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The commonality between them and their connection to sex work disturbed her. Desdemona headed for the door.
She paused at the door with her gloved hand on the handle. “I won’t bail you out of jail,” Desdemona repeated her warning from the first night they met.
“I know.”
“Your rent is paid through the month and I’ll give you one more, but then I’m done,” she said, not looking back at her as she spoke. “You continuing to sell yourself wasn’t a part of the deal.”
The bed squealed as Portia jumped to her feet. “No, Ms. Smith. I’ll stop.”
This girl was a liability. Desdemona had never ever been arrested. Not once, and she wasn’t looking to break her track record and ruin the lives of her consorts and courtesans if she was exposed by the decisions made by a reckless little girl in need of—
Help.
Desdemona shook her head.I have too much to lose.
“Ms. Smith, please. I won’t do it again.Please.”
When she looked to her she hated that she saw glimpses of herself. “Find a job, Portia, and an apartment in the price range we discussed. This is my last attempt to help you,” she said and just left the room, quietly closing the door.
* * *
Desdemona was in the bath with the water lapping against her body, her arms splayed and hanging over the sides as she tilted her head back.
“I feel like I can’t stop.”
“I feel like I can’t stop.”
“I feel like I can’t stop.”
“I feel like I can’t stop.”
She winced at the words echoing in her head, before sliding her bottom across the slick floor of the bath until her knees poked above the water’s level and her head dipped down beneath it.
“I feel like I can’t stop.”
She emerged, uncaring of the water that overflowed to the heated marble floor, as she ran her hands back over her head to stop the flow of soapy water into her eyes. She wrapped her arms around her knees and settled her chin in the groove between them.
Pussy runs my life. The desire of it and for it. My mother’s inability to think beyond it. My father’s desire of my mother and his lack of respect for his wife’s. My pimp’s controlling of it. And now my control over others.
“Pussy, pussy, pussy, pussy,” she said aloud softly. “I’m sick of it.”
What was most troubling was not her guilt over no longer helping Portia, or her fear of leaving behind the successful—albeit illegal—business she had grown, it was that she had no one with whom to share her thoughts, her fears, and her guilt. No one who knew Desdemona “Desi” Dean.
She thought of calling Loren, but that would just be a diversion from her reality, and with Denzin discussions of her even thinking of quitting might lead to a power move on his part. She trusted no one.
No, I trust Lo. It’s me thatheshouldn’t trust. Plus, he’s studying tonight.
She climbed from the tub and selected one of the dozen white towels neatly rolled and stacked on the counter beside the Jacuzzi tub. She wrapped it around her nudity and grabbed another to twist around her damp hair like a turban.
For the rest of the night, Desdemona kept busy. She called and checked on Portia, who was working at a retail store in the Manhattan Mall. She rescheduled her GED test for April. Got the receipts for the dress boutique together to take to her accountant to file her taxes. She checked on the new stock Patrice wanted to order for the boutique and checked on the status of a dozen orders in queue. She ordered room service and picked over her meal of seared tuna with Asian slaw but devoured the dessert of New York cheesecake with raspberries, even raising the plate to lick at the sweet glaze. She depleted her supply of her favorite wine and turned up the music as she flung her towels away and danced around her apartment naked and carefree.
“Living my best life!” she sang along with Lil Duval as she ran down the length of her couch from one end to the other.
When Whitney Houston’s song “I Will Always Love You” came on, she grabbed a lighter and sang along with her. “Oh, Nippy!” she wailed in drink-induced grief before the heat of the lighter singed her thumb.
“Shit!” she swore emphatically, dropping it and then furiously kicking it away to spin across the smooth hardwood floor.
It was Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” that led her to call Loren.
