So I did it. I really did it. I made a date with the devil himself: Warren Marshall. The worst part about it is that I’m actually excited about it. It’s not that he gets me going. I mean, don’t get me wrong. He’s hot. His body is practically perfect. It’s clear that he works on himself, on the daily, in that natural kind of tough way. Still, it’s more that I like the risk. I know that I’m about one second way from losing everything, and somehow that gets me going.

I take a deep breath and get ready. It’s already six and I haven’t even done my makeup. Marshall is cocky. He thinks he has me in the bag. But I’m going to make him work for it. I’m going to make him grovel for me, make him show me what he really thinks of me.

Outside, I walk toward the bar. I haven’t ever owned a car and I doubt I ever will. Still, I look classy as ever. “He’s going to die,” I think to myself, with a smile. The black dress I have on was my mothers and though I despise that woman, she did have some taste every now and then. This is the one thing she gave me, before I severed all contact with her.

I’m not going to let those thoughts get me down tonight. No, tonight is all about making Marshall feel at home. I’m not going to fuck the guy or anything. That’s a bit too much persuasion for my taste. What I’m going to do is lead him to the wrong place.

As I walk, I get a text. It’s from an unknown number, but I already know who it is. Craig and Elroy. They’re breaking up the plan already. It figures they would do something stupid like that. Luckily, we all have new numbers, new burner phones. There’s no way they’re tracing the lines.

The text reads: “We’re hitting another spot.” I feel my stomach drop and I nearly turn back around.

“Are you fucking crazy?” I text back. Then another, “You can’t just do that. It’s not part of the plan. I won’t go through with it.”

“The people overseas want more of a cut. They know just how much we made out with,” he says. I can’t picture which one it is, but I can imagine both of their faces right now. No doubt they quickly met up afterward. I’m the only one with enough grace to follow through with everything correctly. It’s fucking bullshit.

“Then we’ll pay our fair share. We don’t need to get greedy. I’m not going away. One was enough,” I say.

“We’ll take your cut then,” he says. “They want 300. You willing to spend that much for a year somewhere overseas?”

“I’ll manage,” I say. “I’ll figure something out. I always do.” But I know what he’s saying. He’s saying we’re all fucked out of a shit ton of money. 300k? That’s ludicrous. But we don’t have any options.

“He’ll go to the authorities,” he says. “The feds. He’s one dial away, he claims. Do you really want to risk it?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I feel like slamming my head against the wall. No, I feel like giving up. The initial adrenaline makes me angry, but that quickly subsides. Now, I’m just sad and terrified. I don’t want to go to prison. I don’t want to sacrifice absolute freedom. The worst part is, now I really need Marshall. Now I need protection from the enemy himself.

“No,” I say, truthfully. “I just think this is very sketchy. Like, it’s too sketchy. We’re fucked either way.”

“What’re you going to do over in Italy after one year? Get a job? Work at a bar?” he asks. “Seriously, what do you think you’ll do?”

“I’ll open up a business. I’ll figure it out. Like I said,” I tell him. “Look, just tell me the plan.”

“We need to meet up,” he says. “Virginia. I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you,” I type. “Don’t call or text me on this phone. Seriously. It’s not safe. If you need me, you know where I’m at.”

“Cool,” he says. “Ciao.”

“Bastard,” I mumble.

“Who’s a bastard?” I hear that rough voice from in front of me. I jump back and make out a nice pair of cowboy boots. One is leaning against a large boulder. I look up and see Marshall. His back is against the sign of the bar.

“Nobody,” I say, shocked that I didn’t see him. I need to be more careful. He’s definitely the type of guy who pries for more information. “Just some crap I have to deal with.”

“Boyfriend?” he smiles and squints his eyes. “Don’t think I can’t tell. That was an intimate conversation.”

“You think you know everything. Don’t you?” I laugh. He’s wearing all denim, and yes, he’s looking extremely good tonight. He’s put together, much more put together than last night.

