Chapter Five
The truth will set you free,
but first it will piss you off.
Joe Klaas
I focus on the pedestrians as the Uber I’m in sits behind a red light. Across the street, two men catch my attention. One looks to be in his mid-thirties, and the other can’t be any more than a few years older than Mina’s twelve years.
My eyes narrow as I watch the older man hand a few bills to the kid. The kid looks at the money for a moment before pocketing the bills, reaching into the brown cardboard box before him, and handing what looks like a foil-wrapped chocolate bar to the man.
To the untrained eye, the whole exchange looks innocent enough—just a poor kid trying to earn some money selling chocolate bars and a wealthy man trying to help. But to my eyes, I see what’s really happening.
Actually, I’m intimately familiar with what’s happening.
After all, I used to be that kid.
I suppress the urge to look around the streets. Somewhere on this street is this kid’s boss, be it a parent of his, a neighborhood dealer, or some other scumbag who thinks it’s okay to use kids to deal drugs.
A part of me wants to open the door and help the kid out, to get him away from the mess he’s in. But I don’t. Instead, I sit silently as the Uber driver pulls away from the congested street, because like most things in life, it’s too complicated. There are too many variables and way too much uncertainty.
If I helped the kid, I could have done more damage than good. Social Services would come, and who knows? Maybe I’d be separating the kid from an older sibling who’s trying her best to get her and her brother out of that mess.
Or maybe I’d be separating the kid from a younger sibling that has yet to be born. Then, I’d be robbing a child of a future protector, and that’s the absolute last thing I want to do.
That last thought has me contemplating the next few weeks. My impending graduation looms ahead of me like a lighthouse, but instead of leading me to shore, it’s causing my brain to go afloat. The closer and closer I get, the more lost I feel.
Don’t get me wrong. I know where I’m going. Before I graduate, I’ll find a new place to live, I’ll find a part time job while I study for my LSATs. And if all goes well, I’ll apply to and get into Wilton’s accelerated law school program for my juris doctor, which would help me get my law degree in one year instead of two.
Meanwhile, I’ll also be working John, and eventually, he’ll propose. Once he does, I’ll have a stable home environment and the financial means to file for custody of Mina. I’ll also be well on my way to achieving a stable career.
That’s the plan. It’s relatively straightforward, and the steps are quite clear and simple enough to follow...
But the problem is that I don’t want to.
I don’t want to study for my LSATs.
I don’t want to get my juris doctor.
And I certainly don’t want to marry John.
Instead, I want to enjoy my youth, to savor it and do the things people my age usually do.
And that makes me feel so angry and guilty and lost.
Because I know for a fact that I love Mina, and I truly do want to find a way for us to be together. But if I really wanted that… I wouldn’t have any problems with my plans, right? I wouldn’t be second guessing myself every other second.
I wouldn’t be feeling like this right now.
So, with each second closer to graduation, I feel increasingly disoriented. I can see my future, clearer and clearer, and it looks so darn bleak. I want to turn the other way, to take a U-turn and get lost at sea.
Because anything—anything—has to be better than pursuing a job I don’t want to pursue, than marrying someone I don’t want to marry.
That’s why, when the Uber driver pulls up to the front of John’s brownstone, I stay in the car, my hands shaking and my resolve trembling. I try to take deep breaths in and out, but they do nothing to calm me.
Instead, I can feel the beginnings of a panic attack approaching. Usually, when they happen, I can’t stop them. So, I find a quiet place to hide myself, and I ride them out, feeling each sharp clench of the heart, struggling for each gaping breath.
And afterwards?
I’m a nightmare to deal with.
I take out the pain, frustration and anger on anyone near me. I lash out, and I’m cruel to the people around me. It’s like the pain pushes aside the little bit of humanity I have left inside of me, and I allow the anger in me to fuel my actions.
I wouldn’t wish me post-panic attack on anyone, and I certainly shouldn’t be having a panic attack right before entering John’s home, where I need to always be on top of my game. Lucky for me, a sharp rapping of a fist on the car door startles me before the panic attack can come to fruition.
Pasting a false smile on my face in case it’s John, I turn to the window. When I see who it is, I immediately scowl. After opening the door, I ask, “What do you want?”
John’s neighbor ignores my question in favor of his own. “What are you doing here?”
I exit the car, and as soon as the door is shut, the Uber driver smartly hightails it out of here, and I wish I could go with him. But at the same time, I don’t, because I don’t want to rob my thirsty eyes of an opportunity to drink in this man I have to make an appearance with John tonight.
Once again, I’m startled by my foreign attraction to this stranger. His tall, muscular build is clothed in a black hoodie, black jeans and a black t-shirt. From the all-black ensemble to the black hair and brown eyes, everything about this man should be blending into the darkness of the night, but it’s not.
At least not to me.
In fact, he’s all that I can see—all that I can focus on.
If there was a fire raging behind him and hungry wolves on the loose around us, I still wouldn’t be able to tear my eyes away from him. I hate this man; I’m sure of it. I hate what he represents—all the things in life that I’ll never be able to have.
And that alone should be enough for me to loathe looking at him. To turn away from the sight of him and ignore the yearning—the lust—that overcomes me whenever I look his way and catch a glimpse of his intense eyes and chiseled features. Surely, if I can battle through my disgust to be intimate with a mark, I can navigate my way through a foggy cloud of lust and come out on the other side unscathed.
