Page 22 of The Accident

Morris lets out a low grunt, almost a laugh.

“Jesus,” he says. “You really know how to show off, don’t you? Where do you girls come from? Fucking sluts.”

I can’t look at him as my cheeks flame with shame. I keep my eyes on the phone, watching myself parade by. The thing is, in the moment, I liked making them. I liked being someone else. I liked seeing what Trevor might see. Now, though, I want to crawl into a drain and die.

He lingers on a shot where I’m on all fours, hair over my eyes, dildo in my mouth and two fingers in my pussy. “You ever do this for real, or just with toys?” he asks, not like he cares about the answer.

My cheeks are so hot I might combust, and I try to dodge his question. “Can I go now?” I say.

He thinks about it. “Send them to me.”

I almost say no, but instead I say in a trembling voice, “What’s your number?”

He tells it to me, digit by digit. I type it in. My hands shake so badly I almost hit the wrong buttons, but I manage. I attach the worst of the photos—if I’m going to do it, I’ll do it all the way. I hit send. We both wait. The phone spins and spins, then errors out: “Message failed. Retry?”

“It won’t go through,” I say, desperate. “There’s no signal in here.”

He frowns, checks his own phone, and snorts. “Fucking metal roof,” he says. “This place is a Faraday cage. Nothing gets in or out.”

He slips his phone back into his pocket, and the look he gives me is hungry but bored, the way you might look at a half-finished sandwich.

“Guess you’ll have to do what your friend did,” he says. “If you want out.”

I stare at him. “You said I could show you pictures. I did. That’s the deal.”

He shrugs. “I’m a visual man, sweetheart, and I’ve decided I want more. Show me the real thing.”

I want to say no. I want to say I’d rather wait for my stepbrother to drag me out by my hair. I want to die of embarrassment. But I also want out, and I want to never think about this again, and I want to avoid seeing Trevor’s face when he’s told about his slutty little stepsister.

So I perform the striptease.

Not with any of Stella’s energy. Not with any grace, or charm, or even the sense of my own body as anything but a heap of flesh.

I grab the zipper at the back of my dress and fight it down. The fabric is tight, and it catches on my bra, so I have to tug and shimmy until the whole thing rolls down to my hips. The dress comes off in a crumple, and I’m left in a lacy pink bra and matching thong. My skin prickles in the cold. My stomach, pale and doughy in the glare, sags a little over the waistband. My thighs are bright red with shame.

Morris stands, arms folded, watching every second. He doesn’t say a word.

I try to turn it into a performance. I try to arch my back, to roll my hips, to make it look sexy the way Stella did, but I know I’m not sexy. I reach behind my back, fumble the clasp of my bra, and let it drop. My nipples are hard as marbles from the chill. I cup my hands over them for a moment, then force myself to put my arms down.

“Keep going,” Morris grunts. “You’ve got a nice rack. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” I manage in a strangled voice.

The guard harrumphs and nods for me to proceed.

Oh god, this is so awful. I step out of my panties, kick it away, and stand there: completely naked, facing a middle-aged man while I’m locked in a jail cell. The light hums above, the air blowing straight down from a vent and raising goosebumps all over my body.

I have no idea what to do next. Stella knew how to move. Stella knew how to command attention, even when it was disgusting. I stand there and sway from foot to foot, hoping it counts.

After a minute, Morris grins and says, “Dance, sweetheart. Pretend there’s music.”

I try to sway my hips, but it feels so stupid I almost laugh. Instead, I cover my pussy with one hand, then the other, then drop them again. I do a little turn, but the floor is slick and I nearly slip. I hear a cough from another room.

Eventually, I stop. I cross my arms over my chest. I can feel tears starting in my eyes.

Morris watches for another few seconds, then makes a little “hmph” sound and slumps in his chair.

“Not bad,” he says, “but you’re not getting out. Rules are rules.”