Learning to Forgive (The Learning Series) (2 page)

I rub my chilled fingers together, desperate to gain feeling and warmth in them, and when I look up, white lights are coming my way. Should I let myself freeze to death or try again? I don’t want to die in my car, so I decide to try once more. The last time I hitchhiked was with Benji when we left our own personal hell the day of our eighteenth birthday. It was the best gift we could have received. Freedom. Or at least we thought we were free.

I stand beside my car and wave my hands in the air while jumping up and down. Deciding to show whoever it is that I’m a helpless girl, I take my hoodie off and bring my fading red hair over my shoulder. When the SUV keeps going past me, I feel frustrated and pissed, but then I watch in amazement as its brakes light up and it turns around. Excitement and fear cause my heart to beat fast. “Shit!” Was this a good idea? I know desperate times call for desperate measures, but what if this person is on the run? There’s no turning back now, but I’m pretty fast if I need to make a quick getaway.

When the vehicle pulls up to my side, I hold my breath as the window rolls down. Sitting in the driver seat is a woman who looks to be only a few years older than I am, so I exhale in relief.

“Need a ride?” She speaks around her cigarette.

Her blue eyes show no threat, so I decide she’s harmless. Maybe a little wild, judging by her large, showcased breasts and tight clothing. However, wild I can handle, I think.

“Another lessoned learned. Another wall up.”

~Blaire

10 Months later

Blaire

“Hit me, Blaire. Hit me,” Mandy yells from above me as I lie on the mat trying to catch my breath. “Don’t be weak. Don’t cower. Fight, damn it. Fight.” She comes to kick me, but I grab her foot causing her to fall beside me with a heavy thud.

My entire body aches from her blows, but I stand up anyways ready for more. My wrapped fist swings out to hit her, but she’s too fast and dodges it. My uppercut doesn’t graze her. It’s always like this with her. No matter how many months we practice she’s just too damn fast. We rented out the entire gym tonight while visiting Los Angeles. Tomorrow night we hit the town, but tonight we practice and ready ourselves for the worse situation possible.

We circle one another preparing for anything to happen. She side steps, and before I know what’s happening, she has me in a backwards chokehold.

“Fuck, Blaire. When are you going to learn?” Then I feel the cold metal against my temple before I hear the pull back of a gun. “
Fight. For. Your. Life
,” she whispers menacingly in my ear.

It’s a do or die situation. She’s taught me how to fight and get even. Since she found me on that highway, she’s made sure her life mantra is with me every day.
“Fuck them over before they fuck you.”

So I fight the best I can and rear my elbow back with everything I have until impact to her midsection is made and I’m rewarded with her releasing me with a grunt. My fist extends out with force to hit her the way she wants me to, but I’m faced with the pistol she never released. My body freezes with fear. “Bang. You’re dead.” Her voice is void of emotion as she pulls the trigger. Relief washes over me because it’s empty, and only a clicking can be heard. My heart is pounding in my ears, and my knees are shaking. She shows no remorse and never apologizes. She is the epitome of the word bitch.

Mandy is wild, and I can’t deny she’s a bitch, but she’s also a businesswoman who gave me a job. Not a typical one that is five days a week, but one that’s only on Saturday nights, pays a hell of a lot of money, and provides expensive clothes, hotels, and new experiences. Now, I don’t dwell in my anger as much. I use it on some of the world’s richest sleazes. It probably is the only reason I haven’t gone crazy. I find jerkoffs with too much money and not enough sense to stay loyal to their wives, or they have some other dark secrets. Mandy has a
men are the enemy
mentality, and believes they’re all scum. She says our weekly lessons are for my protection in case one tries to overpower me. You never know what some lowlifes might try even though they’re dressed like gentlemen. So I keep my eyes and ears on alert, trust my gut, and have my gun stashed in my clutch.

It’s Thursday night, and I’m sitting at a five-star hotel bar in Los Angeles, drinking my glass of Cabernet and scoping out the place discreetly. I’m still sore, and needed extra makeup to cover my lip, but Mandy is a Jack-Of-All-Trades. She can shoot, fight, lie, and even turn a nobody like me into someone unrecognizable. She sits at a nearby table talking to an older gentleman in an Armani suit with graying hair and sporting some heavy bling on his hands.
Her usual meal for the night.

Turning my stool around, my attention goes back to the young bartender in his crisp white button down before taking another sip to calm my nerves. Nausea always tries to set in before I meet my unsuspecting client. The thought of some fucker’s hand touching mine is enough to make me change my mind and walk out those glass doors, but I keep reminding myself I’m trained and strong. Not weak. Not vulnerable. Nothing like I used to be. I concentrate instead on the itch this stupid ass wig is causing my scalp. Disguise is key in this business, and my bright red hair would cause someone to pick me out of the crowd too easily.

