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“What?”
“That was…that was really good.”
“Just good?” I laugh.
“More than good. I just can’t think of any adjectives right now!”
We both laugh, and Alina stands up and gets rid of the condom, then returns to the couch and straddles me again.
“That kind of makes me want to wait for you to be ready for another round,” she tells me, “but I think you need some sleep first.”
I can’t argue with her though round two sounds pretty good to me as well.
Alina climbs off of me and reaches for my hand. I allow her to lead me to the bedroom where we both recline against the pillows. I wait for her to get comfortable and then wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her against my chest.
The stress from the day and the orgasm have made me sleepy, but I can’t seem to doze off even with the scent of lavender around me. I keep seeing Rinaldo’s face when I told him about Felisa. Every time I think of his reaction, my chest feels tight.
Alina’s fingers stroke my hair, and I turn to look at her.
“You ever make a mistake?” I ask.
“Yes.” Alina laughs quietly. “Plenty of them. Doesn’t everyone?”
The question is rhetorical, and I don’t bother to answer her. Yes, everyone makes mistakes, but the implications are vastly different depending on the circumstances. Pulling out of a parking spot and bumping into another car is a mistake. Speeding the wrong way down a one-way street and killing a kid on a tricycle is a different kind of mishap.
“Evan? Did you make a mistake?”
I close my eyes and lick my lips. I’m not sure I have an answer even if I cared to give her one. Was killing Felisa a mistake? I don’t regret it. I also don’t like seeing Rinaldo in such a state.
“What mistakes have you made?” I’m deflecting, and she knows it. I don’t really care about a hooker’s past.
“Dropping out of school,” Alina says. “I wish I hadn’t done that.”
“Why did you?”
“Young and stupid.” She shrugs one shoulder and raises her hand to rub the back of my head. “At the time, it seemed the only option.”
“Did you have to work? Family to support?”
“Not exactly,” she says. “I mean, I had to support myself but no one else. I ran away from home.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
I watch her closely as I process the information. Fourteen is young—very young. No one gets a normal job at fourteen, and no one leaves home at fourteen without a damn good reason.
“Is that when you started turning tricks? Just trying to get by on the street?”
She looks away from me again, and her throat bobs as she swallows. Her eyes tighten in the corners and glisten a little as I feel her muscles tense.
She was a hooker before she left home.
It happens. I know it happens because I’ve seen it plenty of times. It’s usually some asshole junkie who will do anything for a fix and a doubly asshole pimp who likes fresh, young pussy. They’ll find some teen girl and coax her onto the street with all kinds of promises, and they next thing she knows, she’s turning tricks and handing over all the money.
“Who?” She’s still incredibly tense, but my curiosity has been piqued and I have to ask.
“Does it matter?” Her answer and the lack of information it provides tells me more than I probably want to know. There is a specific person who pulled her into this life—someone significant.
