Anything for Money: A Sex-For-Hire College Romance (14 page)

B
orden pulled
out a chair for me!

The
maître d’
had just shown us to our table at
Le Bistro Indienne
for our first, hyper-normal girl-boy date. Borden was relaxed and chatty, and even joked with the waiter. He was as different from the tense, awkward boy I’d blown during RJ’s kinky sex game as a lion from a meerkat.

That was when he pulled out the chair. He waited while I studied it for a trap. I honestly didn’t know what was going on, until Borden sighed, and said, “Guys will sometimes pull out chairs for girls to sit in.”

“I know about pulling out chairs,” I said quickly. “I’ve been on wikipedia.”

“You’re only nervous because I’m a nice guy, Rebecca.”

“Worse than that, Borden, you’re
wholesome.”

His mouth quirked but he still didn’t smile. “I am a proud wholesome-American, from Indiana.”

“That’s good. Own it.” I sat, cautiously, and nothing bad happened. Maybe that meant I was wholesome too? He slid me forward, and yes, I clenched the seat with anxious hands. “Whee!”

“When was the last time you sat and someone pushed you?”

“Third grade, Tommy Wilkins, swing-set. I was nervous then too.”

He circled the table to his own seat. “I guess I mean, when was the last time someone treated you respectfully?”

“All the time,” I said. “Are you confusing respectful with retro?”

We were too tight! I never get nervous until someone asks me if I’m nervous. Yet there I was, spitting dumb jokes like a funny llama in bright red lipstick. A llama who might be a little damaged, sure, a llama who wanted to forget…

Shut up, Rebecca!
I tried to read the mood at our table. If I parsed Borden’s question about respect, and I parsed it unkindly… and if he parsed my answer the same way, why, we were already on our way to our first public restaurant disagreement.
Hit the brakes, girl.

“If it helps,” he said, “I gave you the chair where you’d get the most attention.”

So he had! I stuck into the path between the tables that led to the kitchen, the bar, and the bathrooms. For his part, Borden was tucked against the wall, out of the spotlight, where I was probably the only one looking at him closely.

“You’re trying to put me at ease, Borden?”

“Oh, it’s not about you,” my wholesome boy grinned. “I totally want to show you off.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

I rested my chin on interlaced fingers, and pined toward him, a pose from my Audrey Hepburn collection. It never fails to settle down a date, or a professor.

And truth be told, I felt a little sexy and feminine. I was being desirable not for a camera, and not to grab RJ’s attention, but simply because I wanted to preen for the sake of preening. In that fancy restaurant, I was important and sophisticated and even pampered. When the waiter appeared I asked for a martini, and he didn’t card me, thank goodness!
Le Bistro Indienne
was too grown-up for that kind of college-bar nonsense.

As Borden made his order—he waffled between a Shirley Temple and a mimosa, the opposite of stiff drinks—I glanced around the restaurant. I was already on the radar of the other patrons, and I supposed, I only had Audrey Hepburn and my ‘dress’ to thank for that.

My outfit this evening was another Rebecca original, cobbled together from what was left of a yard of spiderweb lace that I’d used for peek-a-boo panels in a design class assignment about oversharing. That had been an experience, modeling it in class—a little too much peek, leading to not a single boo from the men in the class. From that modest beginning, I had constructed a 100% peek-a-boo red micro-dress. I’d only had a few hours warning before the date, and semi-sheer fabric can make even a dull design interesting.

Spaghetti straps held the dress on my body, and they were so thin you had to look twice to find them. The bodice was larger than my breasts, because I hadn’t had time to fit it. It was too low-cut for a bra, or even one of the dozen methods of support or coverage from a woman’s psychological warfare arsenal. The skirt portion was a simple fabric tube, held together with—Versace forgive me—hot glue. I’d hot-glued more matching lace at the hem and tried to make sure no threads dangled.

My lack of time translated into liberal slits in the skirt, nearly to the hips. If it weren’t for my classy up-do, perfect make-up, and supreme confidence, you would’ve thought I was an escaped stripper.

In all, the dress wasn’t in line with the new wholesome Rebecca… but on the other hand, it was an open invitation for anybody who found opaque, fitted dresses too taxing on the imagination.

One of the best things about making your own clothes is that people can’t criticize them. They have to say it’s awesome, or they’re rudely crushing your artistic dreams!

Borden commented not at all, he was too nice for that. He also couldn’t drag his eyes off me, so I decided it was a success. A success built from glue, safety pins, and impulsive risk-taking—like me, I supposed. I only hoped it wouldn’t pop open under stress, also like me, and disappear like Cinderella’s gown at midnight.

“Borden,” I said, picking my words. “You and I met under… interesting circumstances.”

