Page 32 of Morally Corrupt

With one last glance in the mirror, I pick up my bag and head out.

For the past five years, I've been involved with a foundation for the fight against homelessness that my father founded. Why? I'm sure you've guessed by now. Homelessness is an issue that's very dear to Theo's heart. After his parents died when he was a teenager, he spent some time on the streets to avoid foster homes. Through his intelligence and sheer determination, he finished high school and then put himself through college, getting merit scholarships and working part-time jobs to support himself. In the beginning, he'd wanted to become a lawyer because he'd seen too much injustice in the world.

But Theo isn't a small-scale type of man. He's a visionary. He wants to save everyone, and so he'd gone into law enforcement. Now, he's chief commissioner for NYPD and a trusted friend to the mayor. And I, through my charitable efforts and my connections, am the perfect wife for him. An image I intend to keep.

I drop by the foundation and check all the documents. I wasn't exactly lying when I told him I'd be at the foundation; it just wouldn't take the entire day. As director, I have a lot of responsibilities and things to keep up with. I don't enjoy it, and given the size of my trust fund, I shouldn't even work. But it makes for an excellent cover when I need to leave the house. I speed through a couple of meetings with the staff and take my leave for the day.

I get in my car and drive to my spare apartment in Midtown. It's a property registered in my late mother's name that I got when I was eighteen. More than an apartment, it's a haven for me and my vices. Since it's almost past midday, the traffic is awful, so it takes awhile for me to reach the apartment.

The place has three bedrooms, but only one of them is functional. I've transformed one bedroom into an armory, and it houses all my priceless possessions: my guns, rifles, knives, and protective gear. It also has tracking technology and listening devices.

The other bedroom is now an enormous closet, and it contains all my disguises. It has a wall-length wardrobe with different outfits and another panel with wigs and complementary accessories that make all the difference when wanting to become someone else. A few mannequins are clothed in disguises that are dear to my heart. In the middle is the one I remember most fondly: a pink bob-cut wig, a tight purple dress that barely covers the butt, fishnets, and a pair of high boots. I close my eyes as I fondly remember my first taste of Theo.

Like all young white-collar workers, he'd taken to frequenting this strip club in East Village. Theo may be the most righteous man I know, but even he can't resist a pair of tits and an inviting smile. That's when I realized that for all his serious demeanor in day-to-day life, he's rough and dominant in the bedroom. He'd fucked me seven ways to Sunday, and I still wanted more. But for all our lengthy affair, I was only a prostitute to him, not Bianca Ashby.

Because Bianca Ashby would never step foot in a strip club, would never be taken roughly, would always be treated like a porcelain doll.

Bianca Ashby wasn't fucked; she was only made love to.

That's probably my biggest regret in how Theo sees me. He's never tried to be anything but sweet and tender in bed. Even when I'd suggested trying something a little spicier, he'd raised an eyebrow and asked jokingly if I'd discovered porn, and that sex in real life isn't like in porn. After that, I hadn't brought it up again, realizing it was a moot point. I was too fragile for him. To be protected at all times, even from other, more non-conventional aspects of desire.

I make my way to the bedroom, looking under the bed for a box that housed another one of my long-term vices. This one I am probably the most ashamed of. I quickly retrieve the box and open it to find countless small packets of white powder. I pocket one and put everything in place. With shaky fingers, I line up some powder on the desk next to the bed, and using a small straw, I inhale two lines. Cleaning my nose of residue powder, I take a seat and open my computer.

A few years ago, I would have denied having an addiction to my dying breath. Now, after enduring withdrawal symptoms several times, I've finally accepted it. I'm an addict.

* * *

It's funny how it all started. Sadly, I didn't realize how reliant I was on coke until I went through the worst withdrawal symptoms. Until then, I'd told myself that I was taking it because I could and because it gave me single-minded focus when it came to my pursuits. I can still remember the first time I tried it.

I was nineteen and had just found out about the strip club Theo frequented. When I was going to college full time, I would often go the club, hoping to catch him. I'd convinced management to give me a server position. It was finals season, and I was spending all day studying and all night in that damned club. At the end of my first full week, I could barely stand on my feet, and Theo had still not shown up. In one of my breaks, I'd been outside the club, hoping the night's cold air would wake me up. I'd bummed a cigarette off a guy, and he'd commented on my incessant yawning.

"I have just the thing," he'd said and showed a hint of white in his pocket. I'd lifted my eyebrow in question, and he'd motioned to the alley next to the club. Now, I know it's not safe to go with an unknown guy in a dark alley. I mean, it's a poster scenario for assault. But at that point, I was tired and maybe a little curious. I went with him and saw how he lined up the powder on the back of his hand and sniffed. I copied his movements, and it didn't take long for the powder to kick in. It also didn't take long for the asshole to put his hands on me. I mean, really? What did I expect?

"What the fuck?" I spat when his hand had gone to my waist and up.

"Oh, come on, you didn't think that was free?" He smirked.

"How much? I'll pay you."

I shoved his hand away, prepared to give him the cash, but then he replied,"I don't want money. I want," he said, leering at me. His hand went directly to my breast this time, but I expected it. My trained instincts, coupled with the magic powder, kicked in, and I twisted his arm behind his back. Using my foot, I kicked the back of his knees and shoved him to the ground. My other hand went directly to my boot, where I withdrew a small knife. Holding it to his neck, I snickered.

"I told you I would give you cash."

But the more I thought about it, the madder I became. I shoved harder at his tendons with my boot. "You dare touch me? No one touches me, do you understand?" No one but my Theo—the words went unsaid.

I was still holding the knife to his neck and didn't even notice when it dug into his flesh, and blood trickled down.

"Please…" The man almost started wailing, and the sound of him at my mercy gave me a rush. Or maybe it was the drug?

"What was the thing you gave me?"

"C-C-Cocaine," he stammered, and I gave him one last shove.

Moving in front of him, I wiped the knife slowly on his shirt and told him, "Next time a woman says no, it's no." He nodded fervently.

"Run before I change my mind." He'd taken off like a scared rabbit.

Sheathing my knife, I returned to my post at the club, and lo and behold, my night took a turn for the best. Theo was there.

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