behind her. “This is a bathroom here.”
I rush past them, closing the door the moment I am in the small space. Flashes of being in the bathroom on my hands and knees, fishing the box out from under the vanity, haunt me. The smell of the dank cell lingers, even in here. It fights the lavender scent pervading the room.
I can’t escape the feel of the concrete and the swaying light. I drop to my knees on the marble, breathing hard and deep.
It passes.
But only because I hold my arms close to me and take deep breaths with the image of Binxy in my grip. He isn’t struggling or scratching or meowing. He just lies and lets me love him. The images of him bring Dash’s face. His smile, his perfect features, his laugh—they encircle me, comfortingly. I pull my phone from my pocket and press his name.
“Hello?”
I sigh, breathing into the phone. “Your mom brought Melody as her special guest.”
“Fuck.” He sighs. “I’m so sorry, Jane. I will speak—”
“No! Don’t! I’m stronger than that. I have to stop being such a pussy about your mom hating me. I don’t know why I care so much.” I’m still out of breath.
He chuckles with a sound that feels like delicately placed kisses on the back of my neck. “I love that you do, though. You never show your vulnerabilities about things, and it’s so sexy.”
“Meet me.” The words come out before I even think them through.
“Two hours and I will be at the door to that shop.” He hangs up before I can change my mind.
I don’t want to, but I think I might change it. I don’t want to be intimate and I can tell from Dash’s tone he does.
I’m still trapped in that concrete room in a lot of ways. And the caves with the girls in the cells.
Rory’s got a hold over me that is unlike anything I have ever experienced.
I force myself up to stare at my reflection. The difference in my eyes stands out today. The light one sparkles like it has a funny story to tell. The dark eye is the exact opposite. It appears to have secrets and deceptions, things it hides from me.
I splash cold water on my face and dry it with what I will forever recall as the softest towel I have ever used.
I push Dash to the forefront of my brain and turn to the door. I lived in an alley once, eating stolen food and pretending to be an urchin, all for the right moment to assassinate three men walking from a restaurant in Belize.
If I can do that, I can be dressed and fluffed and made to feel pretty. It’s a different role to play for a different mark. I just happen to love this one.
The moment I leave the bathroom, it starts.
“Please, remove your shirt so we can get the appropriate items for underneath.”
All the strength I have just mustered vanishes. I relent, taking the weird corset thingy they’re holding and drag it back into the bathroom. I rip my shirt off, catching a glimpse of my scars, and pull on the corset, wincing when I drag it across my nipples. With my hair down and the corset on, most of the bad stuff is covered.
I go back out and let them take off my pants and hand me things I don’t recognize as clothing—stripper apparel at best. For each item my only response is a wrinkled nose. They laugh and attempt to put me at ease, but I have seen it before, when people catch a glimpse of the horrors under my clothes. It’s always the same, pity and worry. They never think military. They never think I am stronger because of every scar.
So I avoid instances like this—being naked in front of people who could never imagine the places I have been.
To their credit, the three girls do try to hide it.
The underwear they force on me is more comfortable than it looks, but it’s overly puffy to be under a dress.
“Is she ready?” the mean shop owner snaps from outside the doors. A robe is wrapped around my shoulders as Jenny squeaks, “Ready!”
The doors are thrown open and the dresses parade in.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I blink and start
I rush past them, closing the door the moment I am in the small space. Flashes of being in the bathroom on my hands and knees, fishing the box out from under the vanity, haunt me. The smell of the dank cell lingers, even in here. It fights the lavender scent pervading the room.
I can’t escape the feel of the concrete and the swaying light. I drop to my knees on the marble, breathing hard and deep.
It passes.
But only because I hold my arms close to me and take deep breaths with the image of Binxy in my grip. He isn’t struggling or scratching or meowing. He just lies and lets me love him. The images of him bring Dash’s face. His smile, his perfect features, his laugh—they encircle me, comfortingly. I pull my phone from my pocket and press his name.
“Hello?”
I sigh, breathing into the phone. “Your mom brought Melody as her special guest.”
“Fuck.” He sighs. “I’m so sorry, Jane. I will speak—”
“No! Don’t! I’m stronger than that. I have to stop being such a pussy about your mom hating me. I don’t know why I care so much.” I’m still out of breath.
He chuckles with a sound that feels like delicately placed kisses on the back of my neck. “I love that you do, though. You never show your vulnerabilities about things, and it’s so sexy.”
“Meet me.” The words come out before I even think them through.
“Two hours and I will be at the door to that shop.” He hangs up before I can change my mind.
I don’t want to, but I think I might change it. I don’t want to be intimate and I can tell from Dash’s tone he does.
I’m still trapped in that concrete room in a lot of ways. And the caves with the girls in the cells.
Rory’s got a hold over me that is unlike anything I have ever experienced.
I force myself up to stare at my reflection. The difference in my eyes stands out today. The light one sparkles like it has a funny story to tell. The dark eye is the exact opposite. It appears to have secrets and deceptions, things it hides from me.
I splash cold water on my face and dry it with what I will forever recall as the softest towel I have ever used.
I push Dash to the forefront of my brain and turn to the door. I lived in an alley once, eating stolen food and pretending to be an urchin, all for the right moment to assassinate three men walking from a restaurant in Belize.
If I can do that, I can be dressed and fluffed and made to feel pretty. It’s a different role to play for a different mark. I just happen to love this one.
The moment I leave the bathroom, it starts.
“Please, remove your shirt so we can get the appropriate items for underneath.”
All the strength I have just mustered vanishes. I relent, taking the weird corset thingy they’re holding and drag it back into the bathroom. I rip my shirt off, catching a glimpse of my scars, and pull on the corset, wincing when I drag it across my nipples. With my hair down and the corset on, most of the bad stuff is covered.
I go back out and let them take off my pants and hand me things I don’t recognize as clothing—stripper apparel at best. For each item my only response is a wrinkled nose. They laugh and attempt to put me at ease, but I have seen it before, when people catch a glimpse of the horrors under my clothes. It’s always the same, pity and worry. They never think military. They never think I am stronger because of every scar.
So I avoid instances like this—being naked in front of people who could never imagine the places I have been.
To their credit, the three girls do try to hide it.
The underwear they force on me is more comfortable than it looks, but it’s overly puffy to be under a dress.
“Is she ready?” the mean shop owner snaps from outside the doors. A robe is wrapped around my shoulders as Jenny squeaks, “Ready!”
The doors are thrown open and the dresses parade in.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I blink and start
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