by Aya De León
“I doubt it,” Dulce said. “He said it was a male dog.”
“I must have gotten it wrong,” Marisol said. “I met this woman with the last name Gerard, and a long first name with an S. I thought they might be related.”
“Nope,” Dulce said. “No S-names I heard. Unless you count his boat.”
“His boat?” Marisol asked.
“He calls it the Stampede,” Dulce said. “Talks about it all the time. His yacht.”
“Of course,” Marisol said. “I guess this S-name woman is no relation.”
“I guess not,” Dulce said. “See you tomorrow for lunch.”
“Absolutely,” Marisol said.
“STAMPEDE” opened the account.
* * *
Kim took the elevator two floors up and knocked on the door of another hotel room.
When Jody opened it, she kissed Kim and said, “I ran a bath.”
“I knew there was something about you I liked,” Kim said, stepping inside and stripping off her work clothes. Jody walked her into the bathroom, where the light was low and warm.
“They have a Jacuzzi?” Kim asked, looking at the deep tub.
“Not in the standard rooms,” Jody said. “But I paid Marisol the difference.”
“I definitely like you,” Kim said. She slid into the water. Jody slid in behind her and kissed her neck.
“Best girlfriend ever,” Kim said.
“Wait til I get the jets going,” Jody said.
Soon, the water was whirring with movement.
“And I brought a few things,” Jody said.
Kim grinned. “Like what?”
“Like sweet almond oil,” Jody said, and put some on her fingertips.
“Do I get a massage?” Kim asked.
“Sort of,” Jody said. She slid her fingers across Kim’s nipples, and her girlfriend moaned and leaned back against her.
With one long arm, Jody kept stroking her fingertips across Kim’s nipples, first one side, then the other. With her other hand, she got some special waterproof lubricant and slid a finger down between Kim’s labia.
Kim had been languid with the heat of the water, but now she arched with a moan.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Jody murmured into her ear, and proceeded to stroke mercilessly.
* * *
By the time Kim reached a third climax, the water was turning tepid.
They drained the tub. Jody gave Kim a fluffy robe, and Kim stumbled into bed. Jody joined her a moment later.
“What about you?” Kim mumbled.
Jody laughed. “You’re in no shape to do anything about me right now.”
She was right. After a couple of minutes, Kim was asleep.
Two hours later, Kim woke up. She had knocked out on top of the covers in the robe. She blinked and looked around. Jody was on the bed next to her in a matching robe, reading a paperback book.
“This room is awesome,” Kim said.
“Uh-huh,” Jody half agreed, not looking up from her book. She was reading The Shock Doctrine by Naomi Klein.
“This room . . . the Jacuzzi . . .” Kim said.
“Uh-huh,” Jody said, turning a page.
“And these robes,” Kim said. “So cozy, but so breezy, too.”
“Yuh,” Jody said, eyes glued to the page.
Kim moved around to the foot of the bed on Jody’s side. Jody had her knees bent, and her book leaning up against them.
“I would like to demonstrate some of the more exciting qualities of these robes,” Kim said.
“Mm hmm,” Jody said.
Kim climbed up onto the bed and slid her hands up Jody’s calves.
Jody patted Kim’s hand. “I’m reading, babe,” she murmured.
“Don’t mind me,” Kim said, sliding her hands up Jody’s thighs.
“How am I supposed to read when you’re trying to distract me?” Jody asked, laughing.
“Don’t blame me,” Kim said. “It’s not my fault if your book isn’t as compelling as I am.”
“This book is really compelling,” Jody said. “Marisol gave it to me.”
“Can your book do this?” Kim asked, kissing Jody’s inner thighs.
“That’s not a fair comparison,” Jody said, leaning the book against her chest.
“How about this?” Kim asked, running her tongue softly against the opening of Jody’s lips.
“Definitely not,” Jody said, putting the book aside.
“Do I have your attention?” Kim asked.
“I think so,” Jody said.
Kim gave a fake evil laugh, and Jody laughed too.
