Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
I want to say no. I want to say I’d rather wait for my stepbrother to drag me out by my hair. I want to die of embarrassment. But I also want out, and I want to never think about this again, and I want to avoid seeing Trevor’s face when he’s told about his slutty little stepsister.
So I perform the striptease.
Not with any of Stella’s energy. Not with any grace, or charm, or even the sense of my own body as anything but a heap of flesh.
I grab the zipper at the back of my dress and fight it down. The fabric is tight, and it catches on my bra, so I have to tug and shimmy until the whole thing rolls down to my hips. The dress comes off in a crumple, and I’m left in a lacy pink bra and matching thong. My skin prickles in the cold. My stomach, pale and doughy in the glare, sags a little over the waistband. My thighs are bright red with shame.
Morris stands, arms folded, watching every second. He doesn’t say a word.
I try to turn it into a performance. I try to arch my back, to roll my hips, to make it look sexy the way Stella did, but I know I’m not sexy. I reach behind my back, fumble the clasp of my bra, and let it drop. My nipples are hard as marbles from the chill. I cup my hands over them for a moment, then force myself to put my arms down.
“Keep going,” Morris grunts. “You’ve got a nice rack. How old are you?”
“Twenty-one,” I manage in a strangled voice.
The guard harrumphs and nods for me to proceed.
Oh god, this is so awful. I step out of my panties, kick it away, and stand there: completely naked, facing a middle-aged man while I’m locked in a jail cell. The light hums above, the air blowing straight down from a vent and raising goosebumps all over my body.
I have no idea what to do next. Stella knew how to move. Stella knew how to command attention, even when it was disgusting. I stand there and sway from foot to foot, hoping it counts.
After a minute, Morris grins and says, “Dance, sweetheart. Pretend there’s music.”
I try to sway my hips, but it feels so stupid I almost laugh. Instead, I cover my pussy with one hand, then the other, then drop them again. I do a little turn, but the floor is slick and I nearly slip. I hear a cough from another room.
Eventually, I stop. I cross my arms over my chest. I can feel tears starting in my eyes.
Morris watches for another few seconds, then makes a little “hmph” sound and slumps in his chair.
“Not bad,” he says, “but you’re not getting out. Rules are rules.”
He flicks a switch, and the lights in my cell get even brighter. I can see every flaw, every mark on my skin.
I reach for my dress, holding it to my chest, and back up with wobbly knees to the bench. I can’t stop shaking.
When I sit down, I can’t get my arms to work. I wrap the dress around me like a towel and wait, shivering. My hair falls over my face.
I dress again, piece by piece, hating the touch of fabric on my skin. What the hell just happened? Did I just strip for a guard, in the hopes of bribing myself out of this shitty situation? Except that it didn’t work? Oh my god, I’m a complete failure, and tears gather on my lashes.
But I won’t cry. I won’t let them have the satisfaction. I sit on the concrete bench until my legs go numb and my ass flattens out, and I wait for the sun to rise, or for someone to remember I exist.
All I can think about is what Trevor would say if he saw me now.
Probably nothing.
Probably just that little smirk, the same one that’s on the guard’s face, the same one that says: I always knew you’d end nothing but a loser.
9
THE RESCUE
Trevor
Idrive with both hands clamped hard on the wheel, pushing eighty through a Minneapolis still too stunned by dawn to fight back. The sky is the color of wet cement, the towers downtown rising out of the mist like a row of upended knives. Every few blocks, the traffic lights catch up and try to slow me, but I take the amber every time, not so much as tapping the brakes. The city looks deserted, slicked with last night’s rain and a thin haze of old exhaust.
The Mercedes eats up the miles, the dash a cold blue glow against the predawn. I adjust the seat, but the muscles in my back stay knotted, the adrenaline refusing to drain off. There’s a vibration running through my arms that isn’t from the car. It’s from the call. It’s from the photos. It’s from my stepsister.