Page 2 of Commit
“I don’t know. I was attacked. I—” I stop, realizing that I could lie all I wanted, but the evidence of what happened was written all over me, proof of who I am. Or should I say, what I do?
I wrap my arms around myself, painfully aware of how much my ribs hurt.
“You work the streets?” he asks me softly.
Nothing good can come from me answering, so I don’t.
He steps closer, lifting his hand to gently tip my head back. “Do you have somewhere safe to go? Someone to get back to who’ll look after you?”
I open my mouth to lie to him, but nothing comes out. A tear slips free and runs down my cheek. It’s been a long time since someone looked at me with anything other than scorn or lust in their eyes.
“Come home with me.”
I freeze. I might be standing on the street in the rough part of town, but this isn’t a movie, and I’m not Julia Roberts. Rich, handsome men don’t just pick up whores and take them home with them out of the goodness of their hearts.
“I have to go.” I step back, but his other arm slides around me, his hand between my shoulders, holding me in place.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
Another tear slips free before I wipe it away and stand tall. So much for him being different.
“It’s fifty for a blow job, one hundred for sex. No anal, and you’ll wear a condom, or you can go find someone else to proposition.” I keep my voice even, my tone almost bored. Inside, though, I want to scream and rage at the world. The thing is, I’m not even mad at him. I’m mad at me.
I know who I am and what I do, and I know all the reasons I do it. Years ago, I made a strange peace with myself about it.
To everyone else, I might be a whore, but to me, it’s business. I’m selling the only thing I have of value, and that’s my body. A body that the people who treat me like shit have no problem defiling and beating, but sure, asking for compensation makes me scum. Go figure.
It baffles me how I’m the one cast as the villain when all I’m trying to do is survive. But it’s okay for everyone to turn a blind eye to the married man who calls out his daughter’s name as he fucks me. Or the priest who breaks his vows once a month with me in the vestry before praying for absolution for the rest of the days leading up to our next encounter. Lying spread out before him, I often see the judgment in his eyes as he fucks me with his comfort cross, like he’s Adam and I’m nothing but temptation.
I don’t know why I expected something different from this man. He doesn’t have kind eyes. I wasn’t lured in by false promises or a handful of cash. I needed hope. Something to cling to after what just happened. I guess I just wanted him to be better.
“That’s not why I’m here.”
He looks down at me, the glare of the streetlights picking up the amber flecks in his eyes, making them look like they’re almost glowing. It’s a trick of the light, for sure, but for a split second, I wonder if I’m standing at a crossroads about to make a deal with the devil.
“I have nothing else to offer you,” I tell him. It’s the truth. I’m not ashamed of what I’ve become. Hurt, disappointed, and so fucking angry, sure, but not ashamed. I’m surviving the only way I know how, so shame can kiss my ass. “So, if you don’t want my pussy or my mouth around your cock?—”
My words are cut off when his gloved hand covers my mouth. Fear floods my system, and I freeze. I know better than to let my mouth run away, but today, I’m trying to hold too many broken pieces together to stop myself from falling apart. I forgot that out here, I’ll always be prey.
“Make no mistake,” he says as I start to feel lightheaded. “I’d take your mouth and your pussy in a heartbeat if things were different, but you’re wrong in thinking that’s all you have to offer.”
His gloves, I realize belatedly, as blackness edges my vision.
It’s freezing out. The snow is still falling around us in a frenzied dance. It’s exactly the kind of weather for gloves, but something tells me that’s not why he’s wearing them. A whisper of awareness runs up my spine, letting me know far too late that there’s a reason a man like him would be slumming it down here, and it’s not good.
He dips his head, his nose skimming over mine. “Yes, you’ll be perfect,” he murmurs as my legs give out underneath me.
He scoops me up into his arms like I weigh nothing and walks with me toward a dark car parked on the other side of the doughnut shop.
“Your daddy’s going to love you.”
I try to lift my head and scream, but instead, I feel my eyes roll into the back of my head as the scent of something metallic tugs on my senses.
My head lolls into his chest, the metallic scent stronger now that my nose is pressed against his coat.
As I lose consciousness, I realize what the scent is.
The sweet, coppery tang of blood.