The Devil’s Pawn (4 page)

And I do. As he moves away from my body, I run, pulling my skirt down as I go. Once back in my room, I collapse against the door. I stay there crumpled on the floor for many minutes, but I don’t want to move. I don’t want to do anything at all except run away from this place and run away from this man. I’ve given my life over to a man who hates me, all for a five-year paycheck that will set me free from the men who will hunt me down and kill me if I fail to deliver on a debt that is not my own. My life reeks of unfairness, and I want to curse myself, curse him, and anyone else that stands in my way. But instead of yelling at Derek or myself, I slowly move to the bathroom and run a bath.

I hurt, and sitting on the side of the tub is uncomfortable, but the pain dulls my anger. It’s over. It’s done. I’ve given myself to a man who hates me. This isn’t what girls dream of when they grow up. They imagine falling in love and giving themselves to men whose love matches their own. I’ve just lost any last shred of that dream that existed in my mind, not that there was ever much chance of love for me. I am, after all, just an orphaned nobody that is destitute and desperate. But I don’t hate Mr. Pennington for what he’s done to me. I hate myself.

As I sink into the warm water, the sting of my raw skin stills me. I cry out again, unable to stifle the pain, and as I do, my eyes find the blood-streaked spot on the side of the bathtub where I was just sitting. Once settled into the water, the warmth of it starts to soothe my sensitive and painful sex. My body relaxes more and more with each passing moment, and as it does, I start to cry again. I sob endlessly, hugging my knees to my chest, and it isn’t until I’ve pitied myself for well over an hour that I finally decide to crawl from the bath.

I quickly dry off and look myself over in the mirror. My eyes are puffy and red, my face streaked by the many tears that have fallen today. I look ugly and splotchy, and as I regard myself with hatred, my anger starts to build again. I collapse against the bathroom door, sinking to the floor once more, and as my rage at the unfairness of life hits me like a ton of bricks, I curse loudly and slam my elbow against the door. The pain shoots up my arm instantly, and I cry out from it. But I welcome the pain as it pushes the anger away so effectively.

I look up to the ceiling and I see the darkened dome of the camera, remembering for the first time since Liz has left me that I’m never truly alone here. I’m sure he’s not watching. Why would he? It’s now late, and I’m just the unwanted new whore he’s been forced to take in. He can’t stand me, and in some absurd way, that is painful to bear. I could accept this pain from a man who cared about me, but this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I make no move to cover myself as I return to the bedroom and collapse onto the bed. Before I drift off, the last thought that passes through my tired, hazy mind is,
perhaps sleeping on the streets was better than this
. Then I’m gone into my deeply troubled dreams.

Chapter 4

I wake to the room phone ringing, and as I reach over to answer it, I realize my elbow is more than bruised; it’s swollen. The administrative office of Trimbles is calling to let me know I’m expected in the lobby at noon to go for a fitting at the tailors, and then to the gynecologist for an exam and birth control. I wonder, not for the first time, if I will ever adjust to hearing people speak to me in such blunt terms about my body and sexual health, and I have to remind myself I’m just a commodity now. Bought, sold, gambled, traded, and God knows what else.

I’ve slept late, and it is nearly ten. While I wish for nothing more than to hide from the world, the call of caffeine pulls me out of bed. I throw the white sundress back on and head for the common room. Every step is a reminder of just how sore I am between my legs. I feel swollen and tender, and every ache I feel flashes memories, not of the pain as much as the hate-filled expression on Mr. Pennington’s face and the loathsome tone of his voice. I pause briefly outside the door to the common room to psych myself up for what lies ahead. I will myself to walk normally, act cool, and, most of all, show no fear. However, when I enter, I realize I’ve just walked into the beautiful women’s convention, and every ounce of self-determination I had built up melts in a moment.

All seven of my housemates are sitting around the dining room table, talking animatedly to one another, and as Liz looks up and sees me, she hushes the table with a quick, “Oh, here she comes!”

