Wish I May (18 page)

Seven Years Ago

A
DRIVER
picks me up after dark. I was told to wear something classy.
“A black dress will do. Don’t be afraid to show a little ass.”

I tell myself I don’t know what’s going to happen. I tell myself not to jump to the worst possible conclusion.

I climb into the limo in a black skirt and matching button-up blouse, and I’m greeted by the man from the restaurant. Anthony.

“Hey, sweet thing.” He runs his eyes over my body so slowly, my stomach churns.

When I broke down and called him for the money, I was only trying to keep my sisters off the streets and put some food in the fridge. He met me at the restaurant and gave me cash. For two weeks, everything was okay.

Then, yesterday, one of his guys showed up outside my apartment, looking for me to pay my debt with interest. I didn’t have it. I still don’t.

I swallow back my fear. “I’m sorry I don’t have your money yet. I thought I could pick up extra shifts but then the girls both got sick and—”

He cuts me off with the wave of his hand.

“I’ve given you everything I can.” Even as I say the words, I know they’re ridiculous. There is no A-for-effort when it comes to owing money to men like this.

“I appreciate that you’re trying to save your family from living on the streets, sweetheart. But your minimum-wage job isn’t gonna cut it.” He laughs, as if this is some big joke. “The longer you try to get by on pennies, the further behind you fall.”

“We can go to a shelter,” I whisper. “I’ll get Mom to clean up first so they won’t call CPS. Or…maybe I should just let them put my sisters in foster care.” I don’t mean the last. I won’t let that happen. I can’t.

He leans back in his seat, studying me. “That doesn’t take care of the matter of money you already owe me.”

I bite my lip and taste blood. “What do you want from me?”

His eyes leave my face and drop to my breasts, and I don’t even care. He’s been looking at me like that since the beginning. I hate him and his eyes on me make my stomach churn, but I’d let him look at me all day long if it would just make this all go away. “You work for me now. I have a client waiting.”

“Please,” I whisper. “I’m a virgin. I can’t sell my body.”

He claps his hands together. “Now, that’s what I thought. Best news I’ve heard all day.”

I can’t allow my brain to process what that might mean.

Anthony narrows his eyes at me. “You don’t have to have sex tonight, sweetheart. We’ll give him a taste, but no intercourse, you hear me?” He tucks my hair behind my ear, and a shudder rocks through me. “We’re going to save that for now. It’s too valuable.”

They drop me at one of those fancy high rises where the man at the front gets permission from the tenant before letting you up. The high security does nothing for my peace of mind, and as I am led to the elevator, I feel like everyone is staring at me, like everyone knows exactly why I’m here. My stomach knots.

When the elevator doors slide open, a servant greets me and ushers me into the condo. It’s beautiful with sleek contemporary furnishings and a marble floor. And the moment I step inside, I want to turn around and leave.

He takes me to a room at the back of the condo where the ceilings are vaulted and the walls are covered with bookshelves. The man sits behind a polished desk and motions for his servant to leave. He’s attractive, probably in his mid-thirties with dark hair and striking hazel eyes, and he’s obviously wealthy. The kind of man my mother throws herself at. What could he want with me?

“Close the door,” he says softly.

I force myself to do as he asks. This isn’t real. This can’t be happening.

Moving from behind his desk, he settles into a winged back chair. “Come here.” He crooks a finger at me.

My feet move slowly. One step. Two.

“Take off your shirt.”

My hands shake as I obey, sliding the black plastic buttons free from their holes, telling myself it doesn’t count if he doesn’t touch me. This isn’t real. No worse than a peeping tom looking in my window. I let the shirt slide from my shoulders and fall to the floor.

“Your bra.”

Goosebumps break out on my arms, making my hair stand on end. I close my eyes as I reach behind my back. I think of my sisters.

“Now look at me,” he says.

I force my eyes open and look at him. As I watch him run his greedy eyes over me, revulsion rises like bile in my throat. But not even my revulsion is as strong as my determination.

Shifting his hips forward in his chair, he pops the button on his slacks and pulls out his dick.

