Tricks. Part 30

But when I touch back down, I start to worry. Is this the same Bryn who valued my almost-virginity?

I Also Worry About him spending more and more time away from me.

Talking more and more about "the girls," and I'm starting to wonder if the girls he's talking about are really pageant hopefuls.

If he's getting paid to photograph models, he's not getting paid well.

Our money seems to come in spurts, and some of that seems to be from the webcam spurting going on.

He doesn't want me to work, though, except for private webcam spurting.

Some guys like to watch girls getting off all by themselves.

Make it look good for the camera.

I was never into touching myself, but it isn't so bad, especially when I'm high. Besides the occasional H, Bryn supplies me with bud- mediocre seeded Mexican- and prescription downers. Not sure where he gets them, and I really don't care. As long as I'm buzzed, the things he asks of me are easy to do, and hey, anything's better than wasting away in Santa Cruz.

G.o.d, if I were there, I'd be starting my junior year of high school.

High school is so not me anymore.

Wonder what Paige is doing.

Wonder if she hooked up with that guy after that night at Lucas's party. s.h.i.+t! Why did I have to think about him? Wonder if he likes it in San Diego. Wonder ... stop it. f.u.c.k. Where the h.e.l.l's my stash?

I locate it under the coffee table. Two tokes of half-a.s.s pot, a bigger question hovers: Where the h.e.l.l is Whitney?

It's Almost Midnight When Bryn comes in. He's not alone. The guy he's with is Latino, I think. Olive-skinned. Dark-haired.

Okay-looking. Dressed well.

Bryn comes over, kisses me.

Hey, babe. This is my buddy, Oscar. He nods toward the stash box, sitting on the coffee table.

Oscar's been very good to us, if you get my meaning. Now I want you to return the favor and be very, very nice to Oscar.

Very nice? Does he mean what I think he means? Play hostess.

"Uh, nice to meet you, Oscar.

Can I get you something to drink?"

Maybe after. Oscar comes over, touches my face. You're right, Bryn. She's very pretty. Tight little body, too. Yes, she'll do.

His hands slide over my front, reach up under my blouse.

The skin of his fingers, seeking my nipples, is calloused. Cold.

"No, wait. I can't. You're not serious ... Bryn?" He can't want me to do this! I jerk away from Oscar, turn to Bryn. Search his eyes.

They are deadly serious, and so is Bryn when he says, Yes, you can. And if you love me, you will.

You do love me, don't you?

"Of course I love you! But this isn't ..." Isn't right, is what I want to say. But what is right, anymore?

Is this really what loving him means?

Bryn's hands press down on my shoulders. Do this for me, Whitney. Do this for us. He kisses me. But it is the kiss of a stranger.

I Beg for a Buzz First Pot won't do. It has to be smack, and three long pulls of the acrid smoke barely take me to the place I need to be.

Oscar watches. Waits impatiently for the H to kick in. You should use a needle. Smoking the Lady is a waste of good dope.

Fear-queasy, I stumble down the hall, into the bedroom.

Oscar follows, shedding clothes.

His body is lean, muscular.

Another time, another place, I might find him attractive, but attraction is about choice.

I have no choice here but to take off my own clothes, lie on the bed, wait for him to come, and do whatever it is he has paid to do. I hate you, Bryn. I hate you.

Within Seconds I hate Oscar, too. He breathes beer, sweats onion, and there is no love, no kindness, nothing but greed to his s.e.x. He grabs my wrists, holds them over my head so I can't move when he bites my neck, and lower. I'll wear his teeth marks for days. "Stop. You're hurting me."

You think that hurts? You ain't seen nothing yet. His teeth close even harder and his hand squeezes my arms like a vise and now his knees force my legs apart and there is no pleasure to what he does down there. Only pain.

Bruising pain. I give myself to the morphine shroud, denying the pounding between my thighs.

Something makes me look toward the door. Bryn stands there, staring.

A Poem by Ginger Cordell

Staring

Into the midnight sky, starlight defeated by the scream of neon, truth is hard to discern.

Does it sparkle?

Does it burn? If a weightless moment transcends the gravity of time, what proof is there of its existence?

Does it infuse every tick of the clock, each blink of an eye?

Which is harder to bear-reality, or a lie?

Ginger

Our Own Place

Wasn't easy to come by. Most landlords prefer their tenants to be over eighteen. We finally found a weekly where the lady in the office didn't look too hard at our application. The four weeks up front probably helped with that.

The room at Lydia's was nicer.