As I approach the table, my leeriness no doubt obvious in my expression, I’m greeted with warm smiles and the random comment or two. “Oh my, she’s so small,” spoken by a tall brunette with freckles and a cute upturned nose, followed by, “But she’s so cute, and I would kill for those curls.” This was spoken of course by an Asian woman with dark silken hair that is straight as a board. If she only knew what she was asking for…

Every woman at the table is watching me and smiling broadly at me. I’m offered a chair and coffee, and I sit, looking around the table at the warm faces of the women who smile gently back at me. Okay, I can handle this. As coffee is poured, my mood lifts instantly. There is nothing better than meeting my good friend coffee in the morning. Even I can afford coffee, and the caffeine staves off hunger when there is no food to be found. As I sit with my good friend in my hand, I try not to let anyone see the discomfort that sitting is causing me as my swollen and painful vagina aches at the hard surface of the chair.

The women watch me, instantly interested in their new neighbor, and, within moments, the questions start. Everything from “where did you come from” to “have you fucked Mr. Pennington yet?” But Liz rescues me and silences the table quickly. Instead, she introduces the women, and I try my best to remember names, though I’m certain to forget more than half. There is a Teresa, a Veronica, a Shelby, an Abigail, a Claudia and an Angela or Emily—I don’t recall which—and then, of course, Liz. She beams at me the whole time, genuinely happy to see me. They each radiate beauty and charm, and they make this life look tolerable. They seem happy and healthy and really okay with themselves, and I wonder if I will be okay someday too.

But as the memory of the night before floods back into my mind, my optimism fades quickly. The experience was painful and terrifying, and, worst of all, humiliating. And I’m already dreading the next time I see Derek.

With luck being always against me, the next time happens with that thought. He enters the room and walks casually toward the kitchen. He’s again dressed impeccably in a pair of extremely expensive looking pants and a button-down dress shirt. His collar is unbuttoned, and he makes business casual look so damn good. My body is instantly flushed from head to foot as memories flood my brain. I can so easily remember his knuckles trailing up the back of my thighs, the sound of his breathing, and his glistening fingers beside my own. And while he caused my body an incredible amount of pain that is still fresh in my mind as well, the shiver running through my body is hardly in memory of that.

As he approaches the table, Liz offers him a good morning, to which he responds in kind, glancing up to her with unfaltering impassiveness. But at seeing Liz, he catches sight of me sitting beside her and freezes mid-stride, locking his eyes on mine as his lips part slightly. Perhaps he’s surprised I’m still here and haven’t jumped ship.

I suck in a quick breath as I become powerless to look away from him. The memory of his hard arousal invading me the night before suddenly pushes out all other thoughts in my head, and as I look at him, my body tingles. He holds my eyes for too long before his jaw visibly clenches and he moves on toward the kitchen. Yep. He still hates me. He grabs a tin of tea from a cupboard before turning and leaving the common room.

I don’t breathe until he’s left, and when he’s gone from the room, the comments start.

“Well, you’ve obviously fucked him.” From Angela or Emily—to be determined.

“And you obviously made an impression.” From Claudia, the beautiful Asian woman with the shiny, jet-black hair.

“Honestly, what the hell was that? I’ve never seen Mr. Pennington speechless before. Not really in his nature.” I think … yes, that was from Teresa.

I say nothing at all, knowing they have no idea what truly lies behind this bizarre encounter, but all continue to eye me speculatively. If they only knew how truly humiliating my first experience was with Derek, they wouldn’t be nearly so intrigued. Let them be intrigued. It’s far better than the reality of the matter. When my coffee is finished, I stand to leave for my room to get ready for my noon appointment with the tailor and gynecologist. As I stand, Liz does too, and she follows me from the room. She walks me to my room and enters after me.

She asks how I am, worry crossing her face, and I assure her that I’m fine. As I start setting out jeans and a T-shirt, she stops me cold. “You can’t wear that!”

“Why? I mean I’m just going to the tailor and the gynecologist. Do I really have to wear a dress to see a vagina doctor?”

She laughs at my sarcasm before continuing. “In fact, you do. You fuck for a living, dear Ashton, so yes, you wear dresses. They keep you easily accessible…”

“So I’m expected to sleep with the tailor and the gynecologist?” I blurt out incredulously.

Liz laughs again before continuing. “God no. The tailor is far too gay to care how accessible your vagina is, and the gynecologist is going to have you in a gown far more revealing than any dress we wear within minutes of you arriving. It’s just the expectation.”

My face falls at this fact, though, and I have to admit, “I don’t have any other dresses other than this one.”