I back up a step. “He said no sex,” I mumble stupidly.

My phone rings in my purse. William’s ringtone.

“Not tonight,” he says. “But soon. I can tell I’m going to like you. So you. What are you? Sixteen?”

“Yes.”

“That’s just perfect. You’re going to do great.”

The bright happiness of the ringtone is so sharp against the misery of this moment. My life with William feels so far away now. I was too much of a “good girl” to give myself to Will. And I’m supposed to suck a strange man’s dick for money that’s already gone. I ignore the call and drop my purse to the floor.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” He stands up and crosses to me, his dick protruding between us.

I hate him for making me stoop to this. I hate myself for making the decisions that brought me here. I’ve spent so many years trying not to be my mom, and I’ve never felt so low as I do right now. Never so pathetic.

“You do a nice job and I’ll bring you back.” He tucks my hair behind my ear and smoothes it down. “You’re beautiful, and I’ll take care of you.”

I’m trembling as I drop to my knees in front of him. My stomach heaves.

“That a’girl.”

My phone rings again. William. As if he knows and wants to save me from this.

My chest shakes and my cheeks are damp with tears. I said I’d never stoop to my mom’s level. I said I would never allow myself to be sold. I’ve spent years being proud about that. So fucking self-righteous.

I snatch my purse off the ground and grab my shirt and bra, running from the room. I thought I was better than Mom, but as I run to the elevator, I feel lower than ever because she did what she had to do. And I
can’t
.

Present Day

“I just scheduled a massage for tonight,” Max says, taking a sip of his beer. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

I retrieve my cell from my pocket and pass it to him. “Would you like to call and cancel it or do you want me to do it for you?”

Cally’s been working out of the apartment above my gallery for over three weeks now. She’s been a consummate professional where I’m concerned, greeting me when we pass in the apartment kitchen, asking all the appropriate small talk questions while still managing to avoid having any meaningful contact with me.

Max eyes my phone, his lips twitching. “It’s just a massage. Has she given you one?”

“Not since she was sixteen. Cancel it.”

“Man, you’ve got it bad.”

“Fuck yeah, I do.” The smell of stale beer and onion rings is enough to turn my stomach off my lunch. Even so, I prefer this scene to the bars closer to the university, where I’m all too likely to run into my students.

“So, do something about it.”

I set my jaw. “Hell, why didn’t I think of that?”

“You’re not on your A-game, man. She has you frazzled. You’re not even seeing the obvious here.”

I sit back in the booth and stare at my friend. Because he’s right. Cally’s been avoiding me and I’ve been waiting on her, rather than making my own move. “You know, I
could
use a massage.”

“That’s my boy,” Max says. “You can take my spot. Tonight. Six p.m.”

I have a fifteen-minute break before my next client arrives, and I collapse onto the couch in the apartment’s living-room-turned-waiting-room. We’ve started leaving the door between the gallery’s loft reception area and the apartment open to encourage gallery visitors to check out my specials and encourage my clients to exit through the gallery.

Through the door, I can see Will sitting on the couch in the reception area, peering into his laptop. He does that a lot, I’ve noticed, choosing to work in the common space instead of his office, but he leaves me alone.

For three weeks, I’ve been taking clients in my little studio and avoiding him as best I can. But between giving massages and the horrible couch I’m crashing on at Dad’s, I’m too exhausted to worry about limiting our exposure to each other tonight. The man might be a magic panty disintegrator, but the way I feel right now, he could make my panties dance the merengue against my girly bits and I still wouldn’t be interested.

“Busy day,” he says. He closes his laptop and heads toward me. He taught today and he’s still wearing the button-up Oxford, the top unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled to his elbows.

“Lizzy and Hanna had their mom tell all the women at the country club about me and my introductory prices. And I’m doing this refer-three-get-one-free deal.” I shrug. “It’s working. People are finding me.”

He rocks back on his heels. “I’m just impressed that you’ve had repeat business already. How many massages do people need in less than a month?”

I roll my head to the side so I can look at him while we talk. I’m not about to waste the energy to lift it. “‘I’m good at what I do.”