Page 92 of Never Die for a Sinner
The more I think about our agreement, the more I question my morals.
Sex for money, no matter how you paint it, could be considered prostitution. Granted, there’s also a contract bearing my signature agreeing to his terms, but it sits heavily on my shoulders, reminding me of what I agreed to.
The pros are great sex with the object of my fantasies. Nana would be taken care of. I wouldn’t have to skip meals to pay for the nursing home. I could save up enough to get out of here and maybe finish school. I could move and find somewhere quiet and peaceful and just breathe.
The cons?
Everything else.
My morals have taken a major hit. My sense of self. I’ve never been overly sexual. The incident in the woods was a one-off thing that backfired majorly.
What if he finds out I’m boring in bed? That I’ve only ever slept with two men and have the experience of a teaspoon?
There’s no doubt in my mind he’d end it immediately if he deemed me too boring, and, in that regard, I have to worry about my self-esteem.
I’ve read through my copy of the contract so many times that it’s become wrinkled. I found it on my bed the day after I’d signed the original. It just seems surreal, and I’m still not sure what I’m doing.
Especially when he hasn’t “requested” my presence.
I know he’s playing some sick game. Stringing me along to build up the anticipation until I’ve stressed myself out enough to quit.
I let out a sigh that’s not audible over the sweeper I’m running in the den.
What the hell is a girl to do?
I cut the vacuum off, and only then do I realize my phone is ringing. I jump, tugging it out of my pocket to see the nursing home’s name flashing on the screen, and answer it instantly.
“H-Hello?”
“Hi, this is Patrice from the Pleasant Grove Senior Care Center. Is this Ava Ryan I’m speaking to?”
I swallow over the lump in my throat.
“It is.”
“Good, I’m just calling because it appears as though we’re two months behind on payment for your grandmother’s account. Do you have time to discuss this?”
Fuck.
Fuckkkkkkk . . .
“Yeah, umm . . . I have the money. I just need to come in and pay.”
“That’s great to hear. I just have to inform you that if this month’s payment is missed, the account will fall into default, and we won’t be able to continue housing your grandmother.”
Tears burn in the backs of my eyes, and a rush of anger washes over me.
He said he’d take care of it. It’s been three days, and I haven’t heard a single word from him. Not a fuck you, fuck off, or even a simple hello.
More than that, though, I’m pissed at myself.
How could I let things fall behind this far? I’ve paid as much as I can, yet it still isn’t enough. My account is at five dollars even with my paycheck coming in, and I know it won’t be enough.
Scrubbing a hand over my face, I know what I need to do.
A pit forms in my stomach, filling with acid, but I start toward the stairs anyway.
“I’ll see it gets done.”