“Oops… ” He leaned forward and grinned. “You just got me hard.”

“Looking at you now,” I plowed on, “I’d never have guessed I’d meet you like that. You seem too nice for that.”

“You’re nice too, Rebecca, and it doesn’t slow you down. But maybe I’m not nice, maybe I’m just innocent.”

“You’re both of those. You’re wholesome.”

“You don’t have to make it sound so bad. I’m just a regular Iowa farm boy. I grew up near here, fifteen miles out of town. Think of me as farm-to-table.”

“Borden, what I’m getting at is, you could have a nice local girl. If you worked on your wardrobe, and your personality, you could probably have other options.”

“First, there’s no such thing as a nice Iowa farm girl. You obviously haven’t met any.” The waiter dropped off our drinks, and Borden continued when we were alone. “Second, you’re the option I’m interested in. You don’t seem to understand how you’re different from every other college girl.”

“Okay, explain to me.” I was, frankly, a little worried about what I’d hear next. He surprised me.

“Spend five minutes looking at the girls on campus. Pick a cute one, and really look at her. In a minute, you’ll get past her hair, her nice lips, the yoga pants. You’ll see her eyelashes, and how they’re not magical, they’re just longer than a guy’s eyelashes. After that, you realize—” he waved a frustrated hand “—they’re just people. What you see is what you get. They are exactly what they look like. They’re about as mysterious as any boring college guy I’d talk to. Only the front of the building is different. The rest of it is, I don’t know, modular. The only reason I’d want to fuck them is that their bodies are female.”

So Borden the Organ was a nihilist? “You’re too young to peel back the curtain like that.”

He shook his head. “I’m not the only one who sees it. Why do guys get drunk at parties? So they get blurry and see less. Beer goggles. It’s not so they stop seeing the ugly chicks, it’s so they can
start
seeing the sexiness, the mystery, the female difference. It’s so they can start seeing the dream.”

“I’m not agreeing with you, but that’s why girls get drunk at parties too.”

He leaned closer, speaking fast. “But you’re different, Rebecca. We don’t have to be drunk, or desperate, or disconnected from reality somehow, to see it in you. I’ve watched men look at you, and they see it too. You’re the dream, and you’re walking around in daylight, going to classes.”

“You’re saying I’m studious,” I murmured.

“It’s hard to explain. Other girls are who they are, and you have to blur them to make them into something sexy. But it’s the reverse for you. Whatever you have, it taps right back into our basic desires. You’re the real deal. You’re a walking wet dream. You’re the only
woman
some of us have seen. The rest of the girls are simply female.”

“I have a personality, though,” I said softly. I could feel how hot and flushed my face was. It wasn’t because I was pissed. I think I understood what Borden was saying. What’s more, I’d thought the same sometimes, but not in those words. Usually I was just mystified by my fellow coeds, how surface they were, and how little poetry and risk they seemed to want in their lives.

“Of course you have a personality, Rebecca. But it’s not a bubble you float around in, like the other girls. First, we’re turned on, then we’re fascinated, then, if we can, we peel all that away and find you, an interesting little insecure magician, with your hands on the knobs that fuck with reality.
That
is when men start getting your jokes.”

“Wow, Borden.”

He sat back, suddenly embarrassed. “English major.”

“I always thought I was just a hot mess.”

“I can only tell you a guy’s perspective. We don’t have to get drunk, or somehow work ourselves around to wanting to fuck—
make love
to you. That’s our starting place with you. Where all the other girls leave off, you’re just getting started. The guys who realize this about you, and about themselves, would probably do anything to keep you.
I just hope they don’t get violent.
”

That last part puzzled me. Borden was staring over my shoulder.

I turned and looked.

Ripper Jack.

In the restaurant. Pushing past the
maître d’
with a hand on his chest, coming our way.

Murder in his eyes.

“Ripper knows what I’m talking about,” Borden finished, his face white.

“
R
ipper
,” said Borden from his seat, “Just wait a minute.”

“I’m not here for you,” RJ replied. He grabbed one of my spaghetti straps and lifted. I jumped to my feet, lest the dress explode like a party favor off my body.

Borden flew out of his seat but RJ pushed him back without even looking. The table skewed sideways, shedding silverware and cocktails. Shouts from the waitstaff, then shouts from the front of the restaurant and the kitchen.

I could only stare into RJ’s eyes. Slate grey. Fixating. Pissed beyond description.
Hurt.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Rebecca?”

“I’m on a date—”

He grasped my jaw before I could finish. “You’re lying to yourself and you’re lying to me.”

I wasn’t even afraid. This was RJ, he was only scary to the rest of the world. I was confused, however, and starting to get angry that he wouldn’t let me talk. It’s the thing I love most, basically my only superpower.

