Page 53 of Mastered By Desire

Leah

Danica, Dmitri, and I watchedAcademy of Ghostslast night.Totally normal. Dmitri and I even attempted a few jokes at each other’s expense, just like old times.

Just like oh for sure we didn’t fuck on this couch and ruin our friendship, nope.

“Something’s weird,” Danica said at one point.

Dmitri and I made like shifty criminals. Deny, deny, deny.

Other than that, Dmitri and I have seen very little of each other, considering I’ve been staying on his couch. He comes home late. He must be some kind of secret CIA operative, because most of the time, he doesn’t even wake me up. The other times, I’ve pretended to be asleep.

Yesterday, I thought he was gone when I woke up. I made my way to the bathroom for my shower, only for the door to open abruptly.

Dmitri stepped out.

Athletic shorts. No shirt.

Water droplets on his chest and shoulders, trailing down the rippling muscles of his abs.

“Sorry,” he said, stepping aside. “Bathroom’s yours.”

I’d spun around on my heel and rushed back to the living room.

He didn’t say anything.

Now it’s Wednesday. I have a full day of tutoring because this is the day I work with a homeschool group. Once the regular school day ends, I make trips between students’ houses and the library, meeting wherever they want to meet.

As I move between jobs, I make a decision. One more night at Dmitri’s. I’m going to find a cheap hotel and stay there until the roommate thing is figured out. Yeah, it’ll cut into my earnings from the auction, but I’m going to do that again in a few weeks and that’ll be more money coming in.

It suddenly hits me—I’m a sex worker. One of the things my stepfather accused me of.

It’s like the asshole manifested it. Only to him, sex work is shameful, something to denigrate. Me, I don’t have a problem with it. Only respect for those who do it, and a wish that we lived in a safer world where they could be protected.

I arrive at the library for my final tutoring session. Eighteen-year-old Hector, one of my favorite students, is waiting in one of the library’s uncomfortable orange chairs at a long, wooden table. He surprises me with his graded essay.

“Full points, extra credit!” He holds up his phone so I can see115%listed in the grading program. His brown eyes shine with excitement. “That’s all you!”

“No, it’s all you,” I tell him. “You did the work, I just offered some support.”

He’s pretty thrilled, and his energy is contagious. With his 4.0 GPA and his hard work on the football field, he’s going to be the first of his family to go to college.

Hector is my last student of the day. It’s growing dark outside, so he offers to walk me out to the parking lot. While I haven’t seen or heard from Mick in days, I appreciate Hector’s hulking presence. Thankfully, we parked near each other, so I don’t have to worry about his safety, either. He’s only a high-schooler, after all.

Before we reach our cars, a familiar man approaches us. His gray hair, super-tanned skin, and lean body peg him for a surfer. It takes me a moment to place him. It’s the SEPD officer who took my statement about Mick and the vandalism on my car.

He’s with another man. Auburn hair clipped military-short, broad shoulders, perma-frown.

In the fading light, I squint. “Officer…?”

“Coulenta,” he reminds me. Gesturing to his younger friend, he says, “This is Detective Wentz.”

I shake the detective’s offered hand. Hector stands nearby, his eyes wide with curiosity.

“Miss Shreve,” Detective Wentz says, “I wanted to tell you in person, given your relationship with Michael Rabanoir…”

Michael Rabanoir—Mick.

“Former relationship.” I fight the impulse to wipe my hand on my jeans. Wentz’s handshake was sweaty.

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