Very Wicked Things

“It works,” he shrugged, taking the five cylinders of change and the extra one dollar bills I’d tucked in there as a tip.

“You headed to a party tonight? Nice place for one,” he commented, giving me another inquisitive glance. Just a nosey man looking for conversation, trying to make the night pass, but it made me fidgety.

“Something like that,” I said, keeping it brief.

“You meeting somebody?”

“Yeah,” I said, and as the truth of that statement settled in me, nausea unfurled in my stomach. I didn’t help that the backseat smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke. The need for fresh air clawed at me, and I opened the door with unsteady hands and stepped out onto the pavement.

A bellhop opened the door for me, giving me an approving once-over as I passed. Fingering my vintage dress, I tugged on the hem. Made of soft black silk with a lace overlay, it had understated class, but was short, as most dresses were on my long legs.

The concierge at the front desk directed me to the hotel bar. With brisk steps, I passed posh sitting areas, a couple of boutiques, and even a steakhouse restaurant. People milled around everywhere, making me nervous about seeing my classmates.

But, it was nearly eight o’clock which meant the BA dance had started an hour ago. I gave myself a pep talk, trying to convince myself I was fine and safe, that no one would see me. But then, all of a sudden, I wasn’t safe when I walked past a ballroom where live music drifted from under the closed double doors. A fancy easel sign outside the room told the story: Welcome Briarcrest Academy Students to the Sweetheart Dance.

Cuba and Spider were both in that room, having fun, living their lives.

I paused, pulse racing as the band cranked up. I told myself to run, to get the hell away from that door, but I waited, catching the sound of a singer belting out a Train song, the timbre sending shivers over me. Had to be Sebastian.

And then I heard Spider’s guitar in the mix. His sound took center stage, reminding me of all the times I’d listened to him play for me in his apartment. He sounded perfect, and in the middle of my own hell, I smiled.

Have to go.

I flew past the door, continuing my journey.

A few more minutes, and I entered the spacious bar, my eyes searching the faces of the men. The Man wasn’t hard to find. In fact, he came to me, his eyes roving over my dress, lingering on my breasts and legs. Perhaps he knew me from my pale face and young age. I mean, he’d wanted a virgin, and at eighteen, I wasn’t one, but he didn’t know. All part of this dangerous game. My heart felt like it might thump right out of my chest at his perusal. I held it together by picturing Sarah and how I’d left her at home, playing checkers with Heather-Lynn as they’d sipped on tea. I clung to that image.

“Dovey?” he asked, stopping in front of me, his body towering over me.

I nodded, hiding a cringe at my name on his lips.

He led me over to a quiet table where he ordered me a martini and him a scotch from a hovering waitress. He hadn’t asked what I wanted, not that I cared.

The waitress sat the mostly clear drink in front of me. I took a sip. And another. It was the first time I’d ever had alcohol.

We made small talk, or he did, and I listened, nodding in all the right places, too numb to really participate. I sensed he liked control by the way he ordered the waitress around, so I lowered my chin and kept my eyes downcast. It wasn’t an act. He didn’t tell me his name, and I didn’t ask.

The waitress kept coming by and refilling his Scotch, giving him appreciative glances each time. He ignored her, his hawk eyes on me. It gave me shivers. Claw-like, I kept my hands in my lap.

Admittedly, he was handsome, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, his blue eyes framed by fine lines that didn’t distract from his visage. He had longish golden-brown hair and a tan face, even though it was winter. I pictured him sailing on a yacht in the Mediterranean or perhaps skiing in Tahoe. He had an ever so slight accent, as if he’d been born abroad, but had moved here as a youth. I knew I wasn’t wrong when I deduced he was Russian like my father. Were they business partners or friends? The thought made me sick. Yet, in the end, it hardly mattered what he looked like or sounded like. Even if he was hideous and freakish, I’d do this thing anyway.

I had to.

We left the bar with his hand on my elbow like a gentleman. We stepped into the elevator, and he hit the fifteenth floor, not the penthouse, although it was obvious The Man had wealth. And for some reason, I didn’t think it was the type of seedy rich I knew from my neighborhood, but rather the society kind, as if he’d been born with a silver spoon. Upper-class. Perhaps he had his own student at BA. I stiffened at that thought.

The elevator was a wall of mirrors, and I found it hard to meet my own eyes, instead studying the expensive swirl of the marble tile. I thought about my life and the repercussions of tonight. I reminded myself it would be over soon, and I could carry on with my dreams because I refused to lose sight of my goal. Because no matter what people may think, there are no black or white decisions, and there are way more than fifty shades of grey.

There are millions.

We all travel life’s highway, making good and bad choices based on upbringing and beliefs. And, in the end, we have to be able to live with what we’ve done.

It’s how we live with our choices that count. And I wanted to believe I could live with this.

The elevator opened, and we walked to a room at the end of the hall. And because I’m a smart girl, I didn’t miss that it was close to the stairwell if I had to make a run for it.