Page 19 of Vows in Sin
We sit, spreading napkins over our laps.
“Sorry, I forgot about the code,” I admit. “I’ll remember next time.”
“Three thuds. Chow. Chow. Time.” Lifting a massive spoonful of rice, she heaps it on my plate. “I’m lucky you were in, it being a Saturday night and all. Being the pretty young thing you are, I thought you’d be out with friends, but I was craving Chow Chow, so I took a chance.”
She serves the rice, I do the chicken, giving us each a generous portion. “I did go out on Thursday.” I shake my head, thinking of my failed attempt to see Dame. “But it didn’t go well.”
Neither did the meeting on Friday morning. Or the job search today. But I hold that back.
“Were you out with that boy you met in Italy?” She fills my glass with wine.
My throat goes tight. “He hasn’t been in touch.” I dip a spring roll in the sticky orange sauce and take a bite despite my discomfort.
“Darn. You seemed to like that one.” She holds up her glass. “Oh well. To us.”
I lift my glass to hers. “To us. Single women living in the greatest city on earth!”
We clink our glasses. Eat. Chat over a second pour of wine. Chow Chow’s and the company of a Broadway star do the trick.
I feel better.
She sends me home, the leftovers neatly tucked in a green container. Pressing it into my hands, she says, “I want that back,” as she always does.
“Yes, Ma’am.” I give her a tight hug. “Three thuds. I’ll remember.”
Her voice follows behind me as I move down the hallway, telling me to go out for goodness’ sake, it’s Saturday evening after all.
I stare at my TV screen, but it’s his face I see. I imagine stroking his thick, dark beard. I only date clean-shaven faces. I picture his ripped jeans stained with motor oil from his Harley. But I only make a habit of flirting with Armani driving Porsches.
I’ve had the right amount of wine to feel brave.
It is Saturday night. I should be out.
Not ready to discuss my work failure, I’ve been avoiding plans with friends.
I’m on my own.
I’m warm enough for my skin to hum. Warm enough for my bad ideas to feel like brilliance.
I am going back.
I go to my closet, stripping off the sweats. I trip over my own feet as I pull the elastic band over my ankle. I shouldn’t be doing this.
I know I shouldn’t.
But everything’s gone sideways. The job, the bills, the silence echoing in my apartment like a dare. And all I can think about—worse than the coming rent, louder than the regret of screwing up such a big project—is the way his hand felt against my ass. His dominant tone when he forced me to count.
The way I rode home, tucked safely in the car he’d ordered me with fire between my legs and my panties wet. Not a thought on my mind other than him and what he’d done to me.
Dame was my Bachman obsession, but where are thoughts of him, now?
Reign seems to rule my mind.
I need release.
And he’s the only one who can provide it.
Black leather mini skirt. I zip myself into my black leather knee-high boots with the towering heels that make my ‘what’s a gym?’ ass look like I spend all day doing squats. I need this outfit to tempt him. To make him want to do bad things to me.
