what she is. The food court isn’t that crowded. I can hear the faint cadence of the accent she shares with Isaiah.
Everything about her brands her as the type of woman Isaiah wants. Which is everything I’m not. Hell, she was probably a virgin when they got married. I really want to hate her.
She lifts her cup to her mouth and my gaze falls on her left hand. A small diamond and thin gold band grace her ring finger. I mutter a curse under my breath.
“Her name’s Lydia. She’s a nurse. Works in the NICU at Valley,” Harris says.
It’s too good to be true. She has to be the most perfect woman on the planet - beautiful, happily married, a pastor’s wife, and she cares for severely sick infants. She probably conducts cancer research in her garage during her off hours.
But again, nothing he’s saying adds up. The dots don’t connect.
I glare at Harris. “I know you’re lying. I’ve been at Isaiah’s condo for the last few days. He’s not married. His place has obviously never had a woman in it. I can’t imagine a more typical bachelor pad.”
“Right, because he’s really going to take you to the house where he keeps his wife. Fuck, Athena, were you born yesterday?” He’s pleading with me. For some reason he desperately wants me to believe Isaiah’s married. I just can’t.
Isaiah’s a pastor and he’s just starting out. Even though his family has money, he’s already told me his mother wasn’t happy about him moving to Vegas. No way would she support him enough for him to be able to afford two residences.
Besides, I remember Mrs. Martin and there’s no way she would accept Isaiah’s wife working outside of the home. It’s not done in her world.
“I don’t believe you,” I tell Harris.
“Doesn’t make it untrue.”
I stand up. I’ve had enough of Harris and his lies about Isaiah. “I have to go. There’s a saleslady holding a dress for me.”
“I have no reason to lie to you, Athena.”
“Wrong. You have every reason to lie to me. Isaiah has no reason to lie to me.” I stand up and leave the table before he can stop me. I start to walk back to the store, but out of the corner of my eye, I see the young girl and I change my mind.
***
The first time I tried to leave Mike, I told him about it.
It’s late summer and I’m done. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life having sex with strangers and Mike’s an idiot if he thinks I am. I pull a short black wig on. It won’t disguise me, but for some reason it brings me a certain amount of security. He’s standing silently in the doorway, watching me pack.
I don’t know where I’m going. To be honest, as long as it’s not here, I don’t care where it is. I have two hundred dollars in my pocket. It won’t last me long, but if I’m lucky I can find a cheap hotel room and maybe get a job sweeping floors or something. I’ll do anything that doesn’t involve sex or being naked.
It’s embarrassing how little I have to pack in the battered suitcase. There’d probably be more, but I don’t want most of what is in my apartment. I slam the top of the suitcase down and march past Mike. His smug expression pisses me off.
I’m early for the bus, which is a bad thing, because it gives me too much time to think. I keep doing the math in my head. I subtract how much the bus ticket will cost, and I’m afraid I won’t have enough money to live.
What if I don’t get a job as quickly as I think I will? How long can I afford to keep looking? Not nearly as long as I’d like. The doubts taunt me. I push them to the back of my mind because I know if I don’t leave now, I won’t ever do it. But they don’t leave me alone.
No one will hire you with zero job experience for the last year.
When the money runs out, and it will, you’ll be right back doing what you do best.
What kind of job do you think you’re qualified for anyway?
The longer I sit, the louder they get, and the more I believe them.
I revise my plan. Maybe I’ll just stay for another six months. No longer than a year. It’ll give me time to save more money. I weigh it out in my head. Is it better to do another six months and guarantee I never have to sell myself again or leave now knowing I might have to?
When I leave, I’ll never have sex for money again. Tears fill my eyes as I realize that means I should stay for now. The bus pulls up, and I feel sick because I’m not leaving on it. I tell myself it’s better this way. This way I’ll be financially secure when I do leave. And I will leave. I promise myself I will.
But something in my soul breaks, because I know that by deciding to stay, I’m choosing the life of a prostitute.
I don’t watch as the bus drives off. It’s enough that I smell the fumes from the bench I’m sitting on. Footsteps approach me. Slow. Even. Methodical. I brace myself for the inevitable.
“I knew you wouldn’t leave me,” Mike says.
Jackass.
“What are your plans now?” he asks.
“I’ll keep on working for you.” I mumble it, sickened to be saying the words.
“And what makes you think I want you back?”
My head snaps up, but he’s completely serious, there’s not a sign of teasing to be found.
“I thought.... I assumed...What?”
He’s enjoying my discomfort, and even though I didn’t think it possible, I hate him even more.
“Tell me why I should take you back when I have plenty of girls who never even think about leaving me.” He towers over me.
“I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“And I care because?”