But the drive into the city got old.

At least, that's what we told Lydia when we said we were moving out.

In reality, living with her was getting old. She could be a real b.i.t.c.h, and she was pus.h.i.+ng us to do stuff besides strip. You could make a lot more if you'd treat a few of your clients to a little touchy- feely. Not all of them, of course.

Just think about it. Getting paid for something most people give away? No-brainer.

She Pushed Hard Enough That Alex has actually considered doing it. It's not such a big deal, as long as they use condoms.

The thing is, Lydia wouldn't have to know. I could do it on the side, and not give her a cut. We could save up enough money to blow this city. Go somewhere pretty, like Portland or San Francisco.

When she talks like that, it makes me think about Iris. How turning tricks has used her up. How she tried to let it use me up. Why couldn't I have a real mother?

Why did she have kids at all?

Iris used to talk about moving somewhere else-somewhere exciting, like New York City.

Oh yeah, I can just picture Iris in Manhattan. Cruising Central Park. Hustling johns.

When I Think About Iris I can't help but think about Gram. She must be worried about me. I should probably try to send word that I'm okay.

Alive, anyway, "okay" being a relative term. But how can I let her know without giving away where I am? Letters have postmarks and phones can be traced. I just hope she's taking care of the kids. Keeping them safe from Iris. Most of 'em are back in school. Except Sandy.

He's still too little. Hope he's all healed up, chasing b.a.l.l.s around again. Just not in the street. Oh G.o.d, why did I have to think about them?

A Mack truck of guilt crashes into me. How can I be home- sick, when I don't have a home?

I Start to Pace North and south, across the grease-stained beige carpet. Guess the last tenant kept his moped in the living room. The carpet was steam- cleaned when he moved, but some black marks can't be excised.

Alex went to the store about an hour ago. I would have gone along, but my period this month is major. I'm close to bleeding out, I think, and I've downed enough ibuprofen to kill a horse. But I've still got cramps. Maybe that b.a.s.t.a.r.d who raped me made me pregnant and G.o.d was gracious enough to let me miscarry. Whatever the problem is, it has definitely put the brakes on shedding my clothes for strangers.

Which Means a Couple of Things One, Alex is the only one working, so our income is cut in half right now. Plus, she's going out by herself, which scares the c.r.a.p out of me. I know she can take care of herself and all, but still ... Ah, can't think about the downside of that.

If anything bad ever happened to Alex, I'd go crazy. Except for Gram, Alex is the only good thing I've ever had in my life.

She lifts me, like a double shot of espresso. I wish she were here right now, to lift me out of this black pit of boredom. My indoor hike carries me past the bathroom, where the laundry basket overflows dirty clothes. Might as well wash them as keep walking by 'em, I guess.

I gather them up, grab some detergent, and shovel quarters into my pockets. The laundry room is downstairs and in the other building somewhere.

This will be my first trip there.

Jeez, man. For almost October, it's still hotter than h.e.l.l. Maybe ninety in the shade. By the time I locate the short bank of washers, I am dripping sweat. Lovely!

Hopefully, the person pulling her own clothes from the dryer won't get close enough to smell me.

Her Back Is Toward Me And just in case my ripeness doesn't precede me, I say, "h.e.l.lo," so she knows I'm here.

She jumps about three feet.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to sneak up on you." When she turns, I can see she's a little younger than me. Wow, her posture made me think something different. It's okay, she says. Guess I was off in Never-Never Land. Don't use that washer.... She points.

Someone's pen exploded in it. There's ink all over.

"Thanks." As I put my dirties into the other two washers, she starts to fold her clothes.

I can't help but stare. The girl would be beautiful, except for the dark circles under her eyes.

She reminds me of those models-what do they call them? Oh, yeah. Heroin chic.

I know squat about heroin, but my guess is she's using something. Or it's using her.

Eventually she notices me observing her and jumps on defense. Something wrong?

"Oh, no. Sorry. You just, uh ...

remind me of my sister. I haven't seen her in a long time."

Not totally true (Mary Ann resembles her only slightly), but it works. The girl exhales (was she holding her breath?), and her shoulders relax. Oh. Okay.

I haven't seen my sister in a while either. Not that she cares, I'm sure. Well, I'd better go.

See you. Poof. She's gone.

The Clothes Are Still Spinning So I take a minute to duck out the door, watch where the girl goes. Not sure why.

Her room is kitty-corner from ours, across the parking lot and on the ground floor. Wonder who she lives with. Guy?