Page 5 of Risk
THREE
McKenna
I cringeas I read the comments during this session. The things these pieces of shit want me to do is deplorable. I never feel as dirty as I do when I press the end button.
“Oh, Daddy.” I fake giggle. “I don’t know about that. It sounds devious.” I redirect their attention by taking my bullet and trailing it down my sternum and landing on my clit. I’ve learned to fake orgasms for better ratings. But I’d do just about anything, including putting on a sex show, to keep from having to do and answer a lot of the things requested of me. “That feels so good. I’m imagining your fingers and tongue replacing my bullet. Would you like that, Daddy?”
I don’t even take the time necessary to read his reply because I know he does. They all do. I toss my head back so I have a visual excuse for not having any commentary with this dirty old man. Any time I touch myself, I imagine it’s at the hands of my husband. So naturally, my endorphins release and I come. In my mind, I shout his road name out—the only name I allow myselfto acknowledge when it comes to him. It keeps him at an arm’s length even though I’d rather shout out his given name. But that hasn’t happened since I caught him in bed with that bimbo.
I always give a dramatic pause after an orgasm, fake or otherwise, before shutting down. “Mmm, I feel so good.” The alarm goes off and I look at the camera with a pout on my face. “Our time’s up. See you next time, Daddy.” I hit the button on the side of my nightstand that automatically shuts down my laptop. As the screen goes blank, I rush from the bed and jump into the shower, not giving a damn that it’s not warmed up.
Daddy, as he likes to be called, is one of my regulars. I gag as that thought floats through my mind. I look at all of my clients’ charts and know that he’s a grandfather who has grandkids my age. The only reason I check their portfolios is because it gives me insight into who I’m dealing with and what their likes are. It’s required of me but I’d look even if it wasn’t. When you’re forced to dance with the devil, you need to have as many tricks in your back pocket as you can.
I sigh as the water heats up. That was my last one of the day, and all I want to do is scrub my skin raw and crawl beneath my blanket and wrap it around myself. Hide in the darkness of my room. First however, I have to go into my guest room, clean up—wash not only the bedding but the toys I used. It’s a disgusting project but a necessary one.
When I hop out of the shower, I wipe the fog from the mirror and look at myself. The reflection looking back at me isn’t a woman I recognize anymore. Her skin tone is pale. Her eyes are dead. And she has bags under her eyes, ones that I have to cover up or pay the consequences for. I have to be picture perfect or Marshall will jump in his car and come for a visit, one I’d rather avoid at all costs.
His trips are never friendly ones, I have the scars to prove it. Of course, none of them are visible, can’t damage the merchandise after all. I slam the side of my hand into the glass, wanting to shatter it the way my soul is.
It doesn’t break, but that temporary slam into the glass releases some of my pent up anger. My phone rings in the background so I rush out of the room knowing that this is my daily phone call the courts have allotted me.
“Hey,” I say as I put it up to my ear. “How was his day?”
“It was good,” Mom answers. “But I’ll let him tell you all about it. Are you ready to switch the call to video?”
“I just hopped out of the shower, give me three minutes to toss on some clothes,” I reply.
“Just send me the request when you’re ready. He’s just finished dinner so I’ll wipe him down while you do that,” Mom offers.
“Okay. Thanks, Mom.” I sit the phone down on my kitchen counter and run back to my room. I rummage through my dresser and grab my pajamas that consist of a tank top with a shelf bra and a pair of silk shorts.
When my hand reaches out for my phone, I notice how shaky it is. It’s not because I’m nervous about seeing my boy, but because I always worry he’ll be able to see through me. I don’t ever want that. Shame washes over me because I know if he ever discovers what I’m forced to do he’ll never want to see me again.
Whoever said Lamaze breathing was only for women in labor is a liar. I use it every time I talk to or go to see Phoenix. Once my heartbeat and rate has settled, I grab my phone and switch itover to the video feature. I place a genuine smile on my face so that’s the first thing he sees.
I hear the sound drop as his face greets me. “Mama!”
“Hey, kiddo. Did you just eat?”
“Yesth,” he answers, bobbing his head.
“What did you have?” I ask. He doesn’t speak well, some of his words I have to take a gander at and decipher them.
“Pagetti. It was yummy,” he tells me, directing the phone to his belly where he’s rubbing it. “Nana made garwick bread too.”
“Wow! You got the best dinner ever!” I exclaim. “Can I tell you a secret?” Again, he bobs his head. “That was my favorite food when I was your age. Still is. Maybe we can talk Nana into making it this weekend for us.”
“Yesth!” he hollers, pumping his little fist into the air. “But no gween beans. They’re ucky.”
“They are not, young man,” my mom lightly scolds in the background. “Veggies make you strong.”
Phoenix crosses his arms over his chest, pouting. “I don’t wanna be stwong. I want to be inbisible.”
“Make your veggies disappear and you may be invisible.” Mom tries reasoning with him.
“Nuh-uh,” Phoenix argues, shaking his head, giving her a scathing look. “Yous saided that last time and it didn’t works.”
Mom leans over his shoulder, her eyes shifting to me, and asks, “Could you talk reason into your son, Kenna? He needs some super greens in his diet, sustenance other than meat andpotatoes. He’s such a starch kid that I worry about the function of his intestines.”
