My bed is low and modern. Very different from everything back in that country estate. The side tables are made out of burnished metal, the floors are dark hardwood that match the living room, and the slate-colored rug is modern and plain.
She just looks around as I lead her into the bathroom and flick on the light.
I turn to her, my hands on her hips. My fingers inching their way up under her shirt so I can feel her soft skin.
Her eyes wander around, taking in the dark gray, oversized tiles that line the walls and the ceiling. The floating soapstone countertop with burnished metal double sinks. The shower glass that walls the whole space in all the way up to the ceiling to keep the steam in. And then she finds my eyes in the mirror.
We do that a lot, I realize. For two people who have barely known each other a week, we find ourselves in our reflections more than most.
“I like it,” she says.
“I like you,” I say. Because I do. And also because I want her to know that.
“I like you too,” she says.
I walk over to the shower and flip the hot water on, then turn back to her and say, “I’m going to take off your clothes now,” as I begin lifting up the hem of her shirt.
I go slow. Like she’s just a frightened animal and not a wild one. Revealing her stomach inch by inch. Then the bottom of her breasts, then her nipples—all hard and peaked. Then finally, she lifts her arms so I can pull it over her head.
I toss it in the trash can. She huffs out a small laugh, looking at her discarded shirt, but doesn’t retrieve it or demand that I do.
I pull her elastic-waist shorts down her legs as I kneel before her, my face directly in front of her pussy.
I draw in her sweet scent and things flutter through my mind. Romantic things. Happy things. Sweet things. I picture life with her by my side. Where would we live? Here? Or would we sell this place and go shopping for something else? Something that is more us?
Would she get a job? What kind of job would Lyssa Baylor get? We don’t need jobs. Not with all that money in my account, but people need to work.
I would ask what she likes to do, then see if we could turn that into a business. That’s how you make work fulfilling.
And I’d take her to Fiji. No escape plan necessary. Maybe, after my mom is cured, we all go there? Would my mom like Lyssa?
Yes. I think she would. I don’t care that Lyssa has a record a mile long. That girl in that file drawer isn’t this girl. Not my girl. Her life is all fucked up but I cling to that first opinion I had when the job first started.
Lyssa can’t help who she is. She didn’t choose to be Baylor’s daughter. This is just the hand she was dealt. So I’m gonna forget I ever saw that drawer of file folders until she’s ready to tell me about it.
And maybe she’s never ready? Maybe she wants to put it behind her and move forward.
I’m OK with that too.
Because there’s this little part of me that just can’t reconcile the two versions of Lyssa presented to me.
Her stepfather says she’s this wild thing. This crazy, out-of-control girl who does drugs, and flashes her pussy, and sells her body. And the bodies of others, I reluctantly admit.
I have the proof. So I know he’s not lying. And I did see her in action that first night. Out clubbing in that gold dress. Passing that guy money from her purse.
I think about that for a moment. Because whatever she paid for, she didn’t get anything in return.
Still, all that stuff really happened.
Before me, that is.
Because the side of Lyssa I see is one of a thoughtful, playful, somewhat innocent young woman who just wants some space to figure out who she is.
The only thing I know for certain is that Lyssa Baylor isn’t the girl I found in that file drawer. OK. So she did those things. But drugs make people do weird shit.
I don’t know. I need more time to fit all the pieces of this puzzle together. And the time for thinking isn’t now. Because I’m jolted back to the present moment when Lyssa places her hands on my shoulders to steady herself, then steps out of her shorts one leg at a time, kicking off the sneakers on her feet.
“I bought you all that underwear,” I say, tossing her shorts in the trashcan. “And still, you refuse to wear it.”
“I brought it with me,” she says. “It’s the only thing I brought.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “You only brought underwear?”