For A Good Time, Call... (4 page)

Six

The
panties sold well. One week in and I was on back order. It turned out
that two times a day with a little working out or vibrator action was
good enough. I sealed them in plastic sandwich baggies with a big
round sticker on front with lipstick kiss on it. Different shades for
different guys.

I
couldn't be happier with an extra seven-hundred dollars in my pocket
each week. I literally wouldn't be able to spend that kind of money,
no matter how lavishly I pampered myself. No matter how much money I
dropped on booze. I would be socking a good amount away for a rainy
day. Maybe for some other career path some day. Maybe I could open my
own sex toy store or something. Something that was all mine.

I
slipped into a bright neon green thong, a special request, and got
dressed for my night. It was Saturday. I needed to dress to impress
if I wanted to get into anywhere decent. Even knowing all the
bouncers wasn't going to help if I showed up looking like crap.

I
grabbed a galaxy printed mini skirt and a blue tank top with a huge
metal zipper up the center. You could literally just reach out and
unzip me and
hello ladies!
I
slipped into a pair of bright pink heels that matched a smattering of
stars on the skirt, tied my hair back, and headed for the door. I
would be freezing, but no one wanted to carry a jacket to a club.

“You
could come home with me baby,” a guy said, his breath hot on my
ear. He had asked to buy me a round three rounds ago. I refused. I
always refused. I paid my own way. And most men expect more than a
polite 'thank you' when they have to come out of pocket.

“Nope,”
I said, feeling the room start to swirl pleasantly. This was the good
point in the night, the lightness, the twirling. The beginning of the
night was fighting demons and trying to get to the perfect drunk. The
whole night after was spent trying to maintain that kind of high
without crashing or overdoing it and ending up vomiting a few hundred
bucks into the toilet.

I
was good. And all I wanted to do was dance, get lost in the music,
get lost in the generalized heated energy. Get lost in the throbbing
sex of a room full of people trying to get laid. Because that was as
close to sex as I got.

This
guy was going to kill my buzz.

“You
know you want to. You've been flirting with me all night.”

He
wasn't wrong. I flirt. I schmooze. I get wrapped up in the
nothingness of my company. Since it means nothing to me, it couldn't
mean much to them. Such is my drunk logic. Sober me knows not to poke
a sleeping bear. And that was exactly what a horny guy at a club was.

“Sorry,”
I said, pulling away from the hand that was trying to stroke my neck.
“I'm not interested.” I walked quickly toward the dance
floor, getting myself lost in the crowd. He could find someone else.
Drunker. Looser. More willing to do a different kind of shame walk
home than I was.

I
pushed into the center of the crowd, turning myself in slow circles,
my hips moving suggestively around, my arms up in the air. Lost. God,
how good it was to get lost. I left the floor for the occasional
refill, only to get right back on. Until I felt the sweat trickle
down my neck. Until my feet starting to hurt beyond the numbing
effects of alcohol. Until the place started clearing out. Suggesting
three AM. That's when the more decent people decided to head back
home alone of with someone else. Decided they had had enough
debauchery and liver punishment for one night.

I
moved back to the bar, nodding at the bartender who poured me two
shots and then handed me my tab which I paid, but sat and waited with
my shots until I needed them. Until the fog started to clear. Then I
threw one back. The DJ started packing his stuff up and the radio
turned on, classic rock replacing the brain-throbbing house garbage.
I watched as the bartender cleaned glasses and capped the bottles. I
heard the last few souls exit and one of the bouncers came in and
took a seat next to a waiting two fingers of whiskey.

He
was a huge man. Six and a half feet of muscle and fat that could
break through a crowd like a human battering ram. He had dark brown
skin and a huge diamond earring in one of his lobes, but the kindest
eyes I had ever seen.

“Drunk
Girl,” he said, nodding his head at me.

“What's
up, Guy?”

“You're
gonna need a transplant at this rate. Switch to pot or pills, girl.”

“I
did the pot thing a few years ago,” I admitted. Oh, the lovely
oblivion. Unfortunately, booze worked better. “And I'm not a
pills kinda girl.”

He
nodded, holding his whiskey out and I clinked my shot to his glass
and threw back the gin, enjoying the quick burn. “Need me to
walk you home? It's late,” he added unnecessarily.

“Is
it starting to get light yet?” I asked, feeling like the night
had gone way too fast to be sunrise already.

“Another
fifteen and you'll see the sun pop over the buildings,” he
said, knowing the deal. I was at this bar twice a week, every week.
We had had this conversation at least fifty times before.

“Okay,”
I said, feeling more tired than I usually did. I hopped up off my
stool. “I think I am heading out then,” I said, walking
past him and placing a hand on his shoulder. A rare show of physical
contact for me. But he was always good to me. “Thanks for the
offer, Guy, but I got it tonight. I'm only a block away.”

“Be
careful,” he said, nodding. “Nothing but unsavory people
out this late.”

“Not
half as unsavory as me,” I promised, making my way to the door.

I
pushed into the night, throwing my head back to look at the
still-dark sky, enjoying the cool air on my overheated skin. I took a
deep breath, the air smelling of stale cigarette smoke, pot, and
vomit. A familiar, almost comforting combination. In a disgusting
way. I turned and started my walk home, my keys poking out from
between my fingers.

It
was a quick walk. And I always enjoyed the quiet. In the city that
never sleeps, the only time you can be even the slightest bit alone
on the streets was between four and five am. You could see the
occasional cab or homeless person. Maybe even a stupid teenager or
two. But, all in all, it was a nice kind of solitude.

That
is until you feel someone grab you from behind just as you are about
to go into your building. That is until you need help and there is
none to be had.