Then Kim slid her tongue up and down Jody’s clitoris until her girlfriend was bucking and screaming, half out of the robe. Yet somehow, she had kept hold of the book. She still gripped it in her hand, one finger holding her place.
Chapter 29
The next day, Marisol and Dulce met for lunch across the street from the clinic. It had previously been an old school Italian deli, but now it was a “paleo eatery.” Fortunately, they had red meats and baked goods made from yucca, plantain and yam flour. The food was gentrified, but edible.
“I never had no paleo food before,” Dulce said. “It’s kind of like an empanada if you didn’t use as much spices.”
They sat at the counter. Beside them, a long line of people waiting to order snaked out the door.
“Glad we beat the rush,” Marisol said. “So how is it being back?”
Dulce blew out her breath. “My mom and sister are driving me nuts,” she said. “I need to move out. But with what money? I think I’m done with sex work, so how will I be able to afford rent anywhere?”
“What about your writing, Dulce?” Marisol asked. “Or should I say ‘Celia M. Reyes’?”
Dulce grinned. “I got that first check, and I was like ‘oh hell yeah!’ Jerry had me convinced I wasn’t good for nothing but fucking. And I was like, where is that asshole buried? Because I wanna dance on his grave and wave my fucking check in his dead face like, ‘New York Times, bitch!’”
The two of them laughed.
“I would have gone with you,” Marisol said.
“I was so sure I was on my way,” Dulce said. “But then I think I missed my window in the news cycle. I coulda sold a secondary story to the tabloids right after I got back. But I was messed up over that guy. And now Delia Borbón did that special with Oprah.”
“But you didn’t just write that piece on Borbón,” Marisol said. “I’ve seen your name on some of those interviews with hurricane survivors.”
“But the big papers aren’t looking for freelance Hurricane María content now that it’s no longer dominating the news,” Dulce said. “And I don’t have my journalism hookup anymore.”
“Same guy?” Marisol asked.
Dulce nodded. “It was like—for a minute—I thought maybe everything could change. But in some ways it was the same old shit. Some guy comes along and I thought his love was gonna magically turn me into a journalist. Like if I could get him to be my man, everything else would just fall into place. But if I learned anything from you, Marisol, it’s not to depend on men. And good things come to those who hustle.”
“That is pretty much my philosophy,” Marisol said with a laugh.
“So I guess I’ll hustle my way into getting paid to write,” Dulce said. “Can you help me?”
“Definitely,” Marisol said. “What have you tried so far?”
Dulce opened her mouth, then closed it. “Nothing really,” she said.
“You were about to say something,” Marisol said.
Dulce laughed and shook her head. “It’s stupid,” she said.
“You let me be the judge of that,” Marisol said.
Dulce looked down at the table. “Before I cashed my check from the New York Times, I made this, like, tiny photocopy of it,” she said. “And I laminated that shit. And I pinned it in my bra for good luck. Left side. Near my heart.” Her face flamed hot and she kept her eyes on he
r plate.
“Are you kidding me?” Marisol said. “That’s a great start. Before you can get something, you need to be clear that you want it.”
“Really?” Dulce asked.
“Claro que sí,” Marisol said. “Next step is to pitch to different editors. I can help with that. There’s mainstream outlets, but also sex worker sites like ‘Tits and Sass,’ that can get your work out there. They don’t pay much, but they’ll protect your privacy.”
Dulce looked up from the plate, but she wasn’t ready to meet Marisol’s eyes yet. “I want to go for all of it.”
Someone called Marisol’s name. She and Dulce looked up to see Tyesha and Serena in line to order.
“Hey you two,” Tyesha said. “What’s up?”
“Just two unemployed ladies having a leisurely lunch,” Marisol said.
Tyesha sucked her teeth. “Well we’re two working girls getting takeout so we can work through lunch.”
The line moved forward slowly.
“Just to add to your workload,” Marisol said. “Either of you know of any paid writing opportunities? For Dulce?”
Serena shook her head. “Where’s $pread Magazine when you need it?”
“Today I saw a grant for gentrification oral histories,” Tyesha said. “Some hipster foundation wants people to pour their hearts out, so they can pull quotes to tattoo onto their arms and smelt into commemorative paperweights.”
