, and I didn’t ask.
The waitress kept coming by and refilling his Scotch, giving him appreciative glances each time. He ignored her, his hawk eyes on me. It gave me shivers. Claw-like, I kept my hands in my lap.
Admittedly, he was handsome, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, his blue eyes framed by fine lines that didn’t distract from his visage. He had longish golden-brown hair and a tan face, even though it was winter. I pictured him sailing on a yacht in the Mediterranean or perhaps skiing in Tahoe. He had an ever so slight accent, as if he’d been born abroad, but had moved here as a youth. I knew I wasn’t wrong when I deduced he was Russian like my father. Were they business partners or friends? The thought made me sick. Yet, in the end, it hardly mattered what he looked like or sounded like. Even if he was hideous and freakish, I’d do this thing anyway.
I had to.
We left the bar with his hand on my elbow like a gentleman. We stepped into the elevator, and he hit the fifteenth floor, not the penthouse, although it was obvious The Man had wealth. And for some reason, I didn’t think it was the type of seedy rich I knew from my neighborhood, but rather the society kind, as if he’d been born with a silver spoon. Upper-class. Perhaps he had his own student at BA. I stiffened at that thought.
The elevator was a wall of mirrors, and I found it hard to meet my own eyes, instead studying the expensive swirl of the marble tile. I thought about my life and the repercussions of tonight. I reminded myself it would be over soon, and I could carry on with my dreams because I refused to lose sight of my goal. Because no matter what people may think, there are no black or white decisions, and there are way more than fifty shades of grey.
There are millions.
We all travel life’s highway, making good and bad choices based on upbringing and beliefs. And, in the end, we have to be able to live with what we’ve done.
It’s how we live with our choices that count. And I wanted to believe I could live with this.
The elevator opened, and we walked to a room at the end of the hall. And because I’m a smart girl, I didn’t miss that it was close to the stairwell if I had to make a run for it.
The unknown taunted me. I had no idea what he intended.
We went inside the hotel room, greeted by a sumptuous den area with a couch, chairs, and a large television. My feet carried me to the tastefully decorated bedroom, where I imagined it would happen. I opened my purse and set out several condoms on the night stand.
This was it.
I stood there for a moment, taking in the heavy drapery that hid the outside world from the little scenario we would do. The heater kicked on, its hum loud enough to muffle a scream. I inhaled and the underlying scent of Pine Sol and lemons came to me, reminding me a little of the dance studio, and right there in the midst of the ugliness, I felt comforted.
I felt a small measure of peace.
But it deflated quickly as a sense of dawning horror crept up to me, as if on little cat feet, reminding me that after all these years of clawing my way out of Ratcliffe, I’d become a whore like my mama. Right then, I pleaded with myself to not give in like she did, to not grow hard and bitter and angry.
She’d seen no way out, but I did. I did. And this was it.
I had no other recourse. This was the bottom line.
My eyes ghosted over to the metal door of the room, the deadbolt thrown already, the Do Not Disturb sign out on the outside door. The Man had wasted no time.
I sighed and rolled my shoulders as if getting ready for a performance.
This would not be rape. It wouldn�
�t. I am no victim. It was a choice.
He was just an obstacle to be vanquished. My endgame of getting us out of Ratcliffe, of getting us safe was just over the horizon, and all I had to do right now was this thing, just as if I were dancing.
I closed my eyes and pictured me dancing as Joan of Arc, of mesmerizing the audience with my clean lines and elegant feet. And like her, I would be resilient in the face of sacrifice, I would preserve through the burning, and I would not give in to fear.
I would go willingly into the darkness.
Cool hands settled on my shoulder, turning me around, slowly, slowly as the room rotated. I leveled my eyes at his necktie, noting how expensive it looked, how beautifully the pattern accentuated the blue of his eyes.
Showtime.
I gathered together, fortified myself for what lay ahead. “Would you like to see me dance?” I asked, my quivering voice perhaps mistaken for shyness.
