“Alright.”
“If you guess right, you can fuck me with my ankles on your shoulders. If you guess wrong, I’ll let you play with my feet, but you won’t fuck me today. Deal?”
It’s a bargain he accepts right away because either way he wins. Just looking at my feet arouses the newspaper editor, but he’s not so deep into his fetish that he needs feet to come. It’s just a plus. He’ll guess wrong, but he’ll still get to kiss, lick, and massage my feet. That’s enough to keep him hard, and right before his hour is up, I’ll jerk him off.
“They’re red,” he guesses. Normally, he’d be correct. Red is such a sexy color. It provokes passion and increases blood pressure. Men are drawn to the color, associating it with sensuality and romance. I wear it on my lips, my nails, and my toes for these reasons.
Last night I removed every trace of it from my hands and feet, and I wore a nude lipstick to today’s appointment.
“You can take off my shoe and find out.”
He cradles my foot as if it’s his most precious possession, careful not to scuff the shine on my shoe. Numbness that’s accompanied me since the day I followed my mom’s footsteps into sex work abandons me, and it’s a struggle not to scream stop. The word is stuck in my throat. I swallow, and swallow, and swallow again to keep it down.
“Damn,” the editor moans when he sees my bare, paintless toes. His eyes find mine, and if he catches indecision in my expression, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he lifts my foot and asks, “May I?”
I nod.
My words can’t be trusted.
He licks the arch of my foot, and I clutch the arms of the chair to keep from jumping up and running away. The bowl of grapes falls to the floor.
I’m broken.
There’s no other explanation.
I’m a psychopath, losing control of my mind.
On the treadmill in the dining area where a dinner table should be, I’ve attempted to control my racing mind, running faster and farther than ever. My tan top’s drenched in sweat. Rebellious hair sticks across my forehead and neck. I’ve been home from my appointments with Cristian and the editor for hours. The sun is down, and I should be in bed, resting for another day of appointments. But the idea of letting tomorrow’s clients touch me is sickening, and I can’t outrun the feeling no matter how hard I try.
When my lungs feel like they’re going to burst and I can’t keep the sweat out of my eyes, I slam my palm against the stop button and jump off. I double over with my hands on my knees, inhaling through my nose and out of my mouth as the muscles in my legs seize. My body might crumble until a rush of endorphins blankets me in dopamine and it feels as good as it did when I walked into Talent’s office and saw him sitting behind his desk.
I forgo the vodka in my freezer for water, guzzling half the bottle in one icy drink. I’m wiping it from my chin when someone knocks on my door.
Inez holds her cell phone up for me to see when I open the door, knowing it only could have been her. She’s the only person who knows where I live. Yet, in all the years we’ve known each other, she’s never stopped by unannounced. I don’t know what to expect.
“Did you leave your phone with Talent Ridge?” she asks right away, shaking hers at me.
Swiping sweat from my eyebrow on the back of my hand, I groan. “I dropped it before I left and forgot to take it with me. I haven’t activated another burner…”
“He called, and I thought it was you. He said my number was the only contact saved.”
My heart nosedives past my shredded lungs, through my shaky legs, to my feet. “What did he want?”
“You.”
“Are you training for a marathon or something? What’s wrong with you?” Inez asks, letting herself in. She hurries past me, careful not to touch my sweaty body.
“After two days of chaos and binge drinking, I thought working out was a healthier way to deal with my problems,” I answer, toeing my shoes off. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“Jesus, Lydia.” Inez looks around, scoping out the bare walls and lack of furniture apart from the couch and treadmill. “How long have you lived here? Would it kill you to decorate? Where’s your television?”
“In the bedroom.” What’s the point of decorating when I might have to leave without notice one of these days? “Can I get you anything?”
Inez shakes her head. “No, thank you. Once I realized Talent had your phone and I didn’t have a way to contact you, I headed over to make sure everything is square. It’s not like you to make a mistake like that.”
Embarrassment warms my cheeks, concealed by the redness in my skin from the workout. “Looks like Ridge & Sons threw us off our games.”
Snapping her head in my direction, Inez’s short haircut sweeps along her jawline as it swings from the sudden movement. For a split second, she stares at me with the same dark dissatisfaction she shared with Naomi yesterday. I am, after all, an employee who performed with unsatisfactory results. But unlike Naomi, Inez won’t let me go so easily.
She sits on the center of the couch, bouncing up and down and scoffing. “Do you ever sit here?”
“No. Not often,” I admit.
The couch was purchased because coming home to an empty living room every day was depressing. It was a constant reminder that I have no roots—a shoddy history. I didn’t have parents to pass down their old furniture to me when I rented my first apartment or heirlooms to inherit. There are no awkward school pictures or family photos to hang up, and I don’t have any friends. No one takes pictures of me or with me, so there’s nothing to put in frames.
I bought the sofa online because it looked cozy.
It’s not.
The material is itchy and it’s hard. But it’s something to come home to.
I’ve considered ordering canvas portraits of inanimate objects, but the truth is, nothing interests me. There’s not anything I consider particularly beautiful.
Except Talent.
My only hobby is getting paid, and I can’t very well put my line of work all over the walls. The exception to my indifference about making my house a home is my bedroom. I lived on this planet for eighteen years without a bed to call my own, so I don’t take it for granted. My room is everything I wanted as a kid—without the band posters and lava lamps.
“This couch won’t do.” Inez sits back, draping her arm over the back of it. “I’ll get you a new one.”
I finish the rest of my water, unamused with her rant about my living situation. “I’m always glad for your company, but you didn’t come all this way to criticize my furniture. Talent didn’t call you to return my phone, did he?”
“No, sweetheart, he didn’t.” She looks at her shoes and exhales audibly. “And I should tell you that I answered the call by your real name.”
Caught off guard, my normal passiveness and self-control nearly abandon me with my ability to clear my mind during appointments. It’s a total out-of-body experience, and I don’t recognize who I’ve become in forty-eight hours. Who’s this girl who’s allowed her strict routine to come unraveled, because it certainly isn’t me.