“Oh yeah,” Serena said. “That project for displaced people in New York.”
“What about the people in your shelter?” Dulce asked. “All those women from Puerto Rico.”
“But it’s for displaced people in New York,” Serena said.
“Wait a minute,” Marisol said. “Is it people in New York or from New York?”
“Let me pull up the email,” Tyesha said, opening her smartphone.
As they waited, Serena ordered lunch for them at the counter.
“The language is very clear,” Tyesha said. “Subjects must be homeless in New York City due to displacement: eviction, building demolition, rent hikes. And being replaced by owners and residents from a wealthier class.”
Dulce pulled out her own phone and read from a dictionary app. “Demolition. Noun 1. an act or instance of demolishing. 2. the state of being demolished; destruction. 3. destruction or demolishment by explosives. 4. demolitions, explosives, especially as used in war.”
“Well the Hurricane María refugees are definitely in the state of having been demolished and destroyed,” Tyesha said.
“And they’re also being replaced by owners and residents from a wealthier class,” Marisol said. “All those cryptocurrency billionaires buying up the land.”
“I think these hipsters might have signed themselves up to finance our oral history project,” Tyesha said. “Lemme forward you the email, cause I’m not writing an additional grant application.”
“I might be willing to come out of grant proposal retirement for one more big score,” Marisol said. She opened the email, and Dulce looked over her shoulder.
“They want professionals,” Dulce said. “I didn’t even graduate high school.”
“Fuck that,” Marisol said. “You’re self-taught. You’ve got a feature in the New York Times. You already did oral histories for this population for three different outlets. I’m gonna figure out how to spin this.”
“Okay,” Dulce said. “What’s the word count they want for the final piece?”
“This isn’t an article,” Marisol said. “We’re gonna apply to get you a grant from this foundation. They probably envisioned giving money to traditional academics and journalists and artists to interview families getting displaced. And then they’re supposed to have a final product: a book, a report, a film, or an art exhibit. But I’m gonna write a grant that pays you and has a stipend for the participants. I’m gonna write the hell out of this grant proposal, and these motherfuckers are gonna give us this money.”
* * *
Later that night, the team met in Tyesha’s office. Serena sat at the end of the couch. Beside her, Kim lay back on Jody’s lap. Tyesha sat at the desk, and Marisol paced across the room.
“So?” Marisol asked.
“It’s done,” Serena said. “Gerard’s charity made a donation of nearly a quarter million to a grassroots organization of Puerto Rican women leading recovery efforts on the island.”
Marisol nodded, and suddenly choked up. “I really appreciate all of you,” she said. “I know this wasn’t really your cause.”
“What do you mean?” Tyesha asked. “We help each other.”
Marisol laughed and wiped her eyes. “You all are Americans.”
“Who you calling American?” Serena asked.
“Yeah,” Kim said.
“Okay, maybe not you two,” Marisol said. “But every US citizen is technically a colonizer of my island. They been pimping us for over a century. Most people in the US don’t give a fuck. But you all do. Enough to risk your asses to help us. I just—”
She fanned her face as if the tears were coming from too much heat.
“Well get ready to look at a zero balance in his account,” Serena said. She grinned and turned the laptop around.
“Wait,” Jody said. “It says $2,000.”
“That can’t be right,” Serena said.
She clicked a few buttons. “Damn,” she said. “They just received a new donation.”
“No!” Marisol yelled. “We need to get it. Hack in again.”
Serena didn’t move.
“I’m serious,” Marisol said. “Work your magic and hack that motherfucker again. ‘Stampede.’ Do it.”
“Marisol, we can’t,” Serena said. “It’s too dangerous. We don’t have his laptop anymore.”
“I may not be the executive director of this clinic anymore, but I’m still the boss of this crew,” Marisol said. “Get the goddamn money.”
“It’s not gonna happen, Marisol,” Tyesha said quietly.
“This is bullshit!” Marisol screamed. She picked up the magazines on the coffee table and threw them across the room.
