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“Well, I guess you’ll have to go back to writing about food trucks or dating apps like the rest of your peer group. Sucks that you couldn’t have come out on top of this, but I guess you’re just not cut out for this type of work.”
I want to scream, and I consider allowing myself to do so until he decides to just... leave.
No words, no more snarking on my failure as a writer. He just leaves.
He’s right about one thing, though. I would have been fucked if I published that article. I don’t believe that Matteo did it, of course – I was almost killed trying to help exonerate him. But that footage is unusable, and my involvement would have tanked my career anyway, now that this accusation has come to light.
The embarrassment that comes from even the knowledge that I could have gone down for writing that article makes me want to vomit. My public image would be ruined forever. I would be branded as a murder apologist, especially against sex workers. There’s no PR statement that I could make to come back from that, even if he ended up being proven innocent. People would get their rocks off by ruining my life, and that would be that. There’s no redemption arc for people like me.
I sit alone in my office for a moment, wondering how I’m going to gain back even a sliver of credibility from my boss before he gets the satisfaction of firing me. If I’m performing well, I’ll at least have the ability to fight him if he fires me on insufficient grounds.
I could try to go teach English in Korea, but I doubt I have the certifications that I would need. It sounds like a nice plan, moving to a little coastal town and escaping from the ever-widening umbrella of American consumerism. Perhaps I’m romanticizing the situation a little, but what else am I supposed to do?
God, I’m already making an escape plan for when I’m terminated.
I look at the picture of Matteo again, trying to read his expression. He was always a very stoic person when I was around him, sometimes to my annoyance. However, his righteous indignation is clear in this photo. He’s going to put up a hell of a fight, but he’s already been implicated in a slew of other terrible crimes. A hell of a fight still won’t be enough in the court of public opinion, especially not for an alleged sex trafficker.
He really did have the opinion that he was above getting caught. It was almost funny how confident he was, as if he could control his fate with nothing but words. I mean, if I were as filthy rich as he is, I’d be selling books to idiots about how to get rich fast. He could rise to the top of the food chain at breakneck speed.
In a stupid, cosmic sort of way, I feel strangely responsible for his arrest. I had been considering turning him in for revenge, but I decided to keep to myself in the event that he sent someone after me. Could I have prompted this by willing it into the universe somehow?
No, Iris, that’s stupid as hell.
Women always take responsibility when a man fucks up or does them wrong, and I need to remove myself from the mindset that I was in control at any point. Our whole interaction began because I was almost a victim of traffickingmyself.Matteo was more than capable of keeping me safe after he saved me the first time, and he chose instead to blame me for making a bad choice. Fuck him.
But still...
I can hear the pleading sadness in his voice as I left the mansion. He sounded sincere the way I would expect a remorseful lover to sound as they beg their partner to stay. He had never used that particular voice around me, which makes me wonder if it was either false or something he refused to unleash.
It’s a gamble whether I want to believe his cries.
A man like Matteo would rather die than allow another man to watch him beg for his girl to stay. Men do this all the time, even growing violent when their girlfriends threaten to leave. They’ll always put up a front that she wasn’t that important to him, or that she was just a fuck that they kept around until they got bored with her. They always want to act like they’ve transcended feelings, and by definition, hurt feelings.
But then again, he could be so adept at manipulating vulnerable women that he’s learned how to get them to come back by playing on their empathy and emotions. I’ve seen plenty of women get sucked back into bad relationships by allowing their boyfriends to play with their feelings until they’re so guilty for leaving that they cave in. I’ve had friends getmarriedafter that happened.
I don’t want to be a fool.
But I also don’t want to miss something that could turn into a real connection with Matteo.
Sure, he’s a criminal who makes his entire living selling astronomical quantities of hard drugs to desperate people. That alone should make me repulsed by him. However, I feel like I’ve been able to see into his soul for just a glimpse, peeling back the layers that he shows to everyone else. I’ve seen the conversations he has with Leonardo and his other men, and they’re always devoid of meaning.
Our conversations had meaning. Why would he be willing to see that go so easily?
Why am I so willing toletit go?
I sit at my desk for another two hours, restless as I ponder the most difficult decision I’ve ever had to make.
How could I have allowed myself to develop feelings for a man like Matteo? I wasn’t raised like that. My father was in my life, and he set a very high standard for all the men that would enter my life at any point. I was so confident and comfortable with myself growing up that I wouldn’t let boys make fun of me for any reason. I even beat the shit out of one of them for telling me that I had fat cheeks.
So, when did I grow into the type of person who craves a relationship withdrug dealers?
I always pictured those girls as being trashy, detached from their families, and a danger to themselves. Usually in my mind’s eye, they were doing drugs themselves. The connection was easy to make, especially because those girls usually have a very low opinion of how men are supposed to behave, anyway. He might ignore you eighty percent of the time, and he’s probably “talking to” other girls behind your back, but at least he doesn’t call you names like your dad!
Perhaps I’m being a bit judgmental, especially since Ifuckeda drug dealer.
Raw.
And he came inside of me.
