Page 16 of Truth Be Told
She looks back at me with pleading eyes, as though she’s desperate for me to correct myself.
“I, uh–” I clear my throat. It’s not like I’ve ever said anything like this before. “I’d like to see you not doing what you’re doing anymore, that’s all. It’s too dangerous.”
I stop to gauge her reaction; she’s watching me, intently curious, and it looks as though she has a lot to say, but she holds her tongue. The hum of cars whirring past is the only noise between our voices.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
I nod. “It is. I know. And you can tell me to get lost if you want to, but I have money. I can help you stop this.” There it is.
And now I’m wondering if I just made a mistake. None of this was my intention. It hadn’t so much as crossed my mind at the beginning of the night, and for a while there I felt relieved with the simple act of her agreeing to change her name. But this came over me just now, as a sort of impulse, as something good and slightly thrilling to do for her.
“I don’t understand,” she says again. “You want to give me money so I don’t have to dance?”
“Basically, yeah. I guess there’s no other way to put it. I’m offering that to you.”
She says slowly, “You’ll give me money.”
“I’ll give you money.”
“If I give up stripping.”
“That’s right. I’ll replace the money you’re making now so you can quit. I’ll send it to you every two weeks, an exact replacement of your paycheck.” I pause, realizing that she obviously works on tips. “Or at least the average of what you’d earn.”
“I could lie to you about how much I earn.”
“I guess you could. I’d never know.”
She still looks confused, like she’s trying to figure out some kind of catch. “Do I… have to see you? Or at least keep in touch?”
I shake my head. Great. She still thinks I’m a creep. Not as big of a creep as before, but the factor is still there. “You don’t have to do anything.”
She examines me, a smile starting to form, and I can tell she’s buying into the idea. “So, you’ll just send me this stream of money for nothing. Why would you do that? We barely know each other.”
“It’s wouldn’t be for nothing.” I want to sayIt’s for you to be able to stop doing what you’re doing. For you to be safe, because even though we barely know each other, I still want that for you. Just like I wanted it for the woman I couldn’t save.Instead, I say, “Look, I just think it’s wrong for someone to feel forced into anything. Especially when it’s something like what you’re doing. And I want to help you. Is that so wrong?”
“No,” she says. “I guess it’s not wrong.”
We both pause, unsure of what to say. In the end, I doubt she’ll agree to this. There are way too many variables. This is too random, and she’s right, she barely knows me and I barely know her.
I speak up. “And I guess I am a bit of a vigilante.”
At that, she smiles. Then she looks down into her hands. “I never thought someone would offer to do something like that.” Her eyes meet mine, and they’re welling up, tears ready to fall. “You’re a good person, Cohen.”
I could say the same about her.
STELLA
So, apparently he’s rich.
And by all accounts, he seems to be a genuinely good guy. When I told him as much, my heart was fluttering out of my chest. I did my best to hide it though. I don’t want him to know how I feel until I’m certain there’s at least a possibility he could feel the same way. That’s just how I roll. You know, the whole protected heart thing. I’m one of those girls, despite what people may think when they hear about what I do for a living.
I turn on the lights as I make my way into my apartment and plop my purse onto one of the tall barstools that sits in the center of my kitchen, throwing my coat and stripped-off sweater on top. I’m beat, and I’m starting to feel the familiar sensation of soreness in my legs. I usually get a little sore after a long night of dancing. Making my way through the kitchen, I pull down a glass and pour myself some red wine, then take a slow swig, relishing in the taste and relaxation.
Then, carrying the glass with me, I grab a novel and draw myself a hot bath. As I slip into the steaming water, I try to let everything from last night drift away. The close call, the anxiety surrounding it. The wine is helping with that. I lean my head back against the edge of the tub, resting my neck on a cushy rolled up towel. I want to think good thoughts right now, not ones of fear and danger.
I bring my hand to the front of my neck, to the area where one of the thugs had made to grab before Cohen stepped in. What would have happened here, if Cohen hadn’t been there?
So much for happy thoughts. I take another drink and scoot further into the water.
