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He did things to me I had no idea I even wanted.
I can feel my blood heat just thinking about what she may have done. I’ve never done anything with anyone. Having sex simply isn’t on my to-do list. I’m not interested, not from anyone in this city. My phone pings again, and I look to see what else she’s said.
He choked me.
I stop in my tracks for a moment, staring down at the glowing screen in my hand and rereading what she wrote.
And he told me he was going to take my ass and holy shit Chlo, anal is e v e r y t h i n g.
If anyone could see my face, they’d see the shock. I don’t know how she can even surprise me anymore. My fingers reach up to my throat as I swallow, wondering why he’d want to do that to her and how she could enjoy it. The choking part. I watch my fair share of porn, but that’s one I don’t really understand.
I’ll tell you more on Monday, but I had to tell SOMEONE. I read her text as if she’d spoken it to me, sprightly voice, and all.
Can’t wait to hear all the deets.My reply can’t convey my gratitude at being informed via text about the choking, so I can hide my naivety and shock from her at the realization she’s into that.
You almost home?she asks, and a soft smile plays at my lips. A warmth I’m not used to courses through me and slowly I find my pace again.
One block to go, I answer her and wait for her to respond with the same thing she wrote a few nights ago. For me to tell her when I get in.
Last week I told her I live just outside of Fallbrooke, and she kept pushing to know where exactly. When I told her I’m from Crescent Hills, the same city as Mr. Brown’s office, her face paled. She’s not from around here, but she knows the reputation of this place and what it’s known for. Everyone does. If you want a taste of sin, Crescent Hills is where you’ll find more than your fill.
I’m used to the embarrassment, but not from someone who chooses to work in this city. She doesn’t have to be here any longer than a nine-to-five, and honestly, I don’t know why she even chose to work in this run-down area when she lives in the big city. And that’s exactly what I challenged her with when she told me I shouldn’t be walking home.
I’m grown. I’m aware. I’m also broke and on my own since my uncle died two years ago, leaving me with bills, a mortgage, and no job to pay for any of it, so I told her she could take her high horse and shove it. But maybe not in those exact words, and maybe with a choked voice of shame.
The silence lasted only a minute or so, but it felt like an hour. She offered to walk me home and when I declined, as politely as I could, she snatched my phone from my desk. Before I could ask her what she was doing, she texted herself before handing it back, so we would have each other’s number.
Text me when you’re home, she told me, but I didn’t answer her. When she texted again, apologizing, and asking if I’d made it home all right, I answered only because I thought she was genuinely worried. And things have been normal again ever since.
It’s a small act of kindness, but it means more to me than it should. I’m smart enough to know that I shouldn’t let it get to me like this. I can’t rely on anyone or trust anyone. Outsiders come and go here. Even Ang said she wasn’t planning on staying at the law firm for long. I should know better than to think of her as a friend.
But when she sends texts like the one that just came through, I can’t help but feel a little camaraderie. I smile as I reread the text.See you Monday, prepare to be scandalized!
My heels click on the asphalt, worn rough from years with no repairs. In the distance, I hear a siren, and farther down the block, a few kids are screaming at one another. It’s nearly ten at night, but this is normal.
Just like the streetlights going out.
Back when I would have childish fears about the darkness swallowing me up, I also used to dream. I used to dream of leaving here. Of going anywhere but here and never returning. I wish I could forget those memories. But they cling to me like the filth that clings to the gutters on the side of the road.
I used to dream of running away. Mundane things like bills have a way of robbing you of your fantasies. At least I have my books and my writing. Even if I never escape this place, I can still escape into the worlds I build for myself in my stories.
Years ago, when I was still in school, I told my uncle that I’d leave here one day. I remember the sound of the porch swing as it swayed, how my fingers felt as they traced the rusted chain that held it in place. He told me this city didn’t let anyone leave. It kept them rooted to this place.
I didn’t know what he meant until he passed and there was no one here to pick up the pieces. No one but me.
My feet stumble and I come to a halt as I try desperately not to fall forward. The combination of rubble on the ground and the sight of someone’s shadow laying across the very porch swing I’d just been thinking about are what almost cause me to trip.
My chest aches with a sudden pounding of anxiety. No one comes to visit me. It’s one of the blessings I’ve been afforded by being the sad girl with her sob story. I keep my head down and I mind my own business. No one likes me, no one but Ang, and no one fucks with me either. Why would they? I have nothing.
But someone’s there. I can’t see their face, but the shadow is there and unmistakable.
The paint on the porch swing is weathered, and no one ever sits on it anymore, but I watch the empty seat move back and forth and then a man steps away from the shadows.
A man I see from time to time, but always in passing. Except for when I think of him late at night. Unfortunately, it happens more than I’ll ever admit.
He’s a man I used to want because he made me feel something I’d never felt before. A mixture of hope and desire. Like the silly dreams of getting away from this place, I used to want to be his. To be pinned down by his hands while his eyes held me in place.
I used to dream of him pressing his lips to mine and stealing my breath with a demanding kiss. I knew he could do it; I’d felt it once before.