I
screeched, swinging out with my keyed fist, but a hand grabbed my
wrist and pinned it above my head, crushing until my keys fell with a
quiet clatter to the ground. And then there he was. The guy from the
bar. The one who wanted to take me home. I had shrugged him off as
harmless. Stupid, stupid girl. I would never learn.

“You
think you can get me all hot and bothered and then just up and leave
me, you stupid little slut?” His breath smelled like vodka and
cigarettes, up close it was overpowering and nauseating. “Do
you have any idea who the fuck I am?” he demanded, his face
close enough that I could feel his spit on my cheeks.

My
free hand cocked as far back as the building behind my back would
allow, swinging and slamming into his ribs. But it came out weak and
only made him grunt and grab that arm and slam it against the brick
behind me. He shifted his hands, taking both my wrists in one of his.
His other hand moved for a moment to my throat.

Panic
for me was a strange thing. As someone who had struggled with severe
anxiety issues pretty much since I was eight years old, it had its
own strange pattern. It's own triggers. Not having my place clean.
Having people in my space. Nighttime in general. Specific things I
knew I couldn't let happen.

But
in this moment, with genuine need to elicit a fight-or-flight
reaction, my body felt oddly calm. Almost numb. I could blame the
booze, but in reality, I felt almost sober. My body just didn't want
to send me a surge of adrenaline this time. Stupid, confused body.

“I
don't give a fuck who you are,” I yelled, loud enough for the
dog in the apartment behind me to start barking manically. I could
smell fresh smoke and I wondered if anyone was close enough to hear
me if I screamed.

But
then his hand tightened around my throat and I couldn't get a scream
out if I tried. “You're such a bitch. You're lucky you're so
damn pretty,” he said, leaning closer and crushing his lips to
mine.

If
I thought the smell of vodka and cigarettes was bad, the taste of it
was worse. I slammed my lips together, holding them firm and
practically un-kissable, but he seemed undeterred as he pressed his
mouth against mine hard enough to bruise. His fingers dug into my
throat, making the breath get stuck there and my face feel foreign
and tingly.

Just
when I thought I might pass blissfully out, his hand slid lower,
touching the bare skin above the top of my shirt. His fingers grabbed
one of my breasts, squeezing painfully. “Stop!” I managed
through my sore throat, my voice coming out hoarse.

“Shut
up. You like it,” he growled, his hand finding the zipper and
pulling it down.

The
cool air hit my bare skin as the zipper slid down, making my nipples
harden as if agreeing with his argument. His hand was just starting
to graze the bare swell of my breast and I felt the panic building.
The panic which, completely unreasonably was more about the ugly
scars underneath my breasts than it was that I was going to get raped
five feet from my front door. His finger was about to graze my nipple
when he was pulled violently away from me, sent five feet backward,
sprawling into the street.

And
then there was my neighbor. Fourteen. Hunter. Straddling the man
across the middle, slamming his fists into the guy's face with a sort
of savage ruthlessness that I didn't want to see, but also couldn't
look away from. Blood was everywhere... covering the guys face, on
the street, on Hunter's hands and shirt. Everywhere. It was
impossibly bright and dark at the same time, the rising sun making it
look almost cinematic.

It
looked like he planned on bashing his face in until he killed him.
And judging from the murderous look on his face, I was sure he was
completely capable of doing just that. Then just as suddenly as it
started, it stopped. Hunter sat back on his heels, breathing hard as
he looked down at the guy for a long minute. Then he stood slowly,
reaching down and grabbing the guy, dragging him out of the road and
leaving him on the sidewalk.

He
turned back to me, grabbing his cell phone out of his pocket and
holding it up. I had a second of confusion before a bright light
flashed and I realized he had taken a picture of me. Just in case, I
figured, some cops came looking.

“Cover
up, Sixteen,” he said casually.

I
wanted to. I really did. I glanced down to where the center of my
chest was exposed. If you looked closely enough, you could see the
very edges of the scars. I wanted to hide them, but my arms stayed
heavy at my sides. My eyes went to his, blank. I felt so weirdly
blank.

He
exhaled a breath, moving a step closer and reaching for the two ends
of the fabric, quickly putting the zipper into place and pulling it
up. “Come on Fee,” he said, holding an arm out, gesturing
toward the door. “Fee,” he said, snapping a few times
loudly next to my ear. “Snap out of it. I need to get you
inside.”

I
watched him like through a window. Like a television show. Like he
wasn't actually speaking to me, his words sounding far away and
fuzzy. He stooped down, grabbing my keys off the sidewalk and holding
them in his hand as he slowly started to reach out for me.

The
fact that I didn't flinch away from him like he was made of fire was
a testament to how zoned out I was in that moment. Because one of his
arms was slipping under my knees and the other around my back,
picking me up off the ground and holding me against his chest. I felt
the jostling of my body as he went up the stairs, the dropping
sensation of the elevator as we got on the floor, then how he
struggled to hold me and figure out my complicated locks.

He
carried me into my apartment, depositing me on the cold bathroom
floor and turning to wash the blood off his hands in the sink. I
watched as he scrubbed, looking down at his hands as he did so, his
face impassive.

I
felt hot. That was the only thing that broke through my comfortable
little numbness. I was so unbearably hot. I lowered myself down on
the floor, turning onto my side away from him and curling slightly up
into the cool.

The
water turned off and I heard him turn and move closer, getting down
on his knees behind me. I hadn't noticed my skirt had bunched up
until I felt his fingertips whisper across the still stinging cuts on
my thigh. “Oh, Fee,” he said, sounding unbearably sad for
someone so big and mean.

I
closed my eyes against the knowledge that he was looking at my
self-inflicted scars and wounds. I couldn't process that right then.
I couldn't deal with that shame on top of everything else. I took a
few deep breaths, feeling the pulling sensation of sleep and
surrendering to it.

Seven