Panic seeps into my body, and I don’t know what I’ll do if Mike doesn’t take me back. “Please?”
“Not good enough.”
I think about telling him I’ll do anything, but I’m not that desperate. I don’t want to imagine what his ‘anything’ would be, much less do it. I stare at the floor and his shiny leather shoes. I hate him so much.
“You still think you have a say in what you do,” he says. “And that is very dangerous thinking. You eat because I choose to feed you. You sleep when I say you do. You have a roof over your head because I let you have one.”
The man working the ticket counter picks that minute to come over to us. “Can I help you two with anything?”
“Athena?” Mike asks.
“No, I’m staying here,” I manage to get out.
“Nothing for me,” Mike says.
The gentleman tells us to let him know if we change our mind and walks back to his station.
“Unfortunately,” Mike says. “We can’t have this conversation here. Be in my office in fifteen minutes. And take that ridiculous wig off.”
Later that night, I’m soaking in the tub back in my apartment. I’m sore all over, both inside and out. I would be crying, but I don’t have any tears left. For a few seconds, the warmth of the water is so inviting, I imagine staying in it forever. I picture it in my head. It would be so easy. Slide into the water, hold my breath until I can’t anymore. Surely, it wouldn't be that painful. Not in comparison to everything else.
The only thing that keeps me from doing it is hate. I hate Mike for what he’s made me and what he makes me do. So instead of taking my life that night, I vow to one day take Mike’s.
Chapter Fourteen
Whoever she is, she certainly isn’t expecting a woman to sit next to her. She’s been given a script and I’m nowhere in the act.
Too bad, I think toward the gentleman with her, but I keep my eyes away from him. She’s mine.
I’ve been an actress for ten years, I can play this part, too.
I sit down beside her, cross my left leg over my right, and rub my calf. “Whew. I should not have worn these shoes.”
Silence from the girl beside me. She probably thinks if she doesn’t say anything, I’ll go away faster. I plaster a smile on my face and look at her more fully. I was wrong earlier. She’s nowhere near seventeen. She’s fourteen, tops. Just the thought of what
is planned for her makes me sick.
My left foot slides back to the floor and I try to make my smile warm and inviting. I don’t think I do a good job.
“Shopping?” I ask, trying again for a response.
Her lower lip trembles. “No.”
“Probably not here for the food.” In the corner of my eye, I keep the man in my sight. He’s taken a phone from his pocket and is texting someone.
“Not shopping. Not eating,” I say. “That leaves meeting someone. Am I right?”
The lower lip tremble stops and determined resolve somehow slips into its place. “What’s it to you?”
I shrug. Lean back into the bench. Make myself dissolve into nonchalant. “Just making conversation.”
She risks a glance at black jean guy and straightens her shoulders. “Yeah, well, make it somewhere else.”
“Just making conversation,” I repeat, turning to her. “And passing out advice.”
Her skin is smooth and flawless. There’s a wariness in her eyes, but no sign of bitterness and rejection. Not yet, anyway. Her body is lithe and long. She’s not yet grown into womanhood, but the blueprints are there. Under her adolescent skin, the woman she will become waits.
“I had to tell you,” I start. Hard to believe I’d ever been that young. I clench my fist. So many years wasted. “Needed to tell you. He’s not worth it.”
She blushes, and I know I’ve guessed correctly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says with a flip of her hair.
“He makes lots of promises. Tells you he loves you. That you have to prove your love.” I probably haven’t blushed in nine years. The life of a working girl sucks the blush right out of a person. It isn’t too late for her yet. “But he’s wrong. Love just is. It doesn’t make demands.”
She huffs, reaches down to her purse, pulls out a compact, and checks her lipstick.
“You see me as an obnoxious know-it-all,” I say. She acts like she isn’t listening, but I desperately hope some part of what I say sinks in. Would I have listened if someone had tried to give me advice ten years ago? I’m not sure. “And you’re right. I’m a know-it-all because I’ve been where you are right now, and I made the wrong choice. Listen to me when I tell you it won’t end with this one friend.”
Beside me, her hand holding the compact trembles.
“I know his type, and he’s got a long line of friends just waiting to have their turn at you.” I cross my right leg over my left this time. Hopefully, the guy in black jeans thinks I’m a mall patron gabbing on and on about nothing. “Before you know it, you’ll be dependent on him for everything. You won’t breathe without thinking you need permission to use air.”
She slowly puts the compact back in her purse and straightens her skirt.
“You can do anything. Be anything.” I have never in my life wished for the ability to make a choice for someone. “Don’t be me.”
We sit in silence for long seconds. I roll my head around and around. This is me, just an achy shopper. I can be anyone. I am every woman. Or at least that’s what I hope the man certain to be watching us thinks. I risk a peek: He was still texting. If I guess correctly, he probably has a group of five other girls, just like the one beside me, waiting and ready to do his every command.
