Page 54 of Madam, May I

“Shit,” Desdemona swore as he slammed one hand against the passenger window and reached behind him.

“Go!” the girl screamed, jumping back from him pounding on the window.

“Get out that fucking car!” he roared, extending his hand to point his gun at the window.

“He’s gonna kill me,” she whispered as she eyed the barrel.

Desdemona floored the accelerator, speeding away and having to control the sudden jerk of the wheel.

Pow!

They both shrieked at the echo of gunfire.

“What am I doing?” Desdemona yelled at the top of her lungs as she looked in her rearview mirror at him running full speed toward a black parked car. Within moments he was behind the wheel and speeding up the street behind them.

“Saving me, remember?” the girl said, her New York accent thick and her voice raspy.

Desdemona’s hands clutched the wheel so tightly the skin over her knuckles was stretched thin. She eyed the rearview mirror as she kept up her pace, dodging in and out of traffic and taking side streets that she used to roam.

The girl looked over her shoulder. “I don’t see his car.”

“Good,” Desdemona said, slowing down and releasing her grip.

What am I doing? Doing? Hell, what have I done?

“Thank you.”

Desdemona looked over at her with a nod. “I couldn’t take watching him beat on you like that,” she said.

“I couldn’t take it no more either,” she quipped.

Desdemona was surprised by her humor and pleased to know she still held on to it after what she had just been through. “I know,” she agreed, frowning a bit at the smell of sex rising in the air.

She turned down the heat in the vehicle, knowing it caused the smell of men left between the girl’s thighs to rise.

“So, what now? He is not going to let me go that easy,” she said.

“Food,” Desdemona said, reaching for the only thing she knew she could provide for sure. “You hungry?”

I don’t have a clue what I am doing.

“Not around here,” she said.

“Definitely not,” Desdemona agreed.

She took I-95 from the Bronx to Newark, New Jersey, pulling into the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour diner. Once they were settled in a booth and handed large plastic-covered menus, she finally took a good look at her new charge.

She was a bright-eyed cutie with a shortbread complexion in need of care. Her acne fought for prominence against her freckles, and her teeth needed a good cleaning, looking more buttery than white. Her hair was reddish brown and pulled back into a ponytail. She had already caught a whiff of her hygiene.

All signs that she was lacking proper guidance.

Her face said youth, but her body said full-grown woman. She had hips, boobs, and thighs for days and the long sleeved t-shirt and jeans with a hooded puffer jacket highlighted her assets without even trying.

“What’s your name?” Desdemona asked, looking down at the girl’s hands as she held the menu. Her fingernails were bitten down to the quick.

She looked up from the menu. “Portia,” she offered.

Like my mom.

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