Tonight I chose one that’s long and black because it brings more attention to my hazel eyes. Plus it complements the skintight pencil skirt I’m wearing with a three quarter sleeved white blouse that shows off my cleavage. It also hides my tattoos because snobs like this bunch would be real quick to judge a person like me. Add a pair of square, black-framed glasses and voilà. I’m Ms. Crystal Galloway, a graduate of Stanford University, who’s looking for a new job. It’s neat to play dress up and become someone different for a night. But sometimes, even covered with new clothes and a new name I still feel like the same Blaire from so long ago.

As I give myself another mental pep talk, I get the familiar, creepy feeling that I’ve caught someone’s attention. My stomach rolls, but I know the game, so I take a deep breath and internally count to ten trying to calm my nerves. I’ve been doing it for a while now so you’d think I’d be used to the feeling. But it’s never gotten easier.

The weekend after Mandy rescued me on the Nevada Highway, I was introduced to this lifestyle. The cash is too plentiful, and I have become a greedy bitch. Having money to buy what I want is new to me. I’ve never been able to go and buy a brand new Gucci bag or some designer clothes before this. Plus I’m no longer Blaire Morgan from a fucked up family who’s alone in this world… I can be anyone I want.

Before I make my move, I look at Mandy, who’s also in disguise. She gives me the signal by rubbing her neck seductively. That’s my green light. If she had tapped the table, I would have known to wait for the next one, but Mandy knows her men. She knows who has the real money and who’s just bullshitting. I swear the woman was in the CIA or some shit because she can always detect a lie. And even though she’s taught me her secrets, I’m not as skilled as she is. She always says it’s the details. Watch their eyes, their movements, and feel their pulse to see if any changes are made. Feel them out. Start with simple questions and always trust your gut.

After I stand up from my stool, I make a subtle walk past my new target as he and another gentleman sit at a table. Luckily, the restrooms are this direction, so this is easier than acting as if I’m meeting someone else further back or talking on the phone. After about three minutes of checking my make-up, I walk back out and
accidently
drop my clutch in front of their table. Like a helpless woman. “Crap.” Boobs faced in their direction I bend over to pick it up, but like always, he’s there to help.

“No, let me.” He stands back up, and I take in his balding head, dark goatee, and broad shoulders, He’s stocky and obviously likes to indulge if his double chin and gut are any inclination. “Here you go, Ms…?”

“Galloway. Crystal Galloway.” I give him my hand, and just like the rest of the pricks I’ve met this past year, he kisses the back of it.
This one is in the bag, baby
. Deciding to stoke his ego I kick up my smile and downcast my eyes. My naivety will make these peacocks believe I’m just a young stupid girl. “Thank you.”

I go to turn, but he stops me by calling my name. “Would you like a drink Ms. Galloway?”

Turning around to stare in his direction, I bite my lip. He smiles in victory imagining him have a go at this young, clumsy girl in front of him, but he has no clue he’s the one getting fucked tonight.

Walking into our room at a cheap motel a few towns over, I notice Mandy hasn’t made it in yet. I take a shower and try to wash the ever-present disgust away, but no matter how hard I scrub my skin, it remains. After all the hot water is gone, I get out and wipe the foggy mirror with my hand to see my reflection. I think of the money I stole from that man tonight and swallow down my guilt. Life is about give and take, though. It’s survival, and he had it coming. Right?

Taking a deep breath to clear my thoughts, my eyes land on the half sleeve I started while in Vegas. Since I have no desire to play music without Benji, I chose a black Fender guitar smashed into several pieces. Not just any guitar either, but an exact replica of Benji’s scratched, beat-up Fender. Even though I don’t have the heart to part with it, I let my tattoo do the talking with its shattered pieces- just like our dream of making it in the music business.

Poetry and music pieces float around its shattered form. I branded myself with my own loneliness in each script that’s embedded in my skin. I want people to see it, so they know I’m damaged goods and to back the fuck off. My favorite of all is “
Breathing unwantedly in a world that’s not worthy of my existence”.

Why haven’t I given up? I have no goddamn clue because I’ve thought about ending it all… Finding Benji again, in whatever heaven I’ve heard about all my life. But I was a coward and still am. Plus when I started making a thousand dollars in one night, I became addicted to money. I’ve saved a sizeable portion and blown the rest on materialistic things, clothes, and hair being the main things. It makes me feel normal and not poor or lonely.

After packing my bags for our early getaway, I take a long, deep swig of my dear friend Jack and fall into a dreamless sleep for once. When I wake the next morning, everything changes because I have another knife in my back and no money.

“
From Mouse to Bitch. Is that really a bad thing?”

~Blaire

As I step off the bus in Alabama, memories of the day Benji and I arrived here try to surface to the forefront of my brain. We spent our last dime on the bus tickets to Mobile with only an old guitar and some talent in our possession. He swore this place would be more promising than the last, and I trusted him. We set up on the streets of downtown and played all day for enough money to sleep in a motel, but on most nights, the streets were our beds. It’s pretty messed up how I felt safer living on the streets than in the house I grew up in. But I never felt like I was home until Janet found us.