Working Girl (31 page)

MY EYES FLUTTER AND I
struggle to focus. It’s dark, but there is familiarity in the walls that surround me. A heavy fog still permeates my head and I struggle to remember where I am, or even how I got here. I try to move but I can’t.

Taking fast shallow breaths, I try moving my feet again, but the pressure around my ankles burns and, suddenly, I’m more awake than I had been. My eyes finally pop open when I feel my hands behind my back.

Panic stricken I look over my shoulder and see my hands bound together with one of those plastic zip ties. I rock back and forth in the chair, hoping to free myself, but it’s no use. I sob, and tears start falling from my eyes. I try to remember something, anything, but all I can come up with is leaving Chrissy behind at the apartment.

I’d been making a run for it. To escape Big Earl. I sob again, knowing he’s got me.

I’m going to die.

Emerson

I haven’t heard from Presley since I dropped her off last night. She seemed distant after meeting my parents, and I hoped that I hadn’t scared her off. I texted her all morning, but received no reply. So when my phone came up with a text from an unknown number, I was intrigued.

The message was cryptic. It told me to meet them at the warehouse. The only person who would want to meet me there would be her. I wondered why she wasn’t using her phone, but came to the conclusion that maybe hers died. If it had, she would have had to use one of the other girls’ numbers.

I park my car outside on the street before hopping out and hitting the button to lock it. With a hop in my step, I navigate the sidewalk and unlock the front door to the warehouse. Taking a step inside, I hear voices. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but the further in I get the clearer they become.

“You little fuckin’ bitch,” I hear a voice boom from inside. The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but the anger masks anything I think I may recognize. The anger causes me to stop, and I consider calling the cops.

“This isn’t fair!” a female voice cries out. My stomach drops.

It’s her.

She’s here.

And she’s in trouble.

“Of course it’s not. You of all people should know that life isn’t fair. Don’t you understand, Presley?” Actually hearing her name catches me off guard, but I have a sudden sense of urgency to find out what’s going on and I continue toward the voices. I can hear the tension in the room and tentatively step further inside. Unsure of the situation inside, I hesitate and hide in the shadows.

“You’re a parasite,” the voice seethes. “A blood sucking bitch who slowly kills everything she touches. I bet that blonde piece of ass is regretting the day she became your friend right about now. She certainly paid the price for your attempted escape.” The voice laughs as I hear her cry out. “And I refuse to let you anchor yourself onto my own blood. My son deserves more than you.”

My throat closes up. My heart begins to pound against my chest.

Presley is most definitely in trouble.

“Maybe so,” she rebuts, “but if he deserves more than me, he definitely deserves more than you.” She spits the words but as she finishes her sentence I hear a loud slap.

I hurry into the room. The only thing on my mind is getting to whoever may be hurt, but I realize I need to take a deep breath and try to figure out what is going on. Slowing myself down, I take a few steps forward hoping to assess the situation better. It’s dark inside but I can make out the silhouette of a man. I yell, “Hey!” in hopes of gaining his attention.

And I do.

He turns over his shoulder and I shake my head in confusion. It doesn’t make sense.

Why is Dad here? Why is he talking to Presley?

Reaching into my pocket, I finger my cell phone. I consider calling Mom because it sounds like he’s in one of his manic states, but for some reason I don’t. I remove my hand, considering my next move when he just smiles at me and turns back to Presley before he speaks again.

“Haven’t you learned by now—bitches should be seen not heard. That’s all you’re good for, Presley.” My hand flies to the wall in an effort to keep my upright as my knees buckle beneath me.

Presley.

My
Presley.

What has he done? Why are they here together? And why do they seem to know each other? The shock freezes me. “Something nice to look at and a warm hole to stick something in. That’s all it ever was for Emerson.”

Hearing my name causes my blood to boil and I can’t listen any longer. Stepping forward I decide I need to say something, yelling out, “You’re wrong, Dad!”

Her head snaps up and her broken eyes meet mine. I want to go to her, but I can’t even seem to find my voice. It took all my strength just to call out, and I’m still not sure if my knees will hold me up.

With caution I step forward, continuing to take in the scene. My body stiffens as I catch sight of the silver handgun in Dad’s hand. He walks toward me. “You don’t know what you’re talking about . . . but please, join us.” He claps me on the back, gripping my shoulder and urging me to step forward. “I was wondering what was taking you so long, son.”

“Dad, what’s going on?”

“I want to show you something—to let you see the truth. Because we all know that the truth will set you free.” Shivers travel down my spine hearing the edge to his voice. He’s definitely in one of his manic states, and I realize all too late how serious the situation is. His cackle makes the bile churn in my stomach.

“Dad, why do you have Presley tied up?” I ask, hoping to be let in on what is going on in his mind. “Why do you have a gun?”

“I’m showing you, son.” In a flash his hand flies toward Presley and rips open her shirt. Before I can react, her body spills out. Her hands tied behind her back leave her no way of shielding herself from our unrelenting gaze.

Seeing her in such a vulnerable state is too much for me. I try to go to her, but Dad intercepts me, preventing me from getting any closer. “Why are you doing this?” I cry out.

“Because she’s nothing more than a whore! And my son deserves more than a whore!” Anger rings clear in his voice. Hearing it causes me to cower. In the past, Mom has tried to shield me from Dad during one of his manic episodes, but I always heard. The sound of his voice now brings back so many memories and for an instant I’m that scared little boy again.

The room is filled with so much tension and Presley cries out in fear. So much emotion, so much hate.

