Tight(45)
Author: Alessandra Torre

“I can’t baby. But when you get back,” I promised, smiling at the glaze of his eyes, a glaze of arousal that wouldn’t wait till later, a hypothesis proved when he lifted me over his shoulder and carried me to our room, tossing me on the bed, his fingers quick, cock ready, the access of my dress making his first thrust easy and incredible.

I am wrong. I will prove it tonight. I will follow him, and watch him sell a boat. Woo a perfectly legitimate client. Be the man that I desperately want to believe that he truly is.

I rolled off of him, moving to the bathroom, running the shower before unzipping my dress and stepping in. “That’s not fair,” he groaned from his place in the doorway, his hands busy at his cuffs, the rest of him in perfect place except for his hair. I watched him pull on his jacket and shot him a grin, stepping into the shower and wiggling my fingers at him. “Go. Sell your little boats.”

I kept my hair out of the spray and ran a bar of soap quickly over me. Wasn’t the slightest bit surprised when the door opened and Brett’s hand stole in, caressed the soap bubbles on the closest breast.

“I can’t leave you without a kiss.”

I stepped forward, rinsed the soap off and turned the knob. Waved off the steam and stepped out, into the fluffy towel that he held open. Blushed as he wrapped the terrycloth around and rubbed me down, lingering over his favorite places and finishing the process by tugging at my hair tie, his eyes smiling as my curls bounced free, his mouth coming down soft and sweet on my own. I smiled against his mouth. “Happy? You got your kiss.”

He stole another. “Completely,” he whispered.

I am mistaken. There is nothing wrong with this man.

I heard the door click behind him, and sprang into action.

I had a secret weapon in my pursuit of Brett: My iPod Touch, a mini MP3 player that had one awesome feature – the ability to be found via the Find a Phone app. I slipped the iPod into his jacket before sex. Watched him walk out the door and I pulled up the app. Checked his location *the lobby* while jerking on my black jeans, tight sweater and superhero boots. I left my hair down – then, remembering Brett’s eyes on my curls, the fascination he had with their bounce – I twisted it into a low knot. Stuck a room key in my pocket and jogged down the hall and back to the rear stairwell. Thank God we were on the fourth floor and not the twenty-fourth. I hit the ground floor running and burst out the side, coming out in the loading zone, a flash of yellow taxis visible around the side of the building.

More jogging, the low heel of the boots thudding across the empty space, the last taxi in line spotting me early and jerking into reverse, skidding its way into a tight U-turn and pulling up to the side curb.

“Please pull through the front,” I called out to the man, slumping down in the seat. “I want to see if my friend’s out front.”

He nodded as if he understood and pulled another U-turn. Bounced into the portico and slowed down. Too slow. If Brett was standing there he’d be… my app refreshed, Brett’s dot on the screen moving, and I saw him ahead, on the curb, speaking with a group of men.

Thank God. His clients. I let my head fall back against the seat. I was crazy, he was innocent. I opened my purse, ready to pull out some cash and let the cabbie go when one of the men turned my way and I saw his face. Shit. I ducked in the car. “Pull out,” I said urgently. “Anywhere. Just move.”

I had seen the man before. In Brett’s house in Fort Lauderdale, huddled, like they are now, around Brett. Four men, the same four men. Brett’s ‘friends.’

I told the cabbie to pull over and park. I spun in the seat, watched Brett’s foursome, and waited. It didn’t take long. A line of three black SUVs pulled up tight to the curb, the men all piling into the first one. Then, the convoy moved, a pack of shiny black, pulling off the curb and onto the street. “There.” I pointed when they passed us. “Follow them.”

I shouldn’t have followed them. I should have paid the cabbie, gotten out, and walked back into the lobby. Taken the elevator up to my room and waited for Brett. You see, here is where my story ends.

My new cell was a motel room, one on the end, with windows that didn’t open and a rotten smell that wouldn’t stop. I felt dawn when we arrived, saw bits of light along the edge of my blindfold. He dragged me backwards by my cuffs into the ground floor room, my blind feet tripping over the curb, my entrance inside made in a clumsy heap of restrained limbs.

He lifted me onto a bed and I slept for some time, the mattress so soft compared to the trunk, compared to my cell’s mattress. I woke when he ripped the tape off. The handcuffs were removed next, and I rolled my ankles and wrists for a while before walking to the bathroom.

It had been so long since I’d looked in a mirror that I’d forgotten what I looked like. I leaned forward and gingerly touched my cheeks. Saw the stranger before me do the same. The stranger with the faded black eye. The stranger who looked stronger than I ever did. Who stood straight and glared into the mirror and dared me to criticize her scars. I stepped back. Used the restroom, washed my hands with the bar soap, then glanced at him. Got permission and opened the makeup bag that sat on the counter with trembling fingers.

I pulled out the contents and lined them up, in a neat row on the counter.

Revlon Photoready 3D Volume Mascara: Black

Maybelline Instant Age Rewind Eraser Concealer: Light

Revlon ColorStay Pressed Powder: Light/Medium

Revlon Super Lustrous Lipstick: #680 Temptress

The wrong colors for me, but I didn’t care. They were used cosmetics, which bothered me more. Who had they belonged to? Where had they come from?

“It would be in your best interest to look nice.” He spoke from the doorway, a few steps away, and watched me. I wished for a door between us, some privacy in this moment. I reached for the concealer, applied it generously, painting the bruises white, the black eye pale. I used every trick my mother had ever taught me. Took my time with my brows, applied mascara with a shaky hand and lined my lips carefully before applying the color. Finger-combed through my hair and wished for a curler, something to tame the wild mess it had become.

Then, I laughed. I couldn’t help myself, the sound bubbled out of me, as foreign in my throat as his cock. What was I doing? Why was I trying? I wanted a curler? There I was, hours from being sold, and I was worried about my looks. About making a good impression. I stared at my reflection and had the sudden desire to slam my head forward, into the glass. Had a mild moment of pleasure at the idea of him trying to sell me then, a bloody-faced girl with glass in her hair.