“You’re going to wear a disguise. This,” he says and opens the bag, revealing a hoodie and jeans. “Change into this. Your guy is going to be looking for you in the clothes you’re wearing now, right? And your hair is pretty distinctive too,” he says, taking in my blonde curls. “But throw some water on it, and you can even disguise that.”
I nod and hope he doesn’t notice the faintest expression of disappointment that flashes across my face when I pull the clothes out of the shopping bag.
“I swear they’re clean,” he says with a reassuring, if not very confident, smile.
“It’s not that,” I say and hesitate to add what I’m really thinking, but it slips out without my permission all the same. “Just, when I first saw you, wearing that get-up, I thought you were in finance or something. Not that I care either way,” I quickly add at the end. But he laughs it off.
“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m broke as hell.”
It's the painful sort of laugh I know all too well. The sort that’s trying harder to reassure oneself than whoever might be listening that everything is going to be alright. That all the bills will get paid before the end of the month. That there will be something in the fridge besides expired mayonnaise and that jar of pickles you don’t remember ever having bought.
As I step out of my heels, I hope that my smile comes off as genuine, because that’s truly how I feel right now. “Same here. More we have in common, I guess, right?” I turn around then and say, “Would you mind getting my zipper?”
The zipper in question starts at my shoulder blades and goes all the way down to the start of my ass. He agrees shakily and his fingers are tentative on my back. Once he’s worked the zipper down ten inches, I know exactly what he must be thinking: ‘She’s not wearing a bra’.
It's a strange coincidence that I should be so dressed up on the day that Trevor tracks me down. I was supposed to be attending a party tonight. It was through a friend named Rebecca, who I only know online, I’d gotten invited to this real high-brow get-together downtown. It was invitation only, and my name being on the list actually meant something. That’s the whole reason I ended up at a department store when most of my shopping prior to this point was done at Target or Wal-Mart, and I never imagined I’d be wearing an outfit like I am now that cost me a whole week’s paycheck.
But I convinced myself it was worth it for a once-in-a-lifetime event. I’d even been stupidly fantasizing that I might meet a guy there. A one-night stand that could evolve into something deeper. Someone I could grow with to pull myself out of this lowest layer of society. And as much as I’m thankful for Brad actually sticking around after my explanation of how Trevor might rip him to shreds if he were to catch us, I can’t help but feel a bit deflated at the fact that I’ve managed to team up with someone in no better a position that I am to help myself.
Still.
Brad’s not hard to look at. He’s great in the height department, which translates to jeans I’ll no doubt have to roll up at the ankles. He’s got this sort of rough look to him, with a cleft chin and a rough haze of a five o’clock shadow. Plus, he’s kind enough to want to help, while not being such
a coward that he takes off at the eminent threat of violence that might befall him if we screw this up. And it’s not like I’ve promised him anything. Despite the fact that I’m literally stripping in front of him, this is hardly a romantic situation.
But it would make for a good meet-cute. If I could do the impossible and strip away the high stress of this situation along with my clothes. If I could somehow rewrite the script of my life to be more in line with a romantic comedy, Brad would definitely be the male lead that I inextricably fall in love with along the line.
He might not be the rich guy I thought he was when I first derailed his day. He’s no more able than I am to extricate myself from the muck that grips at my ankles and threatens to pull me deeper. He’s just a regular guy.
A regular guy that’s still here.
Still willing to help me.
Even if there’s nothing in it for him.
So when I pull my dress off and I see him peeking at me in the mirror, I don’t call him out on it. Instead, I allow a little hope to build inside me.
That today will be the beginning of something new. A fork in the shitty road that has been my life so far.
Chapter 4
Brad
The zipper plummets down her soft skin, revealing a bare back.
“Thanks,” she says and turns around, her arm keeping her blouse up over her breasts. “Would you actually mind just turning around for a second? We’ve only just met and—”
“Of course! Sorry,” I blurt out and turn around, actually shutting my eyes like some child. But when I open them, I realize that because we’re in a bathroom, I can clearly see a side view of her in the mirror. After she allows her blouse and skirt to fall, I’m rewarded with a brief but amazing view. Her breasts are smaller than they appeared at first, but they’re also perkier than I imagined. During my brief peek, I also manage to imprint an image of her sheer lace panties into my brain. But mostly what I’m going to remember is the curve of her hips, the tiny gap between her thighs, and the bulge of her pubic bone leading up to her toned belly.
When I slam my eyes closed, I’m pretty sure she’s noticed my little peeking routine. I hold my breath, trying not to show any evidence that I’ve got a mental recording of her nude body pinned up in front of my mind’s eye. A place of honor where it will reside for a long, long time.
Her only imperfections are the bruises. There’s a collection around her neck. More circling around her forearms. The splotches on her left thigh are purple and yellow.
I hear her pull my clothes out of the shopping bag. Imagine as her legs stretch out and the jeans slide up her thighs, hiding that almost nonexistent lingerie. Then comes the hoodie. When she finishes, she announces, “All done.” After I turn around, she asks, “How do I look?”
Thinking only of her lovely curves hidden under my tatty clothes, I reply, “Great!”
This causes her to do a cute little bounce on the balls of her feet, which following Newton’s third law of motion—for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction—her unbound breasts follow the motion a fraction of a second behind the rest of her body.