Page 18 of Plum

The straw from the doormat prickles my back through my thin, cotton tank top, but it’s not an awful feeling. I stretch my arms way over my head and flex my feet. My body doesn’t ache as much as it usually does on a Monday. Maybe because of Adam’s magic hands.

My cheeks heat. I think that crazy fucker asked me out on a date. If he comes through with the twelve hundred, I guess that makes me an escort.

Do I want that? I’ve been turning tricks here and there to make ends meet since I dropped out of school, mostly blow jobs or hand jobs. Except for a few months after I turned eighteen and got a little worried about Steel Bones kicking me out or askin’ for rent, it’s always been a side hustle. More like shit I do, not what I am.

God, Ma would laugh at that. She started calling me a whore when I was seven or eight, and I started hugging her boyfriend-of-the-moment whenever he brought his dinner over with him. I didn’t care what she called me. Darren or Warren or whatever-his-name-was would give me half his sub, and I wouldn’t go to bed with my stomach cramping. Rather be a whore than starve, any day of the week.

My body tenses, and a sour anxiousness creeps from my gut to my chest. Fuck that. It’s Monday Funday. No ghosts allowed. I focus on my Kit Kat clock. She’s on the kitchen wall, but I can see her framed by the pass-through. She’s black with white trim, and her eyes and tail go back and forth. Her ticks echo, making the quiet seem even quieter, and my nerves calm down.

Kit Kat was a find. She’s an original. I got her at a yard sale still in the box.

If this escort shit works out, and I pay off the tax bill, I can start going to yard sales again. Go back to operating on more of a cash basis. I’ve been putting a lot of things on the credit card. I splay my arms and legs in a starfish to flatten the corners of the doormat. I’mnotsorry I bought it, but my stomach does cramp a little.

I hop up and grab the mat, side-stepping the floorboard that dips the most when you land on it. I head outside, knocking my hip into the back door while I shove. It opens with a scrape. I swear this house is aimin’ to be the one from that nursery rhyme with the crooked man who walks a crooked mile.

Shit. Even if this escort shit pans out, I need more cash. Maybe I can pick up hours at Tasty’s in Shady Grove. Or I could take Danielle up on doing one of her house calls. I’ve got a good six months to pay the last of the tax installments, but what if something goes wrong with the house in the meantime? Something I can’t throw a carpet over?

If worse comes to worst, Steel Bones will front me, but I don’t want to be beholden to them or anyone.

I shake out the mat I can’t afford, and I place it carefully on the deck. Then I readjust the huge plastic pot I’ve got covering a torn-up board, turning the oakleaf hydrangea so you can see more buds that’ve bloomed.

That strawberries on the mat match the flowers exactly. Still, I shouldn’t have bought it. If I were a stronger woman, I’d return it, but I’m not. Instead, I’m not gonna think about it anymore today. The tug-of-war between what I want and what I should do will tear up my stomach if I dwell on it too long.

My house is my baby. It’s the first home I ever had in my whole life. Ma and I bounced from place to place until she passed: shitty apartment, friend’s spare room, boyfriend’s trailer. When I ran away from foster care, I crashed at the Steel Bones Clubhouse, earning my keep as a sweetbutt. A little cleaning, a little fucking, a lot of dancing. I saved up and bought my house on my twenty-third birthday.

I’d be well on my way to paying it off, except for my little addiction. It’s not enough to own the house. I need the stuff, too. Icravethe stuff. The bird bath. The wind chimes. The gingham tablecloth and braided place mats. The soft, chenille throw pillows.

I’m not stupid or out of control. I save up. I bargain hunt. I’m selective. Still. I wouldn’t have fallen behind on the taxes if not for the Amish quilt and the matching shams.

My lips soften into a smile. I fucking love my quilt. I got the double wedding ring pattern.

This Adam guy could be the answer to my prayers. Cue says he drives a Maserati. He’s got deep pockets.

Why is he so interested in me? I guess it could still be a revenge thing. Weird way to go about it, but crazy comes in all flavors.

Maybe he has a savior kink. Plenty of men do. Ma was aces at sniffing them out, taking them for all they were worth, which was never much. Ma knew how to hustle, even if she wasn’t smart enough to be any good at it. She always fell for the users. Karma’s a bitch.

I like to think I’m better than she was, but at the end of the day, the only real difference between me and her is that I’ve got my own place, I can spot a user a mile away, and I don’t let the motherfuckers through the door.

Adam’s not the kind of bad man I’m used to. He’s got to be a bad, though, right? What’s he gonna want for a G? What’s his story?

One way to find out. I sit down on the edge of my deck, dangle my legs over, and take my phone from my bra to search him up. I’m prepared to dig a little—Adam Wade is a pretty generic name—but I hit the jackpot as soon as I hit enter. All of the first page results for Adam Wade are about the guy from the club.

There are news articles, most about business but some aboutMost Eligible BachelorsandTop TenTech Disruptors in Finance. There’s a column on the right with a pic and a blurb about financial services and Chief Technology Officer and other words that don’t interest me much.

I guess he’s hot shit.

I click on images, and there he is in living color. Superman. The pics are all professional, or he’s standing in front of a backdrop like movie stars do, wearing a sharp suit, hands in his pockets, smiling to show all his teeth, his eyes cool and blank.

In a lot of the pictures, there’s a woman. She’s tall, and her brown hair shines. She touches him like it’s no big deal. There’s a series of photos from some kind of fancy-dress ball. She’s wearing a bright-red gown, and he’s got on a matching red tie. They’re posing in front of a red backdrop sprinkled with white diamonds.

Apparently, this ball is an annual thing. There are pictures from other years. The same party, the same backdrop, but different dates. Some wear white and have glossy, black hair, some are in red with blonde curls spilling from an updo. The women are all plastered in diamonds.

I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. This ain’t right. I’ve had men chase me around before. A few times, I had to get Nickel or Wall to run ‘em off. Some men figure they’re owed more time and attention than they paid for.

This man can have anything he wants. If he wants beautiful or classy or rich, he already has it on his arm.

I’ve lived in this world long enough. I know what I am that these other women aren’t.

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