“You can lie to yourself all you want, Rebecca. But you can’t hurt other people. You can’t lie to the guy who—”

Borden’s fist connected on his jaw. RJ’s head snapped back and he let me go. Borden reeled past him, off balance. He’d done some kind of running roundhouse, like a video game, except real-world RJ was too big to somersault backwards. Instead, he turned, bent at the waist, with his hands on his face.

Borden bounced off the guests at another table and came back with his fists up. Farm boy!

“Wait!” I cried, and Borden hesitated.

RJ’s hunched shoulders shook. Then shook again.

He stood. Turned to Borden.

RJ was laughing.

A silent laugh, showing bloody teeth. He wasn’t angry, either. He was honestly laughing at Borden, like that roundhouse was the funniest choice Borden could have made.

It was scary, even to me. Escalate to 100%, slug a guy, and he laughs? What would it take to get RJ’s serious attention? What would it take to hammer him into submission? I didn’t know, but it would probably take hours.

“There’s more where that came from,” Borden said, but he dropped his hands.

“I can… ” RJ started, but then laughed again. “I can break your jaw for you, if you want to really show off for her.”

He turned back to me and I clocked him.

I slapped RJ.
I slapped him!

I felt sick, hurting him.

His smile evaporated, and he grabbed my hand. “Follow me.”

“I’m here with Borden.”

RJ spun toward Borden, who jumped back. To his credit, though, he said, “We’re on a date, and you’re totally cock-blocking.”

It happened again. Just before RJ answered, something changed behind his eyes. His face went blank like a dropped curtain. Just like when he left me at his house.

He dismissed Borden from his mind and turned away, his face ice cold. He pulled me out of the restaurant.

Outside, a trash can lay on its side, garbage everywhere. His car was on the sidewalk, a parking meter bent underneath it.

“You finished fixing the Lincoln,” I said.

“Don’t.”

“That’s how I park too.”

“I said don’t.”

He stuffed me into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

I should’ve kept crawling and left through the driver’s side. It was happening too quickly for me to form plans, much less an opinion. I still wasn’t worried, I didn’t feel like I was in danger. I was more curious than anything.

And yes, I know how stupid that is. Bad Rebecca and Good Rebecca both knew it. Every bruised and battered girl starts as a girlfriend who thinks she can handle an angry guy. RJ’s eyes were fucking crazy. No other girl would have dared to stay.

Deep down, though, I knew if I tried to run, he might have to catch me and drag me back. Then I’d have to stop pretending I wasn’t in real danger. I didn’t want to test him.

RJ dropped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

“Can we take a raincheck?” I asked.

“We fucking cannot.” He whipped out his phone and pressed some keys. “I have a theory about this number… ”

While the phone connected, I heard nothing but his deep breaths.

“Borden!” he snapped. “I’m taking your girlfriend on a road trip. No, she doesn’t get a choice. Yeah, I know she has homework.”

RJ shot me a look that said,
This guy, Rebecca, really?

He listened to something on the phone. “Then get your ass out here if you’re coming with us.”

“No,” I whispered.

Borden was out even before RJ hung up. At the door, he shook off the maitre’d and no less than two waiters who seemed hell-bent on keeping him safe from RJ. He rushed over to the car.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

“Don’t talk to Rebecca so I can’t hear,” RJ said. “If you whisper to her again, I’ll be angry. So far I’ve been punched and slapped, when I did nothing at all. What happens when I lose
my
temper?”

“Don’t mind Jack,” I said quickly, trying to smile. “You don’t have to come, Borden. I know it’s last-minute. You should stay.”

“I think I should come.”

“No,” I said, holding my smile. “You should stay.
For reals.
I will call you in a few days. I know I will.”

Borden wavered.

RJ slapped the dash and we all jumped. “Is everybody fucking with me today? Because it’s the wrong fucking day to fuck with me.”

Borden gave me some kind of look and slid into the back seat.

“Borden,” RJ said quietly, “some people are on a schedule.”

“Yes, Ripper,” Borden said. His face was gray. “What’s the plan?”

“We’re going on the road. Get it?
On The Road.
I’m Ripper Jack, so I’m Jack. Borden, you’ll be Dean. Rebecca, you’re Marylou.”

I’d read that book after the first photoshoot with RJ, because it was his favorite, and I thought I could get a glimpse into his pathology. I couldn’t. It was all aimless wandering and misogyny.

“Marylou, you whore,” RJ said. He laughed.

The Lincoln screeched backwards off the sidewalk, then accelerated out of the parking lot, out of town, and into the endless fucking fields of Indiana where RJ could do anything he wanted.