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I cross my legs, my foot bobbing. My fingers are jittery, and the anticipation is quickly rising to the surface. I can't tell if it's
a warning sign or just performance anxiety, or the fact that I know it's wrong and I'll end up in Hell for this.
I take a deep breath, then send Madame Christine a reply, agreeing to the job. After all, after that first asshole, how bad could this one be?
* * *
"Natalie," I blurt into the phone. "Nat? Are you there?" I repeat urgently, my voice filled with shock. I'm so disturbed right now I can barely form sentences. "Where are you?"
"Just getting home. What's up? You sound sketched."
Relief courses through me and I close my eyes. I hear her keys jingle in the background and then a door shut.
"That's because I am! Break out the bottle. I need to tell you what the fuck happened with this client. Never in my life…" My voice trails off. "I just got off the subway. I'll be there soon."
"On it," she says, then hangs up.
I didn’t bother with a town car for the ride home. Instead, I had it drop me at the nearest subway entrance, then I walked underground to jump on the train and took it to my usual stop. It was faster, and I felt better being surrounded by normal people.
I climb the flights of stairs leading to and from the subway in record time wearing four-inch strappy Tom Ford heels. At this rate, I'm going to have the best legs on the block just from the station stairs alone. One of them is over a hundred and fifty feet below level. Meaning, a lot of fucking stairs.
Natalie must've heard my click-clack coming down the hall because she's waiting for me with a double shot of tequila the second I throw the door open. I drop everything and reach for it. I don't wait for her. I tip it back and let it burn the back of my throat. The hair on my arms rise, goose bumps coating every inch. I wave to her for another one.
"Damn. I can't wait to hear what happened with this John."
"The biggest fucking weirdo you've ever seen."
She clucks her cheek and hands me another, then takes one for herself.
"I'm sure I have some stories that'll make your head spin."
My eyes narrow. I'm not sure she can top this story, but in a strange way I hope she can. Maybe that would help me feel better about all of this. I swallow the second shot, then yank off my pumps and drop them to the floor in a clunk.
"He had a serious Hannibal Lecter fetish."
Creases form between her eyes. "What do you mean?"
I walk into my room, needing to get out of these clothes. As Nat follows me, I consider the odds of surviving a bleach bath.
"What I mean is"—I pull down the straps of my beige dress, the one he requested I wear because it's the color of my fucking skin—"I had instructions to walk into a room at Sanctuary Cove and lock the door. The room was freezing, like it had to be thirty degrees. I found the John sitting in the dark, buck naked, with a fucking mask on his face, Natalie. The one Buffalo Bill wears in Silence of the Lambs. I almost ran from the room."
Just thinking about it again makes my heart fucking hammer against my ribs.
Once the dress is on the floor, I reach into my dresser and grab a baggy shirt that goes to mid-thigh. I unsnap my bra and let that fall too. Tugging the shirt over my head, I sit on my bed and pull one knee up and just stare at her, trying to figure out where I should start. I’m still shaking, and I feel like I need a hug and for someone to tell me it's going to be okay while they rock me in their arms. I also desperately need a shower, but I feel like I have to get this out first.
"What did you do when you found him like that?"
"For one, he had his dick tucked between his legs, so I didn't even see it," I say, and Natalie looks concerned. "I froze because I literally thought I was going to die or be mauled by some freak in a leather mask with a hidden dick."
She chuckles then. "You're kidding me?"
"I wish I was. He poured a glass of red wine the moment I walked in. I would later realize it was Chianti. I don’t know why he was pouring it, since there was no way he’d be able to drink through his mask. Anyway, he doesn't even say hi, he just gives me a blank fucking stare while he's petting a dog."
She frowns. "A dog?"
I nod fervently. "Yeah, like that cute, fluffy white one in the movie. So he tells me to strip. No biggie," I say, shrugging casually. "I do, but he's talking really slow, and asking me to strip really slow, like extra slow because he yelled through the mask for me to turn around and bend over to touch my toes." She acts like this is nothing shocking and so I continue, though I'm extremely exasperated while I'm telling her. "He asked me to spread my cheeks and push. Push, Natalie. Push as in you have to take a shit or something." She's starting to laugh now but I don't find it funny. "The whole night was mortifying and extremely demeaning. I wanted to tell Christine to never book me for him again. Of course I didn't after she handed me the seven grand." She's laughing even harder now. "I wanted to die. Thank God I got that awful waxing."
"Wait… Did you push?"
