Devil's Bargain

I just have to remember whatever Hawk is doing, it’s for him, not me. This is his norm, and this is how he wants his women to look because whether I like it or not, I am a part of his stable now.

I think about the money again. About why I’m doing this. I think about the possibility that I may need to disappear again.

But how long will I run from Sean Boyd?

Forever, I think. He told me as much on the last night I saw him. I’ll never forget his words.

“Keep one eye over your shoulder, Little Bitch Whore, because I will hunt you for the rest of your life. Again and again, I will come after you. Just when you think you’re safe, I’ll be there to remind you that you’re not. That you never will be safe. I’ll remind you again and again and…”

He’d trailed off then. Or I didn’t hear any more because it hurt too much, what he was doing.

Pain overrides everything. It blocks out even your own thoughts. In a way, it’s a blessing.

When we get to the lobby, I ask the man to wait when I see a coffee shop and stop for a to-go cup. I take out my wallet to pay but an older woman, I guess the manager, steps between me and the girl and pushes my money away.

“It’s taken care of, Miss,” she says. “Anything you need.”

Of course, it is.

I’m his whore. And they all know it. The woman with the designer clothes. The man who is standing a few feet from me. This woman.

“Thank you,” I say awkwardly, knowing it’s no use arguing.

I put my money back in my wallet and take the cup, too distracted to even add cream or sugar before heading outside where the sedan that once brought me here carries me to the shop.

Sundays aren’t usually that busy at the shop so being there today will give me a chance to take inventory.

On Monday I’ll walk over to the homeless shelter a few blocks away and hand them a check for fifty-percent of what the shop took in minus what I’d given Liza. It’s not usually that much, but people don’t realize how little you need to live if you really are using it just to live. To eat. To have a warm, and hopefully safe, bed.

Although now, I can give them the whole of it. I will have a million dollars by the end of this month. The little bit the shop takes in monthly won’t be as necessary.

When I arrive at the shop, I take one of the silk scarves in the window and tie it around my neck. The bruises aren’t bad, but I don’t want anyone seeing them.

The driver spends the morning sitting in the car or climbing out for a smoke. He’s just out on the street like that. He must be bored to tears.

When I walk down to a small sandwich shop, he follows me.

“I’m just getting a sandwich,” I tell him. “I’m not going to run away.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Fine. Suit yourself.” I order my sandwich but when I try to pay, he steps forward and hands the woman a credit card.

“I can buy my own sandwich.”

He ignores me and the woman who has always taken my order looks at me uncertainly.

“Anything she wants goes on this card,” he says to her.

“That’s not—” I start.

“This card,” he interrupts.

The woman takes it, looks at the name and runs it, stealing glances at me. The two working in the back making the sandwiches are also there, peering out at me, at the commotion.

I’ve lost my appetite by the time I get the sandwich and walk back to the shop. I take out my phone and instead of calling Hawk, I send him a text:

“I can buy my own sandwich. Not everyone needs to know I’m your whore.”

I hit send.

Not a moment later, I get one back.

“I like to take care of what’s mine.”

He likes saying that. Reminding me.

“You’d never know it from looking at my throat.”

The phone rings not an instant later. It’s him.

I decline the call and when I do, a text flashes across the screen: “Pick up.”

“No.”

“I said pick up.”

It rings again and I decline again.

“Store’s busy.” I text and before he sends another message, I switch off my phone and walk back to the shop. I unlock it and try to smile at the customers who enter a few minutes later.

My babysitter lights up a cigarette and leans against the door of the car, scrolling through his phone.

I watch the women absently as they chat and look through the rack of Halloween costumes for kids. They’re some of our biggest selling items. After a while, one of them comes to the register carrying an Ariel costume. She sets it on the counter.