Professional Sin (9 page)

My mind races, trying to figure out what he’s getting. Not food. Definitely not clothes. Pens? Doesn’t make sense.
 

Condoms?
 

I nod. Condoms would make sense.

A few minutes later he comes out with a plastic shopping bag the size of a trash bag that he puts in the trunk.

Despite how curious I am, I don’t ask anything when he gets back into the car. If he wants me to know, he’ll tell me.
 

And it’s
weird
to be alone in a car with him. And he’s so proper, like he wasn’t just fucking my mouth and my pussy and my ass. It makes me feel like I imagined the whole evening.

He pushes a button and the car fills with the chiming of a ringing phone. Now I’m starting to feel invisible, like when my grandfather had discussions about sensitive or embarrassing matters in front of what he called “the hired help.”
 

“Hello?” a woman’s voice answers. She sounds pretty, which is perhaps a strange assessment, but given that Hawthorne is calling her on a Friday night, she’s unlikely to be ugly.

And now I feel really inconsequential. I lock my arms across my chest and stare, fuming, out the window. Without my bra, my chest feels deflated. The rest of me, too.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re home,” Hawthorne says.
 

“Of course,” she says. “You’d better not be canceling. I rearranged my night for you—”

“I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes,” Hawthorne says, and he hangs up.

“Not to ruin your fun,” I say icily, “but unless you’re planning to drop me off at a bus stop, it’s going to take more than fifteen minutes to get there.”

“I’m taking you home,” he says. “You’re not going to have an easy time lugging all the stuff I bought on a bus.”
 

When he stops again, we’re in a modestly upscale neighborhood, in front of a stone home that looks cozy and lovely. He leaves the car running.

Before he reaches the front steps, the door is opening, and I see the silhouette of a woman in tight pants. I can’t really see her face, but she’s got a slim body, nice curves, and shoulder-length dark hair.

Two golden retrievers are at the door, tails wagging. They look happy to see Hawthorne and aren’t acting like he’s a stranger.
 

He disappears into the house and returns a moment later with what looks like a duffel bag. But instead of putting it into the trunk, he comes around to my side of the car and opens the door.

“For you,” he says, and he carefully places the duffel on my lap. “If your landlord gives you a hard time, I’ll talk to them.”

Stunned, I stare down at it, and only then do I realize it’s moving slightly, and suddenly all the clues fall into place. The woman with the dogs must be his sister, the vet.

I look up because I want to wave to her, to thank her for nursing Bandit back to health, but she’s dragging the dogs away and closing the door.

Hawthorne gets into the car and backs out of the driveway. I quietly unzip the soft-sided cat carrier and peer inside.
 

Even in the dark, I can see Bandit watching me. He opens his mouth and makes a gentle little meow. He’s bigger than before, now fully adult size, or close to it. I stroke my fingers over the dark, mask-like pattern around his eyes. His coat is now soft and free of tangles. Hard to believe he’s the same animal I used to sneak scraps of my lunch to.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Not a problem, Lindsay,” Hawthorne says easily, like giving me this gift is no big deal. And to him, it probably isn’t. His right hand briefly lands on my knee, then moves quickly back to the steering wheel. “He’ll be good for you, I think. Tell him your secrets. You have to trust someone.”

“It’s just a cat,” I say, but I gather Bandit into my arms and press my face into his soft fur, and I wonder if my luck has finally changed.
 

~ ~ ~

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