Yet, I can’t seem to pull myself away from his magnetism. I’m lost in this odd pull between us, and from the heated look he’s giving me, I don’t think I’m the only one feeling this. Perhaps I’m romanticizing and exaggerating this attraction because, thanks to a never ending series of marks after marks, it’s been a long time since I’ve indulged such a thing.
But the small part of me that protests the existence of my vanity wishes that I’m feeling this way for any other reason than he’s the only guy that’s physically held my attention since my gold digging campaign began.
Am I that shallow? Before now, I thought that, of all my less than perfect qualities, shallowness was one I didn’t possess. Being physically attracted to a man has always been a luxury I can’t afford, and I never cared for nor indulged it.
Yet, I’m breaking those rules with him, lusting after someone I can’t have. It’ll do me no good. I’m wasting my time. My resolve to pursue John is waning in his neighbor’s presence, in the series of what ifs it represents.
What if I didn’t need the money? What if Mina was never taken away? What if I was a normal girl with normal problems? Would this be something I would indulge? How would it feel? The way my heart clenches painfully at these questions terrifies me.
Which makes me hate him even more.
For being the person to cause such a petrifying, contraband line of self-reflection.
And also because I need this time alone, and he’s invading it and my thoughts. Because the minute of preparation I usually give myself before entering John’s is a necessity for my sanity. I use it to steel myself, to remind myself that there’s a reason for my madness.
Mina.
And the last thing I need is an interruption, let alone an interruption from a man I’m attracted to.
Correction: a man that’s butting into my business.
Reminding myself to hate him, I cross my arms and don’t bother hiding the disdain in my eyes and voice when I say, “How’s that any of your business?”
He takes in my defensive posturing and takes a step closer. “Some would call what you’re doing loitering. Maybe I’m doing my civic duty.”
My eyes narrow, and I allow the law student in me to argue, “First off, I’m not loitering. I have a purpose for being here. Secondly, even if I am loitering, there’s nothing you can do about it. I’m not breaking any laws.” I gesture at the public sidewalk beneath us. “This is public property.” I force a frown onto my face when I realize that I’m enjoy arguing with him, that I’m enjoying being around him.
He smirks at me, his stare both menacing and challenging. “Actually, loitering is codified in New York penal law under sections 240.35, 240.36, and 240.37.”
His words cause me to frown.
Who is this man?
In my experience, the only people who are that familiar with the law have studied law, are breaking it or are defending it. These are people in law school, criminals, or people that have too much time on their hands. I’ve never been one to stereotype, but he doesn’t look like any of the three.
In fact, he looks like a movie star—one of those ruggedly handsome Hollywood A-list celebrity types with haunted eyes, who star in action films until they’re Liam Neeson’s age and still haven’t retired.
I actually wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he is an actor. I wouldn’t know. I don’t have much time to watch television, nor do I have the money to go the movies. The guys I date aren’t the movie going types either. They’re, much to my dismay, usually of the staying-in-bed-naked-all-day variety.
Judging from the slightly pleased look on his face, I’ve been silent for too long, so I glower and say, “True.”
Because he’s right. Loitering is codified in New York penal law under those sections, but he’s also trying to play me, and if it was anyone else standing in from of him, he’d probably be doing a darn good job with that impressive poker face of his.
But it isn’t anyone else in front of him. It’s me, someone who’s spent the past four or so years studying the ins and outs of New York and federal laws. And also someone who isn’t and never has been the type to let things go.
Of course, that’s a personal favorite character flaw of mine. It’s certainly the most fun. With that in mind, I draw upon my extensive knowledge of New York law. And while the sections he mentioned cover loitering, they don’t cover the type of loitering I’m doing.
Obviously, he’s trying to intimidate me with vague but true knowledge of the law. Laws that are technically true, but for this purpose, they don’t apply. But given my major, he’s chosen the wrong subject to talk about, and I’m not about to show him any mercy.
Not with this ridiculous lust coursing through my veins. I need to remind myself—and maybe even him, if he’s interested, but why else would he bother approaching me?—how incompatible we are.
I continue, “Except those sections don’t apply to me. We’re not in a transportation center or on a school campus, and I don’t have a mask on my face.” When his eyes flicker briefly with shock, I don’t stop. “I’m not drug pushing, and I’m not a prostitute.”
Not really.
There are differences between prostitution and gold digging, but they’re not big enough for me to possess a superiority complex over prostitutes.
“Jefferson School of Law?” he asks without missing a beat, referring to Wilton’s law school and the law school closest to John’s neighborhood.
I nod stiffly, not wanting to give away more of myself than necessary. I don’t want him to know me. Being strangers is my only defense against my attraction to him.
“That’s a good school,” he continues, slowly.
“Maybe I’m a smart person. Is that so hard to believe?”
The jerk has the guts to lift a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “A smart person wouldn’t be here for John.”
Fire flashes through my eyes, and I’m instantly defensive.
Does this guy know that I’m a gold digger?
Either way, I push aside the part of me that enjoys this exchange of wits and snarl at him, “And let me guess… A smart person would be here for you.”
He lifts his lips in a taunting smile. “No. A smart person would run away from me.”
He leans in even closer to me, and darn it, I don’t run away, though I know he’s right.
I should be running.
From this life.
From John.
From him.
Instead, I stay rooted to the ground, my eyes on his and my heart pounding an unsteady rhythm. And when he leaves without another word, leaving me pissed off at the fact that he’s getting to me, I don’t want to listen to him on principle. But for some reason, I do.
I don’t go to John that night.