Slightly Illicit

The man’s fingers press harder into my throat, and I know I’ve miscalculated.

“You think you can rush me, little bitch?” His breath stinks of beer and onions. The concrete of the parking garage is cold against my back. “I paid for the full hour.”

I can’t answer—can’t breathe—and my vision is spotty at the edges. My hands claw at his wrists, but he’s got maybe eighty pounds on me. The lights above blur into halos.

This is it. This is how I die. In a parking garage off Jefferson Avenue, wearing a too-tight dress Marlene bought because it shows everything. Nineteen years old and done.

Papa brought me here from Haiti for this?

At least Maman didn’t live to see what I became. Small mercy she died back home before she could know her daughter sells the body she always claimed was a temple.

“Let her go.”

The accented voice cut through the buzz in my ears. White guy, maybe late twenties, standing by a black Olympus Icarus. Even in the shitty garage lighting, his suit looks expensive.

Hard features define his face, from the prominent cheekbones and jaw to the nose that’s seen its share of fights. The Rolex on his wrist is authentic, a far cry from the cheap knockoffs sold on 8 Mile.

“Mind your business,” my client growls, but his grip loosens enough for me to suck in air.

The man in the suit takes two steps closer. “I said let her go.”

“She’s mine for the next forty minutes.”

“Not anymore.” He pulls out his wallet—Hermès, I know because a client showed me his once like I should be impressed. “Here’s two hundred. Now fuck off.”

My client’s fingers release completely. I drop to my knees, gasping, throat on fire. The concrete tears through my cheap stockings. Two hundred dollars gets tossed around like nothing while I’m out here dying for fifty.

“Whatever, man. Whore’s not worth the trouble, anyway.”

My client’s footsteps echo as he leaves. Then it’s just me and him in the garage, and I’m still on my knees trying to remember how breathing works.

“You okay?” He crouches down but doesn’t touch me. Most of them would already have their hands on me, thinking it’s their turn.

“You just cost me fifty dollars.” My voice comes out raspy. “I needed that money.”

His eyebrows go up. Guess he expected a thank you, maybe some tears, definitely not attitude. “He was choking you.”

“So? You think that’s the worst thing that’s happened to me this week?” I push myself up to standing, wobbling a little in these stupid heels. “You think you’re some kind of hero? I got rent to pay. I got…”

I stop myself before I say I got Marlene to pay. My stepmother takes her cut from all of us. Five girls in her house, all working and handing over our money while she sits on her ass and counts it.

This man doesn’t need to know about her, or about the beating I’ll get if I don’t come back with enough money.

“Here.” He holds out the five hundred dollars.

I stare at the bills. “What do you want for it?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. Nobody gives me money for nothing.” I step closer, run my hand down his chest. The suit fabric feels expensive. “You want me to blow you? That’s fine. We can go to a hotel. It’s just around the corner.”

He catches my wrist as I reach for his zipper. “Stop.”

“Your car then. The Icarus is yours, right? Lots of room in the back.” I press against him, feel him hard through his pants despite his protests. Men are all the same. “You’re already ready. Won’t take long.”

“I said stop.” But he doesn’t push me away. His grip on my wrist is firm but not painful, and he’s looking at me like... I don’t know what that look is. Nobody’s ever looked at me like that before.

“You don’t want me?” It comes out more confused than sexy. I’m not pretty—too skinny, teeth not straight, skin scarred from acne when I was younger, but men don’t usually say no when I’m offering.

“Not like this.”

“Then how?”

He lets go of my wrist, takes a step back. The money’s still in his other hand. “Just take it.”

“I don’t take charity.”

He runs his hand through his hair, messing it up. Dark brown, almost black. His phone buzzes, and he glances at it, frowning at whatever he sees. “Fine. You want to earn it? Talk to me.”

“Talk?”

“Yeah. There’s a diner around the corner. Come have coffee with me.”

I laugh, but it’s not funny. “You want to pay me five hundred dollars to drink coffee?”

“Why not?”

Because this doesn’t make sense. Because men don’t pay to talk to girls like me. Because I can still feel where that other man’s fingers pressed into my throat, and this one’s probably worse, just better at hiding it.

But five hundred dollars is five hundred dollars.

“One hour,” I say. “That’s what you’re paying for.”

“Deal.”