“Milo sent me. He’s in trouble and needs money.” The words sound so dirty to my own ears. I want to rush home and scrub my skin until it’s beetroot red.
Smiling tightly, he shakes his head once. “Not my problem, sweetheart.”
“But…” I step forward, desperation in my tone, causing further humiliation. I’d been dropped off here for four years. It became normal, routine. But this, me coming here on my own, on a day when I typically wouldn’t, after he already severed our ties, makes me feel like I’m the one prostituting myself this time.
He holds a hand up, preventing me from moving farther into the apartment. The other hand swills whiskey around a crystal glass. I broke one of them once, and the spanking he inflicted left me unable to sit for over a week.
“Willa, my sweetheart, we agreed we would not see each other anymore—which means the money stops.”
My heartbeat thunders in my ears. How pathetic are you to still be standing here after so much rejection? He doesn’t want me anymore. “I never agreed to see you in the first place,” I snap, and immediately regret it when his eyes narrow on me, pinning me to my spot. “I’m sorry.” I bow my head like I’ve been conditioned to do when I speak out of turn.
“You are an extraordinary girl, Willa” He licks his lips, circling me like a shark smelling blood. “If you would like, I could arrange for you to meet an acquaintance of mine.”
My heart sinks. No, no, no. “No,” I bark out to stop him. It’s only ever been Mr. Right. I don’t want to be sold to another man.
“Listen, if you’re ever in real trouble, you can come to me and we can work something out, but don’t come here asking for money for your brother. He’s asked enough of both of us already.”
Knowing he’s the one who paid for me makes me want to laugh at his chosen words, but instead, they incite comfort, which confuses my mind. I want to scream, shatter the glass shielding us from the outside world, expose the perversions that happen here.
When his fingers stroke down my cheek, a tear forms in my eye. I’m desperate to feel affection no matter how dark and corrupt it is. Who am I?
Am I so damaged I need to know he cares about me in some way? Am I so desperate to be loved, wanted, I’d accept it from a man old enough to be my father—Christ, my grandfather—who paid for the use of my body?
“Leave the keycard on the counter on your way out,” he instructs without emotion. And just like that, I feel like the whore Milo made me.
When I get to the bar, it’s almost pitch black. A dusting of stars penetrate the abyss, reminding me just how vast the world is. There’s a sense of loneliness out here, detachment from reality. There’s nothing else for miles, giving the place a feeling of eerie nothingness. My hands squeeze in my lap, my mind telling me to run, to not go back, but where would I go? How can I escape? Milo always has one of his peons with me. Even at our house—after he promised it would go back to being a home. Someone always has an eye on me. Cameras occupy every room so he can watch me when he’s here at the bar. “Are you going in or just going to sit in the car all night?” Reed asks, looking at me in the rearview mirror. Poor asshole got lumbered with chaperone duties. I wonder if he knows it could cost him his life depending on which version of Milo comes out on any given day.
“Yes, but I won’t be staying. Keep the car running so you can take me home afterward.”
Pursing his lips, he shakes his head. “I need to check with Milo. If that’s what he says, then sure thing.”
Maybe he does know.
“I’m a person, Reed. I can decide where I want to be,” I snap, my fury over everything I did tonight taking over. I didn’t have to fuck Mr. Right to feel just as gross and ashamed coming out of there like I did on our weekends.
“Sorry, Wil, he pays me and would cut my balls off if I took you anywhere he didn’t authorize. I like my balls. Don’t make this hard on me.”
Ridiculous. I’m nineteen years old. I want to order him to take me home now or entice him inside and then run back to the car and drive myself, but I know it will cost his life. Milo is worse than he used to be. The drugs he pedals also end up running through his bloodstream more often than not. He’s like a vibrating animal ready to rip you apart at the slightest misstep.
“Let’s go,” I grunt, getting out of the car. The wind whips at my exposed skin. I hate wearing strappy summer dresses, but they’re what Mr. Right likes. Whore. I hate myself.
The place isn’t busy as I make my way through. Milo’s guys are at a corner table playing cards, and there are a few truck drivers holding up the bar.
Wesley jumps up and approaches me, nodding for Reed to join the boys for their game. “He’s high as fuck and going crazy. Did you get what he needed?”
I give my head a sharp shake. Wesley’s shoulders deflate, his hand going to the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.”
“How bad is it?” I ask. Tremors begin to rattle my bones from the war drums pounding inside my head and chest.
“Maybe you should go home and call him instead.”
“Wes, you know him better than that. Who will take the end of his blade for that decision—you or Reed?” I scoff.
Rubbing his eyes, he spits out a couple more expletives before squeezing my shoulder. “Okay. Just try to keep him calm.”
Like that’s possible.
Pushing the office door open, Milo looks up from a desk he sits behind to feel important. Our eyes lock, my nerves twitching throughout my body.
“Back so soon?” He frowns.
Closing the door, I move around his desk and peel at a sticker stuck on the surface. “He wouldn’t give me anything.” I bite on my inner lip, rolling the sticky paper between my fingers as I move to the seat he keeps in the corner for me to perch on like a fucking pet.
His knuckles turn white as his hands clutch the arms of his chair.
“Did he fuck you?”
I hate you.
“No,” I spit out. “He doesn’t want me anymore, Milo. You knew that when you sent me over there.” I scoff, the memory of what just went down forever burned into my brain, ready to strike out.
Kicking back his chair to stand, the atmosphere thickens, suffocating me with its invisible smog. My heart kicks in my chest, triggering small intakes of breath. Things are going to turn dark.
“What the fuck did you do to make him not want you anymore?” Grabbing a handful of my hair, he drags me to my feet so forcefully, the chair I was sitting on topples over.
His grip burns my scalp, but it’s nothing compared to the shit I’ve tolerated from Mr. Right in the past. I remain silent, letting him have his anger. The sooner he’s done, the sooner I can go home and hide in my room.
I’m shoved toward his desk, my body colliding with the objects scattered on the surface. Something sharp slices into my palm, making me wince.
“You couldn’t keep him happy a little fucking longer?” he mocks, punching his fist into the wood surface. If he feels pain, he doesn’t show it.
Composing myself, I pull back my shoulders, ignoring the blood dripping from my palm to the gray carpet beneath my feet. “My body doesn’t appease him anymore,” I grind out, swallowing a deep breath.