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Though I’ve had some odd interactions with my clientele since starting this line of work, what just happened wasn’t the strangest. Not even close. Fucking myself with a beer bottle was small beans compared to the men who’ve paid extra for me to piss on their chests or shit on their stomachs. Some have even asked to do the same to me, though I politely declined. We all have our hard limits.
That brings my mind back around to payment, a subject he seems to have no interest in revisiting. The food and the ride aren’t payment enough, and he offered those things without mentioning reimbursement. If he’ll just pay what he owes, I won’t even bother with my kink add-on fee.
As I walk to the front of the truck, I spot a Post-it note on the fridge. I didn’t notice it before, but then again, I wasn’t exactly admiring the decor when I made my way back here. On the little square piece of paper, a singular sentence has been scrawled in blocky letters.
I fucked her
-Tobin
Who the fuck is Tobin? Didn’t he say his name was Kane?
With more questions than answers—and an increasing sense of unease building in my gut—I muster the courage to press the payment issue. Once I have the cash in my hand, I’m getting out of here. I can hitch a ride to the nearest truck stop. Someone is bound to stop by this rest area.
Eventually.
By the time I reach the front, he’s back in the driver’s seat, a small bag of chips in his hands. With hungry eyes, Pup watches each triangular morsel travel to his mouth. He tosses her a chip, and I take that to mean he’s in a better mood.
“Can I have my money now?” I ask.
Putting the bag of chips between his teeth, he pulls a weathered wallet from his back pocket and eases four twenties from the stack of bills inside.
“Sorry about that,” he mumbles past the cellophane as I accept the cash.
Now I’m a bit confused. I expected some pushback, especially after he so brazenly threatened my family, but his willingness to pay up isn’t the strangest part. It’s his voice.
When I first met him, he’d been gruff. In the back of the truck just now, he’d seemed almost gruffer, if that’s even possible. He’d certainly been more demanding. But now? Now he sounds almost nice. His tone isn’t as sharp, there isn’t as much of an edge to each word, and he seems genuinely apologetic about the whole payment debacle.
Is this guy bipolar?
In college, my roommate struggled with bipolar disorder. When she’d go off her medication for weeks at a time, she’d suffer from personality shifts that were abrupt enough to worry me. One minute she’d be happy as a pig in shit, and the next she’d be screaming about how messy my side of the room was. When she finally broke down and explained her condition, I understood her so much more. But something about this doesn’t quite fit.
For starters, her voice, facial expressions, and mannerisms weren’t so drastically different. Whether she was manic, depressed, or somewhere in the middle, she was still the same person. This guy is more like night and day. Antarctica and Africa. Soup and steak.
This solidifies my decision. It’s time to get the hell out of here.
“I’m going to go now,” I say, looking around the front passenger seat for my backpack.
He stands and places a hand on my shoulder. The touch is gentle, not at all forceful, and his eyes radiate a sadness that stops my search. “That’s not possible, Aurora. He—” Kane sucks in a breath. “You can’t leave.”
“Sure I can,” I say. “Just give me my things and I’ll get out of your hair. You’ll never hear from me again. That’s a promise.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not that simple.”
“No, it’s not that complicated. You paid me. I have no issue with you. If you’re concerned about what you had me do back there, don’t be. Keeping kinky secrets is part of the job description.”
I try to force a smile and appear calm, but it’s difficult when my heart is trying to beat out of my chest.
“I wish I could let you leave, sweet girl, but it’s out of my hands,” he whispers, lowering his gaze. “I never wanted to take you in the first place.”
Take me? So it’s as bad as I feared.
I make a run for the door handle, which is so stupid because the space is too small to escape his reach. His hand wraps around my arm, and my eyes clench shut as I anticipate the fist that will strike me or the fingers that will cinch around my throat. But he does neither of these things. Instead, he pulls me to his body, holding me against him as I struggle to break free. I’m uselessly expending energy—he could hold me like this all day without tiring, judging by the way his muscles bulge against my skin—so I still.
He tosses the bag of chips onto the dashboard, and his free hand brushes the stray strands of hair from my sweat-coated cheeks. “You’re such a pretty girl. I’m so sorry.”
I rip away from his touch. “Fuck you! Stop playing these mind games with me!”
“It’s not a mind game. You just found yourself in a...particular situation.”
