Disgrace (17 page)

“Where do you think you are going?” she snarls, but her voice is a tempered whisper, mindful of being overheard. I can see from her ticking jaw she wants to howl.

“I’m leaving, but don’t worry; I’m sure with this”—I wave the Cartier box but not too close—“I’ll find someone willing to trade a warm bed. If not, I’ll always have this.” I sweep my hand up and down my body. Her eyes widen so large, and her face is mottled bright red, she looks like she is about to explode.

“You are not some common whore, Grace,” she snaps.

“Really? Because that is exactly what you made me when you forced me to fuck Richard! When you let him rape me!” I bite out the words quietly, but I might as well have used a bullhorn. She reels back and falters. I have never spoken to her like this…never.

“I did no such thing…You…” She points her finger, her hand shaking with rage. “You did this…you chose that path. You became his whore, and he threw you away, and I don’t blame him.” Spits flies with each angry word fired at me, but after two years of hearing the same tune, I am immune.

“You made me mother; aren’t you proud?” I pick up my suitcase. My tone holds no emotion, my expression impassive. ”I’d rather be a whore than your puppet.” Her eyes narrow at me but flit between me and the box I am clutching to my chest. “I’ll give you a choice: Take me back and let me live my life how I want to and I keep the necklace, or never see me again but you keep the necklace. Me or the necklace?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I don’t want a filthy whore living in my house. I’ll take the necklace.”

I turn and walk down the path.

“You said I could choose…you said I could have the necklace,” she screeches after me.

“Don’t you know, Mother? You should never trust a whore.” Her expression is one of utter rage and shock. It should make me smile, but over my eighteen years, she has managed to suck every human emotion from me. I am a shell, but at least now I am free.

“You are no daughter of mine. You’re a disgrace.”

“That I am.” Perhaps I can smile. My lips begin to twitch.

This bar looked as good as any, sleazier than most. The dimly lit basement club is filling with a cosmopolitan mix of people, but then it is in the heart of the city. The booths around the edge are only barely visible. A single flame encased in red glass casts a sensual glow, but is too weak to cast anything but shadow on the patrons seated there. The bar itself is at the far end of the room, away from the speakers, which are pumping out indiscriminate beats, loud and constant. People gather in the ever-decreasing space on the dance floor, a writhing mass of sweaty bodies. I try to slide onto the empty stool, but the surface is suspiciously sticky so I just perch on the edge. I am surprised I am not more nervous. I have never been out on my own, never to a bar and never somewhere like this. This morning, my mother called me a whore; tonight I’m going to prove her right.

“Can I buy you a drink, gorgeous?” The deep voice at my ear makes me jump. I was miles away. My little flashback was only this morning but it already feels like a nasty, distant memory. Maybe not distant enough. I think a drink would be perfect.

“Thank you…double vodka…straight.” I swallow thickly at his sudden raised brow. Is that okay? Isn’t that what women drink? Richard never allowed me alcohol, always wanted me sentient, and never permitted me the luxury of numbing the pain. The man steps up to the bar, dipping his head, but he flashes me a wide, friendly grin, which makes me relax a little. I steal furtive glances at his profile, up and down his body. I wonder if this is my first client. He is tall, slim, liquid dark eyes that shimmer when he looks back at me and holds my gaze. His hair hangs in long, inky strands that flop and fall into his eyes. A similar length all round that reaches past his neck and has slight waves. It looks thick and soft. I clasp my hands to stop my itchy fingers from embarrassing me. He hands me my drink, stepping a little too close and brushing my fingertips with his when I take the glass.

My hands aren’t shaking, but I can feel my tummy start to turn. Okay, this is it. I knock the drink back and nearly spit it all back out. Fighting my body’s natural reaction just makes me cough and splutter and I make a complete mess of the front of my dress. The man hands me a handful of napkins, and I can feel the burn in my cheeks worsen by his wry smile and low level chuckle.

“Maybe vodka’s not your drink?” He teases.

“No…It is…just went down the wrong way.” I tip the remainder of the liquid, thankful it is only a small amount, and I manage to swallow it down without further drama.

“So?” He pauses waiting for me to fill the gap. So…so what? So…ah, my name. I don’t want to be Grace here. I don’t want to be Grace ever again, but I hadn’t given it any thought. In that instant the bottles on the shelf behind the bar grab my attention. Tia Maria… Gordon’s… Bombay Sapphire… Sambuca.

“Sam…My name is Sam.” His eyes follow mine to the shelf. He regards me carefully, his lips pursed and dark, thick brows pinched together. He is quite handsome. He is smartly dressed in a white button down shirt that fits his broad shoulders and wide chest. His sleeves are rolled up, and his arms are muscular with ink patterns covering all his skin to his wrists. He is slim but fit. Clearly defined muscles are evident with his well fitted clothes. His waist is narrow and the stretch in his jeans fails to hide his muscular thighs and bulge in his…Jesus, stop looking at his…

“So what do you do, Sam?” He smirks when my eyes meet his. They must be the size of saucers, and I cringe that I was caught red-handed staring at his crotch.

“I’m a whore,” I blurt and it’s his turn to almost choke on his beer.

“Excuse me?” he coughs.