I hate him.
“I know you won’t leave him today,” I finally say. “But I’m hopeful you’ll at least think about it.”
I probably haven’t changed anything. She’ll go through with what she came here to do, and she’ll hate herself later. Maybe I’ve actually made it worse with my observations and advice.
Unfortunately, there isn’t anything else I can do to help her. I’m useless. I can’t offer her a viable alternative, or a place to stay. I stand up. “Chose wisely.”
I almost miss the soft whisper behind me.
“Thank you.”
***
If I were smart, I’d leave the food court and go back to buy the green dress like I told Harris I was doing. But I can’t. I have to watch her: the possible Mrs. Isaiah Martin.
I move far enough away so I can see her without being seen myself. I try to act natural and not at all like I’m spying on a stranger. I can see Harris from my location, too. He’s texting someone. He stands up when he finishes and looks around. Looking for me?
I move behind the directory I’m hiding myself with and wait. I count to fifty, and when I look again, he’s gone. The supposed Mrs. Martin is still there. She’s finishing up her lunch and telling her friend goodbye. The friend leaves, but Mrs. Martin’s phone rings, so she sits back down and answers it. Whoever it is doesn’t talk long, and in a few minutes, she pushes back from the table and rummages in her purse.
I shouldn’t do it, but I step out from behind the directory, and when she leaves the food court heading out to the parking lot, I follow. I don’t know what I hope to gain by doing so. Maybe I think Isaiah is outside.
She’s moving fast. But the upside to that is she’s not paying any attention to her surroundings. I lag behind her as she approaches her car, not wanting to be too obvious. She hops in an older model sedan that’s a few rows away from the car Isaiah let me drive today.
I don’t know what possesses me, but I jog to my car and start it up, determined to follow her. It’s not hard. For all her urgency to make it to the car, she’s a relatively slow driver. Very careful.
I’m a few cars behind her as we pull out of the parking lot and head south. I try to stay out of her view, just in case she is Isaiah’s wife. I don’t want her to recognize the car. She pulls onto a highway headed out of town. There’s still a car between us, and for the first time I question my sanity in following her. What exactly do I expect to get out of this? That she’s going to drive to her house and some man who isn’t Isaiah is going to come out and greet her and I can return to the little condo I now consider home?
I snort at the impossibility.
More likely, she’s probably headed somewhere that will prove nothing and I’ll have wasted an entire afternoon. I won’t have purchased any new clothes, and Isaiah will be perplexed when he gets home. I can imagine the conversation.
“You were following a woman you thought was my wife?”
He’ll look at me like I’ve grown two heads, and we’ll have a laugh over it. I’ll tell him I knew there was no way he was married and he’ll pretend to be angry I doubted him for even a second. He’ll whisper that I’m nothing but trouble and to make it up to him I’ll pour him some wine. Maybe when he’s finished I’ll pull him close and show him a different kind of trouble.
I’m so engrossed in my daydream, it’s not until she turns onto a smaller road that I realize how far out of Vegas we are. Where the hell is she going? The traffic is sparse on this road. It’s only the two of us. I let up on the gas, not wanting her to notice me.
It’s when I drop back that I see it in the rearview mirror: a black SUV, careening down the road. I wonder where it’s headed. The road continues its path into the nothingness of the desert, but I keep my eye on both the car before me and the one behind me. For some reason I can’t put my finger on, the car following me seems off.
My suspicion is proven correct as we round a corner. There’s nothing but empty desert on either side of me, and I think if I had to dump a body somewhere, this would be where I do it. No sooner do I think that than the car behind me speeds up. As it passes me, I see two men inside. Both are wearing ski masks.
It’s one of those moments you don’t really think is happening. Even as I stare at the retreating car’s taillights, I’m thinking there’s no way I just saw that. I wish I had a phone. But even thinking that, I know I wouldn’t do anything if I had one. You can’t very well call up the police because someone’s driving around wearing ski masks.
I frown, because the car isn’t passing the supposed Mrs. Martin. Instead, it’s harassing her. Riding up on her bumper and then backing down again. Now I wish I had a phone. That sort of driving could get someone kille
d.
The lady driving is doing her best to hold the course steady. She’s not speeding up or dropping back. She’s not doing anything to antagonize the car behind her. I’m not sure what I’m going to do, but I speed up in an effort to get closer.
I’m closing the distance between myself and the SUV when its driver finally decides to pass. But as he pulls along beside her, I watch in horror as a hand holding a gun reaches out of the passenger side window and shoots.
I scream, helpless, as her car careens to the right and crashes into a cactus.
And then the gun is pointed at me. There’s a terrific crash and