It's weird when he says it that way. It almost makes me feel like he's right—like I am a victim. I swallow hard, chasing the feeling away, and feel my guilt wrap its fingers around me again. “I'll tell you. Just please don't expect to have the same opinion of me when I'm done.”
He’s leaning over his knees more now, and I'm glad of that, because I don't think I could tell this story if his eyes were on me. As it is, I’ll leave a big part of it out: what happened right before I left Jesus. I put a pillow in my lap and angle it between us, giving myself the barest semblance of privacy. Then I turn my gaze to the muted TV, where a Mexican soap opera is playing.
How very fitting.
“I'll never forget that night.” I pick a spot on the wall to stare at and try to forget that Evan is beside me.
“I'd been seeing my client for a couple of months. Most of Vegas knew I was his mistress. He wasn't in the city all the time, just sometimes for business, or I guess when he wanted to have fun. He was kind of a guy's guy. He liked to gamble and go to pool halls with his man friends, and maybe they would see some strippers there. He didn't always have to be with me. I liked that,” I confess. “It gave me more freedom.
“I was getting by because he paid me by the month. He paid me the same thing every month so I would have stability. And he paid for my room at the brothel.” I sigh at the memories, which are so sad now. “It was kind of like living in a hotel...or a dorm. Lots of other women. It was fun I guess. The sorority I never had.” I snicker humorlessly. “And just like sorority bitches, there were lots of jealous women. People who wanted this man.” I pause, linking my fingers together, as I try to remember the way Drake Carlson looked. The way he smelled. The way he held me. “He was a nice enough man. He looked nice. But there was never any chemistry, at least on my end. Maybe it's because he paid me. That has a way of taking chemistry away. But I think it was because of his age.”
“He was older?” Evan rasps.
I turn my eyes to him and find him clenching his right fist atop his knee.
“Yes, he was an older man. Old enough to be my dad, I guess.” That thought is creepy. “Women of different ages wanted him. He was kind of...well-known, I guess you would say. One of the women who wanted him was a porn star.”
I get a funny feeling in my stomach so I look over at Evan. Suddenly I wish that he would take my hand. I've never told this story to anyone before, and now that I'm upon it, I feel...damaged. Like something inside of me is bleeding.
I link my hands together tightly and look out at a vase beside the massive, mahogany entertainment center, but I can't find the words I need. I look back at Evan. He's got his elbows on his knees, but he’s shifted back a little, so his back is against the couch and I can see his face; I can see he looks like he's awaiting his own death sentence.
“Evan...are you sure you want to hear this? I don't have to share it.”
He nods once. “Yes, I'm sure. Go on.” His body looks stiff enough that I could break him with a tap.
I swallow hard, wishing I'd never started down this path.
“There was a porn star who I had heard had a big thing for my client. She didn't understand why he was paying me to be his escort and his mistress when he could have her. She was older.” I exhale, seeing Priscilla's made-up face inside my mind. She had veneers and they always kind of scared me. They were too white. Almost like a vampire's teeth. I rub my eyes, feeling a lot older than my years. “She was pretty in that porn-star way and lots of men in Vegas wanted her. I guess lots of men everywhere wanted her.” I shrug. “My client had met her once before, but he didn't hit it off with her. He thought she came on too strong, and she made a derogatory comment about his wife. That had made him mad.”
I hear Evan swallow and I look over to find him looking slightly gray. “Are you okay?” I ask. “Should I stop?”
I don't really understand why he’s acting this way, and maybe it's not my business anyway. Then suddenly I think get it: It’s the wife thing. He’s probably appalled to hear the details of my ‘affair’. I bite my lip. I can’t really blame him.
I take a deep breath and I can feel his eyes on me.
“Go on.”
I need a minute to collect myself, so I ask him, “Do you know of Jim Gunn? He’s done this more than once. Sold women, I mean.” There was another one: Ginny something, I think. She was a little while before me, and one time Guapo told me she was sold in France. I’m sure there might have been more before her, and some after me as well.
I glance at Evan, and he looks distracted—or maybe upset. I just want to bring things back to Earth a little before I drop anymore sordid details on him, so I ask, “What about Priscilla Heat? Have you ever seen her movies?”
Evan’s brows knit together and his mouth twists, like he's confused. “Do I know of her?” He shakes his head almost violently, like he's trying to get a bee out of his hair. Without really looking at me, he rubs a hand over his face. “No, I haven’t seen her movies.”
“Oh. I guess I thought...” I shake my head. “She’s kind of big time.”
He clenches his jaw and moves his head just a little, like he wants to shake it but his neck hurts.
When he says nothing more, I continue hesitantly. “My client didn't like her, and she didn't like me. She knew I wasn't really...in the industry. I think that made her mad. Some women reacted that way when they heard about me. I was a kept girl at a brothel, but I'd never prostituted myself. People used to joke about how I couldn't satisfy my client. How could I when I didn't have any experience?”
“How could you?” Evan growls. He looks infuriated, and seeing his face like this makes my throat close off. I swallow hard, feeling stripped. Feeling ugly.
“I-I don't know how I could.” I shrug, unsure what is making him so mad but taking his anger upon me nonetheless. “I just tried to do the best I could.” A tear spills down my face, and before I know it, I'm up and on my feet, dashing down the hallway to my room. I slam the door and fling my body onto the bed. I feel...humiliated.
I remember a line from The Only Alien on the Planet, one of my favorite books in honors eighth grade English. The main character is lamenting a part of his life that was lost because of some really awful crap he went through. His friend is telling him that he'll get over what happened, and he says, “Whatever I become. Wherever I go. There will always be—this.”
His friend asks if he can just move past it.
He says, “No.”
I feel that sentiment so strongly right now. I just want to live in a world where I was never Missy King. Unless I can erase my past, I'll never be happy. I'll never be free.
All the misery and shame that I've been ignoring while I worked at the clinic bubbles up, and I am sobbing in my pillow. Sobbing for my pretty, framed college diploma that I left in my old place in Atlanta. Sobbing for the way my byline looked in the pretty, sleek newspaper fonts: MEREDITH KINSEY, STAFF WRITER. God, I want to see that again. I cry for my aunt and uncle, for my buddies at The Red & Black. Every year there's a reunion and I've never even been. I should have gone. I should have a job, a boyfriend. I should be down here writing about this stuff. I should never be living it. And then I sob harder because somewhere in my heart, I know it's not my fault. It's Priscilla's fault and it's Jim Gunn's fault. It's Guapo's fault and Jesus's fault. It's not my fault. And that makes me a victim.