Even Better (Stripped 2.50)

He shakes his head, dismissing my concerns. “You won’t please them by knowing, pretty girl. You’ll please them by not knowing.”

“I don’t understand.”

A flicker, almost a smile. “Men like to teach you things. That’s what gets them off.”

And I know he isn’t talking about the men out there. He’s talking about himself.

He wants to teach me things.

The knowledge sinks inside me, imprints itself on my bones where I can’t ever forget. “Okay,” I whisper.

“You’ll wait here for me,” he says. Not a question.

I take in the dimly lit basement a little more slowly this time, from the stark light bulb to the dark stains on the concrete floor. It’s like a jail cell, and without even scripture to justify it.

It’s a word I’ve said so many times it’s almost lost meaning. It’s a word of threat and survival. It’s a word of peace, however short-lived. “Yes.”

When he leaves, the door closes behind him with a clash of metal.

A beat passes, and then something scrapes quietly. I’m locked inside.

* * *

There is no clock inside the basement. Time passes in breaths, one after the other. A breath to sit and stare at the closed door. A breath to stand up. A breath to approach the desk. Ivan is terrifying, and I’m completely at his mercy. It seems risky to look through his stuff.

It also seems risky not to.

I don’t know what I’m dealing with here. Why does he want me? The stories Leader Allen would tell still ring in my ears. The outside world is full of heathens, of sinners. It’s full of violent men who want to drag me into an alley and rape me. Is that what Ivan wants?

Men like to teach you things. That’s what gets them off.

Most of the papers are printed from a computer. I can’t understand what it says any better than if it were written by hand. There are some words I recognize, words that are in prayer books. Thanks. And help. And girls. Buried in one paragraph I find the word hell. The words I know are sprinkled like morning dew on grass, tiny windows that don’t help me understand the whole.

In a beige folder, I find a stack of images. There are women posing, most of them without shirts or bras.

Some of them without panties.

I know it’s wrong to look at them—wrong to have them—but I linger anyway. I look at their eyes made dark with blue and purple and black glitter. I look at their lips painted every shade of red. I look at the hair between their legs, trimmed into a neat shape or missing completely. I’ve never even cut the hair on my head, much less the hair there. I didn’t know that was possible.

I can’t stop thinking about it.

Would it hurt? It seems like it must hurt. Then my hand is gently pressing against myself, right there, over my shift, protective and terrified and curious.

The scrape comes from the door again, and my hand snaps to my side. My face heats with shame that he would come back and catch me this way. I slam the folder shut, but some images slide out anyway.

The door swings open.

It isn’t him. Disappointment rises in me, unwelcome and grim. Why would I look forward to seeing him? He might end up hurting me. I remember the cold glint in his eye, the promise. He’ll definitely end up hurting me.

Instead it’s the guard who had been standing outside the basement door when we came in. I’d barely gotten a glance at him, enough to know he was big and tall and strong. He’s dressed in all black, which only adds to my impression of him as some kind of warrior. The only break in the image is the steaming tray of food he’s carrying.

He sets it on the desk and eyes the photographs peeking out from the folder.

The folder that I’m holding down with my palm flat, as if I can keep the strange feelings it inspires locked up tight, far away from me.

He raises his eyebrows. “I won’t tell you were snooping.”

“If?” I may be new here, but I already know everything comes with a price. This isn’t so different from Harmony Hills, under all the lights.