I’m so close. So fucking close. He’s gotta know. But he’s not doing anything about it. Fuck it. I put my hand down the front of my pants. A girl’s gotta get it done sometimes.
“That’s right, my dirty girl,” he hisses in my ear. “Make yourself a little whore for me.”
His words should disgust me. They should not be turning me on even more as my fingers find my clit.
“Show me how bad you want this job. Make yourself come.” His voice lowers, but the words are intense.
His grip on my breasts continues the same massaging pressure, but he’s twisted my body slightly sideways so he can see my face. We’re looking eye to eye and all traces of the nice guy fall away as he sneers, “Dirty bitch, I want to see your cum face, you trashy fucking bimbo whore.”
The breath is knocked out of me at the nastiness of his words. And in the same instance, I come harder than I ever have before in my life.
Two
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning at 8:30 sharp.”
Those were his parting words to me as I stumbled out of his office half an hour ago. My mind still feels like it’s in a haze as I ride the light rail back to my apartment south of San Jose.
Did that just all really happen? Maybe I fell asleep in the lobby and had some crazy sex dream?
Or not. Because when I reach in my pocket, the short-term security pass I was issued is still there.
Which means… holy shit. All that really just happened. I exposed myself in front of Bryce Gentry, CEO and billionaire, and he just hired me on to be his—what? Am I just there for sex or will I actually be doing any work? Did I just accept a job as a sex worker? As a prostitute? Because isn’t that what accepting money for sex is? Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
It’s getting close to five o’ clock and the train is packed. I’m holding onto one of the poles and sweating through my cheap suit. I feel sick. This is what I’ve fought against my whole life. To be an object to be used by men. To be their whore. I remember his words right at the end. Dirty bitch. Trashy fucking bimbo whore.
It makes other words echo in my ears: Tell anyone and you’ll be sorry. No one will believe a whore like you, and I’ll get your daddy fired from the bank. Besides, you’re just a little slut like always, begging for it.
I squeeze my eyes shut in fury at the humiliation and degradation of those words. I always swore I’d never be what Mr. McIntyre claimed all those times when he came into my room. My parents invited dad’s boss over twice a month for dinner where they got as drunk as skunks and never noticed Mr. McIntyre didn’t leave as soon as they stumbled up to their room. He started touching me when I was sixteen and threatened that he’d get my dad fired if I ever told anyone. It lasted until I left for Stanford at nineteen.
I hated him. Hated what he did to me.
So how could I come after Bryce said such similar things?
I swallow hard even as tears bite at my eyes. Dammit. I’m almost at my stop. I press angry palms at my eyes for a second to get myself under control. Okay. No way am I breaking my record of not crying for a year and a half, not over this.
Then I push my way through the bodies toward the doors as the train rocks to a stop and the bell sounds. I’m almost to the doors when someone grabs my ass and squeezes hard.
“Who did that?” I turn around and yell. “Who just grabbed my ass?”
There are so many people pushing past me—men in business suits and guys in beanie caps, guys with dreadlocks and a few that look like college kids. People pushing in and out. Then the doors are closing.
I jump off the train at the last second. “Damn it!” I yell, stomping my foot like a five-year-old.
But what the hell? What is it about my body that says: ‘feel free to grab here?’
That’s it. I’m fucking done.
I will not be anyone’s whore. I’m NOT going back to that office tomorrow.
I speed walk the six blocks home. It’s light out, so I’m safe, but I still keep my eyes peeled. The neighborhood where I live is in the transition area between the good part of San Jose and the bad. On nights I work at the bar and can’t catch a ride home, I sleep on the couch in the office and walk home the following morning. Which only works because my sister, Shannon, lives with Charlie and me. Not that Shannon ever believes I’m actually ever just sleeping on a couch at the bar the nights I don’t come home. My older sister’s favorite pastime has always been judging me.
Of course, getting knocked up by my married—even though I thought he was divorced!—philosophy professor my first year away from home didn’t help my case. Yeah, ever lived a cliché and not realized it until afterwards? That was me.
I sigh. Shannon is a Godsend, really. I should be more grateful. When I showed up preggers, my parents cut me off and made it more than clear that I was not welcome on their doorstep. But Shannon stuck by me. She moved in to help with the baby and rent. She works from home doing graphic design work and takes care of Charlie at night while I work. She’s great with him. She’s super smart and is kind of the definition of a good person…
I really should be more grateful.
I turn my keys and push open the door. All I want to do is grab a bottle of wine and forget everything that happened today, much less what I’m going to do tomorrow. Or where I’m going to get the money to pay for a lawyer better than the shitty one I hired the first time. Let alone rent. God, the next hearing is in a month, and I still owe eight-hundred dollars in back fees to the first crappy lawyer. What the hell am I going to do? Maybe let’s skip the wine and go straight to vodka.
Charlie’s high-pitched wailing greets my ears when I step inside. The sound makes my stomach clench. I want to hold him to make him feel better at the same time as I wish there was someone else to deal with him so I could sit down for five minutes to decompress from the day. Shame immediately hits as I close the door. Am I that bad a mom?
“Where have you been?” Shannon shouts to be heard over Charlie, a hand on her forehead. She looks exhausted and beyond stressed out. I drop my bag by the front door and hurry over to where Charlie sits in his high chair by the kitchen table. Food is smeared all over his face and he keeps shaking his head back and forth when Shannon tries to spoon in another mouthful. I can tell by his overall demeanor that he’s overtired.
“Aw, baby, baby,” I croon to him. I go to give him a kiss on the head, but then think better of it when I see how goopy he is.
“Did he not get his afternoon nap?” I ask Shannon as I rinse a washcloth in warm water.
Shannon stares daggers at me as Charlie keeps up his wailing.
“I’m the one who actually knows his schedule.” Her shrill voice cuts over Charlie’s cries. “I don’t just pop in and out of his day whenever I want to.”
What the hell? I just walked in the door and she’s gonna give me this crap?
I stop and take a deep breath. She’s a Godsend, Callie. You and Charlie really rely on her. Just keep your cool.
I wipe his face and then the tray free of the baby cereal-chicken combo that Shannon was trying to feed him. This is just an initial wipe down. There’s still some in his hair and on his neck. He’s going to need a bath, but that’s part of the nighttime ritual anyway.