“I’m a whore.” I arch my back and lean into him. I can do this. Richard had me flirt with his friends all the time. He got off on it. He never let me be with them but had no problem fucking me in front of them. I shouldn’t be embarrassed at staring at a stranger’s cock when I have had much worse.

“You’re one of Roman’s girls?” His voice is sharp with surprise.

“Um…no.” The man is looking directly over my shoulder, and I follow his gaze to a group of men gathered around one of the booths. I use the term ‘men’ loosely. They are massive mountains, almost as wide as they are tall. Dark, angry scowls fix their faces, and I shudder when they look my way. One of them was just at the bar beside me knocking drinks back until he was called away.

“Well, you’re brave working here right in front of them.” His voice is low and serious.

“Night off,” I add with a tight smile, wishing I had more vodka to quell my rising fear. What the fuck am I doing?

“No such thing, sweetheart.” He grabs my hand and roughly pulls me from the stool. He drags me from the club with no effort at all. I struggle against his grip pinching his hand that is clamped around my wrist, but the minute I start to shout, he has me muffled against his chest. Someone stops us, but before I can call for help, he easily dismisses their concern.

“My girlfriend, she’s had a little too much to drink.” I squeal and wriggle against his iron hold but quickly lose my fight when I hear a low grumble that chills me.

“You can leave her here, Leon. Roman noticed her at the bar. He’d be happy to help you out.”

I suck in a breath and go limp in his arms.

“Tell Roman thanks, but she’s mine. He’ll understand.” The other man chuckles, and the next thing I feel is the warm evening air hitting my bare arms. We walk for a short distance before he pulls me into a deserted alleyway. Shit, this is it…I am such a fucking idiot. All that rage and hurt I felt when I left home, did I really think it would change me? Did I really think just because my mother called me a whore, it would actually make me that person? Shit.

“You are a fucking idiot!” The man shouts at me, and I step back in shock. I was expecting him to pounce, maybe hit me but not this. His eyes are filled with concern. Worry and anger crinkle his brow, and he drags his hand through his thick hair with obvious frustration.

“I’m sorry.” My voice catches and I can feel my eyes prickle. What the fuck? I am a mess, but I don’t need to break. I just need to get back to my hotel and figure out what to do with my life…alone.

I turn to walk away but stop when his hand cups my elbow and pulls me back to face him. His lips creep wide into a warm smile, and I let out a sob.
Don’t be kind, please don’t be kind.
My hand slaps my mouth to stop the cry, but it’s too late. I can’t hold it in. My shoulders start to shake, and he pulls me into his chest. His strong arms embrace me, and I feel all his warmth seep into my sad self. Everything that happened leading up to this day, this morning with my mother and what could’ve happened just now, completely overwhelm me and I collapse into this beautiful stranger’s hold. Long minutes pass but I eventually pull back, the tears are still trickling down my cheeks but I have stopped the heart-wrenching sobs.

“Where do you live?” he coaxes, his voice gentle and soothing.

“I…I am staying at a hotel.” I exhale with a loud hiccup. Could I possibly look anymore pathetic?

“Okay, but where do you live?” he presses, but I fall silent. Regardless of my fuck-up, I am not going back ‘home’. “Fine, but you’re not staying in a hotel. Roman might have us followed, so you are coming with me. You’ll be safe with me.” He holds his jacket up and slips it over my shoulders, drowning my shaking frame.

“I don’t know that…you’re a stranger,” I state as I start to regain some common sense.

“A stranger you were going to let pay you for a fuck not five minutes ago. Where do you think we would’ve gone to do the deed, hmm?” His tone is mocking but his face is filled with kindness and compassion, and he’s right.

“Maybe I fucked up—” I straighten myself, but he interrupts.

“No maybe about it, sweetheart.” He openly laughs, and as shitty as I feel, the humiliation is now clawing inside and morphing into anger.

“Look, you’re right. I did fuck up, but tell me why going with you now isn’t just another fuck-up. It’s not like math…two fuck-ups don’t make a positive,” I snap, but my indignation is short-lived because a surge of sadness consumes me. I have no one. I have no clue what to do now. I am so lost. I look up, and his features soften with the glaze of my tears, but even I can see the genuine concern etched on his face.

“Here, have my phone. The police are on speed dial, number nine. If at any time you feel unsafe, press it, but trust me, you will be safer with me than alone.” His words are softly spoken. He presses his phone into my hand.

“Why? Why are you doing this?” I’m falling apart and filled with confusion.

“Because I am a really nice guy.” He squeezes my shoulders, pulling me into his solid frame, and he walks us slowly out of the alley.

“Are you going to…um…” I pause my words and stop us both walking.

“No, sweetheart, I’m not. You’re not my type…yet.” I stopped walking, but he chuckles, a deep, friendly laugh, and pulls me back alongside him.

“Please don’t call me sweetheart,” I whisper.

“Okay, Sam. Is that your real name?” He looks down into my eyes. I can still feel the sting of tears behind my lids, but looking into his kind face I don’t feel remotely sad. I’ve got this.

“It is now.” I say with more confidence than I have felt in a really long time.

“Okay, Sam, well, I’m Leon.”