“I’m a cop. I’m supposed to know everything,” he says. He presses his boot heel against the rock, pushing himself up onto his feet. He’s wearing this ridiculous cowboy hat that somehow doesn’t repulse me. He takes it off and bows for me. “You look wonderful,” he tells me. He takes my hand and kisses it and I actually feel a rush run through my body.

I can’t. I can’t be into this. I’m a criminal. I can’t have feelings.

This is so wrong. “Thank you,” I smile. “You look handsome.”

“I know. I always do.” He smiles back. “Shall we?”

“Sure,” I say. “We skipping out on the drinks?”

“I thought we could drink some nicer cocktails at the Steakhouse, or get a bottle of red wine. Whatever you prefer,” he says. “After all, it is your night.”

I get into his car and he turns the key. He’s got an old Ford Mustang. Of course he does. Initially, when he smiles at me, there’s that feeling of helplessness a woman gets when in a man’s car for the first time. There’s something about the enclosed space, the lack of control. It rides the line of good and bad, and I wonder whether or not he’s a trustworthy man. To me, cops are the least trustworthy. They wear the badge, but that doesn’t mean they uphold justice. All that piece of metal stands for is power.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “I’m not going to bite. I swear.”

“No, it’s not that,” I tell him. “It’s just that I feel bad about something.”

“Yeah?” he drives and carefully watches the road. “What do you feel bad about?” Every so often, he glances over at my breasts. I know they look good in this dress. They’re practically spilling out. I feel self-conscious when he looks, but it’s not necessarily a bad type of self-conscious. It’s just a total awareness that this guy is bad and at any moment, he could put the cuffs on me, and send me away. To be honest, the thought sort of arouses me.

“I should let you know that I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say, feeling slightly ashamed, and a tad bit alarmed that I’m even admitting that to him right now.

“I thought as much,” he nods. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. You’re hot. Nah, you’re like an angel trapped in this shithole desert abyss. But there’s a fierce look in your eyes. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you might be out to get me.”

I feel my heart speed up to an unimaginable degree. I try my hardest to control the red in my cheeks, but I know it’s starting to show through my makeup. Why the fuck would I put myself in this position? Why couldn’t I just take the next flight to Italy? Right. No passport. No ID. No nothing. That’s why. Still, there were other options, right? Did I have to play with fate?

“I don’t hurt people intentionally,” I find myself saying. It’s sort of robotic. I feel the click in my throat when I gulp down and he parks the car in the parking lot of the place. It looks nice. Fancy. He’s trying to spend money on me. And I can sense that he wants me. But does he want to destroy me?

“I didn’t think you did.” He smiles and leans over. I smell his wonderful cologne. It’s dark and rich, and sensual. I find myself closing my eyes when his fingers touch my chin lightly, beckoning me forward. I obey his commands. I let him do what he wants. Then, his lips kiss my cheek. I know he can feel how warm I am, but he can’t feel how wet I’m getting. This is bad. No, this is absolutely horrific.

He pulls back and smiles, breathing in heavy and slow, like he’s taking all of me in. For a second, I wonder if he’s hard right now and if he is, how hard? Is he thick? Is his shaft hot to the touch? Fuck…

“You’re the kind of girl who kills silently. You don’t play games. Not like these other women, anyway,” he says. He unlocks the doors with one click of a button and I feel a huge weight lifted from my chest.

“I’m a nice girl,” I lie. I want to be. I wish I could be a nice girl. I’ve always tried to be, but I just wasn’t allowed the chance. My parents made sure I’d never be nice, or normal, or anything like the other girls. I’d always be a weed, growing out of the cracks of this scorched earth.

“But you’re right about something,” I continue, stepping out of the car. “I don’t play games.”

“Good girl,” he says.

We’re both outside, walking toward the entrance. I have no idea how this is going to end, but I’m actually quite proud of myself. I’ve played this one very nicely. There’s no way he has any idea, nor will he ever. There’s nothing that could go wrong now.

Yes, I have no idea how this will go. But I’ve got a million images in my mind. Like my body arching across his carpet, mouth wide open, as he pounds me ‘til I scream in absolute ecstasy.