Page 42 of Stabby Little

From my wallet, I retrieve a wad of cash and peel off three twenties. The money I made last Saturday night is more than I could dream of. When all was said and done, I pocketed five grand from my private dance. My anonymous client tipped me four-thousand dollars.

My perfect, sexy client. God, I didn't expect him to be such a catch when I approached him, but he was. I thought he'd be like the assholes I met in the warehouse. Men who manipulated me and used me for sex. Men who didn't respect my limits or boundaries.

He was nothing like them. He made me come just from sucking his cock, which has never happened. And his Dad bod belly that I rubbed before I blew him was the cherry on top.

I've never been more turned on in my life.

"Wait here." I hand the cabbie the bills. "I'll be back in ten minutes."

After he accepts the money, I step out of the cab. Bolts of rain slam into me, sending rivulets of water down my cheeks. I tug my raincoat hood over my head, protecting myself from the storm. It does little. Mother Nature is a powerful bitch, and this afternoon, she's flaunting said power for all to see. Water seeps down my neck and drips onto my tummy.

"Do you need an umbrella?" the cabbie grits out.

"No, I'll be right back."

Or will I?

I can barely describe the emotions that well up within me as I walk the well-trodden path to Grant's front step. My feet fit into the grooves on the concrete like nothing has changed. Of course, my shoes are no longer the size seven they were when I was eleven, but they slide onto the concrete like they used to.

My eyes drift up to the second floor. For a moment, I don't know whether tears or rain run down my cheeks. This is Miles's former room. The place where we had slumber parties and stayed up all night drinking energy drinks and watchingScary Movie. This held the bed where we stayed with each other reading dirty stories we shouldn't have that we found on discreet websites. He never judged me for gravitating toward the male-on-male ones.

That was Grant's influence on him. Not Linda's. His mother made quips about gay men and claimed they'd be into women if they gave it a shot, but Grant always chastised her and informed her of her mistaken views. I was grateful Miles took after his dad and not his mom.

Gathering courage, I trod the path to Grant's front door and stop under the portico. I peel my raincoat hood back, then shake out my hair. I take a moment to brush my hair to the side in the door window.

Leaning forward, I peer through the glass. I spot the familiar kitchen that contains countless memories for me.

On cold days, Grant prepared hot cocoa with real Belgian cocoa bars in a special pot on the stove for me and Miles. He served it with cookies and fresh raspberries that he bought at a farmer's market on the Upper West Side.

On hot days, Grant whipped up pitchers of lemonade with freshly picked mint and poured us glasses while he served us brownies. He always said summer was too short not to indulge, so why not make the most of it?

My eyes burn, but I force myself not to cry. This is the kitchen island stool on which I sat so many times speaking to Grant. This is the counter he heaved me onto after I injured my knee. This is the place where I felt Grant's manly hands on me and wondered if it'd be like to feel them in other places, my thighs, my tummy, to press against him and see, just see, if I liked men more than I ought to.

Part of me lies in this house. No matter what happened in the warehouse, no matter what shit my captors and clients put me through, I never lost the element of my soul that blossomed here. My father's Manhattan penthouse was never home, and his panic attacks and untreated mental illness scared me.

Also, I read that my parents had my funeral two years after I went missing. They quit searching for me.

Did Grant quit searching, too?

Is that why he never fucking saved me from the warehouse?

Or did he look everywhere he could—but couldn't find me?

"Don't be a wimp." My voice is fierce as I raise my fist. "Knock on this goddamn door and speak to Grant. See if anything's changed."

I move my hand to the door. But before I make contact, a dark shadow drifts across the kitchen. It pauses next to the center island.

My heart slams in my chest so hard I can't breathe. I yank my hand away, then slam my raincoat hood over my head.

I race down the walkway and leap into the backseat of the cab. "Drive."

"Are you sure you don't want to wait?" The cabbie nods at the door. "Your guest is coming."

"Drive." I slam my fist on the scuffed seat. "Get the hell out of here. I won't ask you again."

Brakes squeal as the cab takes off down the street.

I look over my shoulder and see a figure staring at me.