He nodded, moving to the bed, propping himself up on the headboard with pillows.
I removed my stilettos, and danced my audition piece, using the space I had to express the emotion, the sadness, and yes, the acceptance. The room winked out of my mind and became a spot-lit stage. A hushed audience waited just past the orchestra pit, waiting with baited breath to see me do a pas de chat or a grand jeté. I couldn’t disappoint them.
I pretended he wasn’t there, dancing for myself and for Sarah.
And then later, after time had passed, he grew weary of my grace. He became tired of my jumps and glides and pirouettes. He was not impressed with my ballet hands, how they arched and stretched. So, I went to him and did more, much more. I did it absently, vacantly, and without thought. I did it with my eyes squeezed tight.
As we moved on that bed, time seemed suspended, oddly so, like the music inside a ballerina’s box as it winds down. The seconds slid by with excruciating slowness, and I ticked them down in my head, counting over and over until I got lost and forgot where I was. I pictured what we did as two unknown people, not me and The Man. I imagined I was a lonely dandelion stalk drifting and floating away on the wind, looking for a place to take root and grow.
It was surprisingly easy to separate myself from our actions, to pretend it wasn’t me, giving myself to someone I didn’t know. Perhaps it was because I’d watched many terrible things during my childhood. Perhaps it was because I’d do whatever it took to come out of this whole.
He was demanding in his requests, and it almost pulled me from my control, but I held on, directive in mind. I did as he asked, participating with complete compliance. I pushed all the sweet things from my head and became someone I did not know.
I become one with The Man.
Yes, I grieved deep inside. How could I not?
Later, I would huddle in my room and cry. Later, I would hunker down over my toilet and lose the contents of my stomach for what I’d become. But not now. Now, I would be his.
After he finished, I pulled away to the other side of the bed, my body exhausted.
I refuse to recount the how’s and the where’s of the thing that occurred. Details do not matter. It happened. It was not forced; it was not strange. I willingly gave myself to a man—lied to him, too—for money. I checked him off my list. And he wouldn’t be the last because one man does not pay twenty thousand dollars to have a virgin. I still had debt to work off.
The Man said he wanted to see me again, and I told him yes as my head replayed what had happened here. Yes, I could do it again.
What else could I say? He was providing a way for Sarah to live. There is nothing more to add.
He left me in bed and went to shower. I did not want to think about if he had a wife at home or children. I couldn’t. I did not want to think about the other people involved in my sins.
Some may think me ruined, but I am not. Because no matter what I’d done, I was still Dovey, the dreamy girl who only wanted to dance. I’m still the good girl who didn’t sell drugs; the girl that foolishly gave her virginity to the boy who ultimately destroyed her.
That was me. Not this thing. It wasn’t. It wasn’t.
I lay with my arms wrapped around myself, picking through my head, cycling through the movie of my life, searching for meaning in what I had done. I found little. Except that perhaps I had become my own Joan of Arc.
“Do the stars have enough light for me?”
–Cuba
SEBASTIAN HAD SKILLS when it came to planning a party, I thought, checking out the white Hummer limo that drove us to the dance.
Besides me, several cheerleaders, Emma, Sebastian, April, and even Spider sat on the beige leather seats, sipping champagne. Well, except for Emma. No one seemed to notice that she sipped on bottled water.
Spider kept throwing back drinks from a flask he’d brought along. Periodically, I’d catch him glaring at me, and I’d glare right the fuck back, my fists itching to ram his face for throwing Dovey out. I downed a glass of Dom, pushing down the urge to pounce on him. Sebastian had wanted him here, so I allowed it. Barely.
Emma sat in the corner, wearing a loose pink dress although I couldn’t imagine she’d be big so soon. But what did I know about pregnant girls? Dark circles rimmed her eyes, and I knew staying with her cousin was wearing her thin. She kept waiting for her parents to change their minds, to let her come home, but so far they hadn’t.
Not until she was married or confessed her sins on their TV show, they’d told her.