The somewhat shocked look that passes over Liz’s beautiful face turns to a broad smile within only a moment as she continues. “Don’t worry. I’ll find you something that will work.”

She’s out the door without another word, and I retreat to the shower and let the warm water soothe my body. Once bathed, I walk back to the bedroom to see a black dress lying on the bed. It is short. Hooker short. I have to remind myself that I’m exactly that. I return to the bathroom to finish getting ready, not at all prepared to try on the dress yet. Again, my unruly curls go up in a bun, and I brush on some lip gloss.

When finally prepared to face the dress, I return to the bedroom once more and hurriedly work my way into it. It is a short version of a 1920s frock dress. The wide waistband hits at the hip, the neck is wide, and the dress sleeveless. The difference between Liz’s version and the 1920s version? No woman in her right mind would have been caught dead in a skirt cut this short in the 1920s; it’s mid-thigh, and I have to remind myself that I’m lucky. I’ve seen far shorter out on the street, but I’m used to 100 percent demure, or perhaps not demure, but at least asexual, so this will take some getting used to. As I look myself over in the mirror, I note the only things missing are a long strand of pearls, finger-waved hair, and a headband … and of course another foot or so of fabric. The long strand of pearls I can handle, but the finger waves and headband will have to wait for another time. I toss the pearls, fake of course, over my head and tie the strand in a loop at my chest before I exit my room.

Having gotten my coffee and a shower, I’m feeling better. On the ride down in the elevator, I’m actually somewhat optimistic about meeting with the tailor. I’m terrified that I’ll end up looking like a hooker—again I remind myself that’s exactly what I’m supposed to look like—but excited all the same. I am a girl, after all, and while not nearly as girly as the other women in this place, I am still capable of looking forward to playing dress-up for a while.

I check in with the front-desk receptionist as I reach the lobby, and she points me toward a darkened limousine sitting outside. Well, this is far different from the subway I’m used to on the odd occasion I can afford even that. I approach, and the driver hops from the front seat and, with a nod, opens the back door for me. I step into the cab, not noticing that I’m not alone until I’m fully within the cab and ready to sit back to seat myself. When I catch sight of him in the rear-facing bench seat across from me, I trip miserably on my own feet and fall to my knees in the space between us. Damn high heels. He watches me coolly, the good Mr. Pennington and his alleged “impressive” cock.

I swallow my dignity and right myself as smoothly as possible as the limo pulls from the curb. Mr. Pennington says nothing to me as his eyes move over my dress, taking in my appearance. Once finished, he looks out the window, bored. I say nothing for many seconds, trying to decide how to respond to his presence.

Finally, I speak. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

His eyes move from gazing out the window to look at me. “It’s my job to decide what you wear. I have to be here.”

With no other explanation being offered, he looks back out the window to the passing cityscape. I resort to doing the same, suddenly a bundle of apprehension. We pull up to a small elegant shop no more than ten minutes later, and as the driver opens the door, Derek waits for me to exit before stepping out himself. What a gentleman.

We walk into the shop together and are greeted by the very gay Jacob, who is expecting us. He shows us to an expansive fitting room, leaving us to collect the few dresses he’s pulled for me. Derek takes a seat in a plush armchair as I stand awkwardly by. The room is mirrored on two sides. A small moveable platform sits in the center of the room for hemming. As I stand fidgeting with my back turned to Derek, I see him in the mirror appraising my look. As I watch, he lets his eyes move up my legs to the short skirt. He continues up my body, stopping at my bottom briefly before continuing up my back. The wide neck of the dress falls in a low scoop halfway down my back, and his eyes stall there, regarding, judging, or just plain hating the look. I can’t tell. When his eyes eventually leave my back and meet mine in the mirror, I suck in a quick breath as my face flushes. Derek, on the other hand, calmly eyes me impassively as my core trembles and my face turns redder with every passing second.

Jacob interrupts this awkward encounter only moments later when he returns to our room carrying an armful of dresses with him. I set about the task of trying on the dresses in front of two men, one of which hates me and the other of which is too gay to care I’m a woman. I realize too late that my cotton boy-cut brief underwear were perhaps not the wisest choice for the occasion. As Derek takes in my undergarments for the first time as I pull Liz’s dress off over my head, his eyebrows raise in shock at my emasculate choice.