So unpredictable.

Dangerous
.

“She’s a gaping gash,” Dad continues, slightly calmer. “There’s one born everyday.” He grabs a remote lying on the table in the corner and brings the TV to life. The screen is black for a moment before a room that looks like some sort of hotel with dated curtains and a flowery bedspread is shown. My heart races as I watch him and Presley enter the frame.

“Please,” she begs, sobbing.

I turn away from the television to look at her. The tears roll down her face and sobs shake her body. I attempt to go to her again, but Dad grabs my face and forces my attention back to the television. He uses the remote to turn the volume up to an uncharted decibel as I watch the scene unfold before us. There’s no escaping the dialogue as I watch as my own father roughs Presley up before crawling on top of her. The sight makes my stomach churn and I feel as though I’m going to be sick.

“What the fuck? Turn it off!” I hear my own voice crack; so much that I hardly recognize it. Anger courses through my veins as I try to understand why my own father would have been in the position to force himself on my girlfriend.

“See, son, I told you—she’s a whore.”

“You raped her!” I yell back in a moment of anger, immediately wishing I could take back my words when he waves the gun in the air. Taking a deep breath, I try to regain some semblance of composure before speaking again. “I don’t understand. How do you two know each other?” I point toward the television that I can no longer look at. The video must be over because the room is only filled with sobs coming from Presley. As much as I want to go to her, I must gain control of the situation first. Dad is too unpredictable at the moment. I need to keep him talking; distract him. “Where was this, Dad?” I start to piece together the information that I have. Something leads me to believe that my dad isn’t who I think he is.

Dad scruffs his hand across his jawline, the stubble from his beard creating the only noise in the room. “I suppose you’re old enough to know now.”

“Know what?” I ask, desperately seeking some answers.

“I’m not a lawyer. I run a brothel . . . and a strip club.” His admission strikes me. “Presley here is one of my girls.”

Hearing him call her one of his girls fills me with rage. “You fuckin’ raped my girlfriend!” I scream. Insane with rage, I begin to pace. The stakes are high. And Presley needs me.

“She wanted it, Emerson.” He laughs. “You didn’t feel how wet she was.”

“No, Dad,” I argue, my voice cracking, and on the verge of tears. “You’re wrong. You weren’t watching the same video I just did. She didn’t
want
anything—especially this.” I gesture to Presley who is now hunched forward in her chair. I want to free her, to hold her and assure her that it’s going to be okay, that we’ll be able to figure all of this out, but I know better. Everything about Dad—the way he twitches when he talks, the ever-so-slight slur to his words, the way his eyes won’t focus on one thing, instead darting around the room—is a clear indication that he’s off his medication . . . again. Knowing this, I realize I have to tread lightly. No one is safe.

Not even me.

“You’re such a stupid, stupid, boy. I expected so much more from you, Emerson.” He flies to me, getting close to my face, our noses practically touching as he continues on his rampage. “You’re supposed to be the smart one! The one who takes the world by storm. Not the one who goes off and plays house with a whore!” Dad reaches for the television and flips it over causing it to crash to pieces on the ground.

The noise causes me to jump, but I refuse to back down. I step forward toward him, jamming a finger into his chest. “She is not a whore. I love her!” My breath catches in my throat. I pause and look in her direction. Somehow, her eyes on mine make me forget for a second about the dire situation we are in. “I love you,” I whisper again, this time the words are only for her.

I’m still looking at her as I watch the flash of steel connect with her face. I scramble to her, but Dad pushes me back and I fall to my knees.

Dad towers over her again, the gun pressed against her temple now. He’s frantic. She sobs uncontrollably. “No . . . no . . . NO!” he yells. “You don’t love her—you don’t! She’s a whore! You don’t love her, you just love the way she makes your dick feel. She’s a natural, that one. Could suck the chrome off a tailgate. She knows things you just can’t teach. Trust me, I know. I’ve helped myself to a piece of that.”

I cover my eyes before leaning forward and taking a few deep breaths. I’ve got to clear my head so I can think straight. I need to get us out of here, safely, and I can’t even begin to figure out how. Looking up, I plead, “Dad, put the gun down. I’m begging you.”

“You can’t love her!” he yells, pressing the gun harder against her temple. He pulls the hammer back. A click reverberates through the tension of the room.

“Dad, calm down!” I quickly put my hands up even though I’m not the one with the gun pointed in my direction.

“Don’t tell me what to do. You’re the son, I’m the father!”

“I know, Dad. I know.” Hopping to my feet, I take a few tentative steps toward them. When I feel like it’s safe to do so, I put my arm around his neck and pull him away from Presley, in the direction of the door. With a hushed voice, I ask, “Have you taken your meds today, Dad?”

With those words something in him snaps, and the look in his eyes softens. “My meds?”

“Yeah, Dad, your pills. You need them.” I’ve seen my dad off his medication more times that I should have. Growing up with a schizophrenic for a father had been hard. But there were always more good days than there were bad.

The look in his eyes tells me that he’s there with me. He speaks quietly, “I think I’ve forgotten.”

No shit.

Relief starts to wash over me as I continue to coax him back to reality. I set him in a seat across the room from Presley and manage to remove the gun from his hand before turning to her. Dad watches me helplessly, muttering things so softly that I can’t make them out. Sensing we’re out of danger, I walk frantically toward Presley and immediately start to work on freeing her from the spot she’s likely been in for hours. “Oh my god, Presley,” I whisper as I work on untying her hands. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how this happened.”