Before everyone else had arrived for the limo, she’d told me she was ready to talk to the guys she’d been with tonight. “I want to get it out in the open,” she’d said. “And I need to know what he’s going to say.”
I didn’t have to ask which boy she meant.
We arrived at The Dorchester and made our way to the ballroom. Decorated by the cheerleaders with red and pink hearts and about a million balloons, it looked like most parties I’d been to. Meh. I really didn’t care. I wanted to get through this night, get Emma out in the open, and then just figure things out. Today in the library with Dovey kept replaying in my mind, and I wanted some time alone to process it all. When she’d walked out that door, her face had been set with acceptance.
Like she’d decided to let me go…forever.
My chest tightened as I gazed around at the paired-up couples, wishing she was here. I don’t know why. Oh, hell, I knew why.
Sebastian got all business like as he hopped on stage and checked the equipment he’d set up earlier in the afternoon. As he worked, his band showed up. Nora arrived with Teddy, the odd looking piano player I’d met over Christmas at Club Vita. Apparently, he had Asperger’s but could play like a maniac. He seemed like a cool dude.
Leo sauntered in behind Nora, his eyes lasered in on his one and only. Dude wore his heart on his sleeve when it came to her. Where ever she went, his eyes followed as if he couldn’t bear to not have her in his sights.
I wanted something like that. I wanted something hot and crazy and so good I couldn’t stand to be without her. Oh, wait. I’d had that with Dovey, but I’d screwed it up. Done. Over.
After a while, the band got cranked up. Spider strummed out an old Sting ballad and Sebastian’s raspy voice belted out the chorus. Their sound was kinda punk, kinda alternative, and pretty good. Sebastian mixed up the lyrics a bit to make it his own and I dug it. The girls went nuts, of course. I sat back in the corner, watching it all, thinking about everything.
About Cara and my mother.
About Dovey.
I hated my fucking life.
Emma came up to me as the band took its first break at ten o’clock. She’d sat at a table with other cheerleaders most of the night, but I’d noticed she’d barely spoken to anyone. Life was about to get tough for her, and perhaps it was sinking in.
“Let’s do it now,” she said, twisting her dress in her hands.
“Now? Why don’t we wait until the party’s over? Maybe meet up at my house.”
She shook her head. “I—I can’t stay any long
er. It’s killing me seeing him here with someone else.”
She bit her lip, her eyes cutting across the room to a group of students who hung around the stage, waiting for the break to be over. Spider was there, laughing at some red-head who sat in his lap while Sebastian sat with April and a couple of other cheerleaders. Of course, April was all over him, wanting him for herself. Across from them, Matt had his hands all over a blonde chick with a bad rep.
I tapped my hand against my leg. “I say we wait until tomorrow. This isn’t the place.”
And then the tears came. “I’m dying inside, keeping it all in. And, I want him to be mine.” She wiped her cheeks. “And maybe, just maybe, this baby will bring us together.”
Oh. I didn’t think that scenario worked very often, but it was worth a shot.
She reached out to clasp my arm. “I wished it was yours. You’ve done so much for me...” her voice trailed off.
I studied her pretty features, the oval face, the golden highlights in her hair. She didn’t make my heart race. Never had. Thoughts of her body didn’t keep me up at nights or keep me in the shower until I’d spent. She wasn’t even close to Dovey.
She gave me a sad smile. “It’s that silly ballerina, isn’t it? She’s the one you really want.”
I shrugged.
“And I don’t understand why you can’t be with her. Because I think, maybe, she feels the same.” Her voice quavered at the end. And I knew it was a growing point for Emma, to say something in the interest of someone else. To admit she wasn’t the one for me.
How to explain why Dovey and I couldn’t be together? I didn’t want to go there.
And maybe I was ready to get this done so I could focus on my own mess.
“I guess we can talk to them in the lobby.” I’d noticed a small alcove out there on the way in that had looked private. “You ready?” I asked.
Very Wicked Things Page 21
