The man in the driver’s seat at least twice its age.
A rolled-down window and a wolf whistle.
I saunter away from the wall.
“How much?” he queries, spit flying over the cigarette hanging from his cracked lips.
“One-fifty, whatever you want,” I answer, leaning forward, breasts pushed together and spilling from the top of the red dress.
The driver’s seat squeaks as he leans across the passenger seat to push open the door for me.
I climb in. He pays me. We drive to the nearest alley.
A smelly, filthy dick in my mouth.
Sweaty palms jerking at my hair.
Fifteen minutes.
One down.
Nine to go.
Number two is a younger guy. Skinny, but with marginally better hygiene. He doesn’t protest when I shove the condom into his hand.
Hidden in darkness, I bend over a shipping crate, and he grips my hips, and I close my eyes.
I force myself to think of Joaquin.
Then I force myself to stop.
Then I think of him automatically because the threat on his life is looming on the horizon, and this body is merely a tool that I will use to eliminate it.
Three, four, five, six men.
Deep into the night; early into the morning.
By nine a.m., the slits I cut into my bra are stuffed with enough cash for the next couple of items on my to-do list.
Three hundred dollars buys me a room for half the week. I won’t be able to stay here that long, but I need the cushion.
After a shower that consists of scrubbing my entire body so hard that I nearly shred my skin, I sleep. Sleep is necessary. My brain needs to be sharp. Unfortunately,thissleep…
Thissleep.
It’s useless.
All I can do is dream. Ofhim. A fantasy world where his warm, deep, rumbling words are murmured against my ear.
I swear to you, amor. I am with you until the bitter fucking end.
I love you, Natalia.
His gentle hands holding my limp, battered body. Me wrapped in the safety of large, strong arms that are softer than anything I’ve ever felt. Everything is warm and wonderful and soft andloving.
I jolt awake every half hour.
I hate my life.