“Not one fucking cent,” Marisol said. “Do you hear me? I’m not gonna leave him with one goddamn cent! My people are dying. The government is lying about how many people are dead. The land, the water is toxic. People are gonna keep dying for years, for decades. And this dick is pimping us?? From the time I was eleven years old, somebody was always trying to fuck me. Trying to pimp me. Not! One! Fucking! CENT!”
Marisol picked up the potted plant off the shelf and threw it against the wall. The pot shattered and the dirt exploded all over the wall. Leaves and soil rained down on the expensive carpet. The plant fell upside down into a bowl of condoms leaving the roots pale and exposed in the air.
Marisol reached to throw Serena’s laptop, but Tyesha restrained her arm.
Serena pried the laptop from Marisol’s hand.
For a moment, Marisol was coiled, poised to fight. But then she shuddered in fury. With a raging howl from deep in her gut, Marisol collapsed onto the sofa.
In the end, she didn’t surrender to the sobbing. Rather, she lay passive on the couch as it overtook her. A tsunami of emotion, rearing up in undeniable authority, eclipsing the sky. She stood alone, a brown girl on the beach, awestruck and helpless to resist.
Marisol’s body shook with spasms. The tears poured out and she sobbed hard in between waves of brutal grief, where her body clenched and unclenched like a fist.
Chapter 30
Dulce didn’t wait to find out if they got the grant. She took her smart phone to the clinic, and interviewed Nidia and Zara. Then she went to the shelter and began interviewing everyone who would talk to her.
Her mother was still depressed and her sister was still bitchy, but every morning, she headed to the shelter to talk to the women. After gathering hurricane stories, she found herself asking girls she knew in the clinic if they would tell their sex-work stories. Marisol helped her pitch two series of i
nterviews to different media outlets: one of hurricane refugees and one of sex workers. Both got greenlighted, but not for as much money as she’d hoped.
Three weeks later, Dulce still didn’t know if she’d gotten the grant when Marisol called to invite her to participate in a video project to raise money for hurricane relief. Dulce was to go through her interviews and edit them into a ten-minute video.
Dulce threw herself into the project. Not that it paid much, and the night they premiered the video, she still didn’t know if they’d gotten the grant.
She’d decided to do the Puerto Rican oral history work under her own name. So Dulce García was officially on the bill at Marisol’s next event: a big gala fundraiser for hurricane relief in midtown. It was another five-star hotel, and she recalled that time at the La Fleur with Jerry. Everything was different now. Maybe not with Zavier, but still different. She had made a small chunk of change and was contributing to buying groceries. Her sister was showing her a little more respect. Yunisa had announced that she was getting someone to watch the kids tonight so she could go to the hurricane fundraiser. Dulce wasn’t sure if she was coming to support her, or if she was checking to see if Dulce was telling the truth. Maybe she just wanted the free champagne.
A photographer from the Times was there. They had also sent a reporter, but it wouldn’t be Zavier. Dulce had learned from his reporting that he was back in Puerto Rico.
The photographer asked Dulce to pose with Borbón, and the staff and refugees from the clinic. She squeezed between Nidia and Zara.
In between shots, she turned to them. “Where’s the baby?” Dulce asked.
“Back in Marisol’s apartment,” Nidia said. “Serena’s babysitting.”
“Smile for the camera, ladies,” the photographer said.
Wasn’t she smiling? She wondered if maybe it was more of a grimace. Dulce was so nervous, she couldn’t quite feel her face. At least she didn’t have to go on stage and say anything. But Marisol had insisted that she would need to stand and be acknowledged.
After the photo shoot, Dulce leaned against the wall, unsure what to do. She suddenly felt lost in the vastness of possibilities in this new life. Not that she’d ever want to go back to Jerry, but there was something so contained about that lack of freedom. She didn’t need to decide what to wear. Where to stand. He always told her. She was rarely expected to speak. She longed for freedom the whole time. But now she longed to know what she was supposed to do with herself at this very grown up party. She had said hello to Delia Borbón, and the star had embraced her warmly. But she didn’t know the woman well enough to pal around with her for the rest of the party. Why did she rely on her sister to be her date?
