I unwrap myself from her and make a quick trip to the bathroom. My head is clear now, and though I don’t check the time, I know I’ve managed to sleep a good eight hours or more. There’s light coming in around the curtains in the bedroom, and it’s likely late in the morning. The hooker is still sleeping when I return, and I crawl back under the sheet beside her.
The movement must be enough to wake her because she opens her eyes and glances at me as I settle against the pillow. I look at her red-rimmed eyes and smeared makeup, telling myself I should be convincing her how sorry I am, but I don’t say a word.
I don’t feel any remorse, and I don’t think I can manage to sound sincere. I know I freaked her out, but she didn’t come to any actual harm, so I can’t bring myself to feel sorry. The closest I can come is a slight twinge of embarrassment for losing my shit.
The hooker rolls toward me, and the lacy material of her red bra bunches up around her tit, exposing her nipple. I lick my lips as I feel my cock react to the sight. She doesn’t miss my look, and presses her body closer to mine.
Without a word, she reaches into the opening of my boxers and wraps her fingers around my dick. She slides her hand up and down slowly until I’m completely hard and throbbing. Before I lose myself in the feeling, I grab her wrist and stop the motion.
“Why are you doing that?” I ask.
“Well, ya said ya wanted to fuck me in the morning.” The nonchalance in her voice is a little unnerving.
I’d scared the hell out of her, and though I’m not about to apologize for it, I can’t help but feel like I owe her something.
“You don’t have to,” I tell her.
“It’s my job,” she replies with a shrug. “That’s what ya brought me here for.”
If I were a better man, I would just tell her to get dressed and take her back where I found her. I’d still pay her full price for the entire night because she did what I really needed her to do, which was to help me sleep. I’m not a better man, though. I’m not even a good one, and I don’t make the offer. I’d had a decent night’s sleep, and I’d woken up horny.
She is right—she’s here for a reason.
“Roll over,” I tell her as I reach over to the nightstand to find a condom. “Up on your knees.”
She complies, understanding what I want without me having to say it. I kneel behind her, and as I place my hands on her hips, she tenses. It’s only brief, but I still feel it. I want to take her in the ass and have a vague memory of telling her that last night, but now I feel like I should go easy on her. I close my eyes for a moment and then slip my fingers in her pussy.
She’s nowhere near ready for me, so I take a little time to play with her before I take my cock in my hand, roll a condom over it, and slowly press against her opening. I rub her clit as I take her from behind, but I can tell her moans are faked. Giving up on the pretenses, I run my hands over her ass, close my eyes, and lose myself to the feeling of her warmth around my dick.
It’s been a while, and I don’t last long. She seems relieved when I finish and pull out of her. She doesn’t look at me as she rolls off the bed and grabs for her clothes on the floor.
She dresses as I take a shower. We don’t speak as I walk her out of my apartment and head to the lower floor and the parking garage. The rusted out Volvo station wagon I acquired from a parking lot near the airport clacks and clunks as I start it up. The whore says nothing as I pull out of the garage and onto the street, and I only glance at her once when I have to stop at a red light. She stares out the window with makeup-smeared eyes. Her hair is a mess around her shoulders.
I have to stop for gas before I go too far. As I pull into the BP station off Congress Parkway, I have to navigate around a homeless guy holding a cardboard sign asking for food. He has a long, grey beard and looks to be about a hundred and ten years old. He’s disheveled and thin, wearing a coat that isn’t nearly warm enough for a Chicago winter. I ignore his pleading looks as I fill up the tank. The whore in my car continues to stare into space. When I climb back into the car, I fish some bills out of my wallet.
“Here,” I say as I hand her a wad of cash. It’s more than her rate, but I figure I owe her a little extra for putting up with me.
She doesn’t count it. Instead, she shoves it into her purse without making eye contact. As soon as I pull up to the street corner where I first saw her, she opens the car door and leaves without a word.
I have the feeling finding a decent hooker is going to be an ongoing problem.
Chapter 2—New Faces
Two days, zero sleep. I can’t even lie down in bed for more than ten minutes. Ralph is hanging out in my kitchen, watching me silently.
Ralph is the name I’ve decided to give the vision of the kid I killed in Iraq. I was tired of just referring to him as “that kid” in my head, and I see him too much not to give him a name. I’ve started talking to him more often as well. I’m not sure what that says about me. I know I’m fucked up—I’ve never denied it.
When you know you are crazy, does that make you more sane or less sane?
“You’d be more useful if you’d make breakfast,” I say to Ralph. He doesn’t respond, but I go on anyway. “Even a pot of coffee would be better than nothing.”
I scramble up a couple of eggs and eat them with dry toast. I don’t have a lot of time. Rinaldo Moretti has called an early meeting today, and I don’t want to be late. It’s the first time I’ve done anything official since I got back from Seattle, and I want to keep the boss-man happy.
The Volvo won’t start, so I take the bus to Rinaldo’s office. It’s only a few blocks from the bus stop, and even though the wind gusting around the building is bitterly cold, I enjoy being out in the open air. It’s also easier to ignore Ralph in the crowded street.
Rinaldo’s office is a bare, tan brick building with five stories and very few windows. Many of the offices inside are only sparsely furnished and otherwise empty. Sometimes they’re used for temporary storage of whatever illegal shipments we have coming in and out of Chicago, but most of them remain unused. Only the fourth floor sees any action.
I run up the steps, keeping my breath nice and steady as I go. There are elevators, but I prefer a little exercise. I don’t know how long this is going to take, and I get a little agitated when I sit for a long time.