Page 70 of Deliverance

Curling my fingers around the shot glass, I look at the girl again, but I look carefully this time. I imagine Faith in a few years, when she’s grown up, and I imagine her sitting in a bar in the company of some guy who’s pushing forty, fucked his way through hundreds of women, and did all sorts of drugs. And it makes me sick to my stomach.

I move the glass aside and lean toward the girl, our gazes locking. Without the heavy eye-liner and lipstick, she couldn’t be more than eighteen. “Wanna grab a cigarette with me?”

“Sure.”

I rise to my feet and we make our way across the patio and down to the smoking area behind the building.

The music pouring from the inside is louder here and I’m certain a couple making out in the shadows won’t be listening in on our conversation. They’re too busy sucking each other’s faces.

We move to the opposite corner.

I step forward and the space between me and the girl shrinks to mere inches. “How old are you?”

She braves a smile and lifts her chin, but there’s a crack in her voice. “How old do you want me to be?”

“Listen,” I school my tone into a serious one. “I’m not fucking around. The age of consent in this country is eighteen. And you’re not allowed to be in possession of alcohol in a public place if you’re under twenty-one. I need to know how old you are, because I can’t be caught in the company of a minor.”

The girl’s expression falls, her lower lip wobbling. Great. Not only is she possibly trouble, she’s also a newbie.

I realize my voice is off and I must be scaring her. “And it’s not safe for you,” I add, this time softer. “Being here…”

She pops her hip and folds both arms across her chest. “Are you for real right now?”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“What do you care?”

“I already told you. I don’t want either one of us to get arrested. It’s my career and your life on the line.”

“My life is my business.” Her accent is more pronounced now. “And it’s not what you think.”

“What I think is that you should go home.”

“I’m not a hooker.”

“Never said you were.” Pulse roaring, I grasp her arm and yank up the sleeve of her dress.

The girl jerks her shoulder. “What the hell?”

I blink past the blur in my eyes and focus on her veins. Clean. Like a newborn baby. Not a single mark. My grip loosens and she stumbles back, eyes deer-in-the-headlights wide, face shocked.

What the hell, indeed?

My head is spinning. I drank too much. Or maybe got drunk faster because my tolerance has gone to shit over the past couple of years. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out,” I say quietly and fish out my wallet.

She wraps her arms around her waist and stares at me silently, confusion pinching her features.

“Get yourself some food and go home.” I pull out all the cash I have on me—a couple of hundred dollar bills and some twenties—and hand it to the girl.

She opens her mouth, but the words never make it past her lips.

“Take the money, go home,” I insist. “You don’t wanna be doing this.”

“How do you know what I want?”

“Trust me.” I chuckle bitterly. “No woman wants to be fucked by some old dude who’s probably two quarters whiskey, one quarter coke or heroin, and one quarter STDs.”

The girl takes the money and shoves it into her bra. “Thanks…I guess.”

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