And what about Kingsley? I wondered about him, too, but he was a little easier to wonder about, since I knew where he lived and I knew he had the hots for me.
On the round table near me was the pad of paper that contained my conversation with...something. At least, the beginning of a conversation.
“You really live here?” asked Monica.
“For now, yes.”
“And your husband just kicked you out?”
“Something like that.”
She shook her head and smiled some more, but it was a nervous smile. I sensed her about to giggle, but she somehow held it in check.
“I had the opposite problem,” she said.
“As in, he never wanted you to leave.”
“Yes, exactly.” And now she did giggle. Sigh. As she sat there on the corner of the bed, her dangling feet didn’t quite touch the carpeted floor. She was so small and cute. And innocent. And sweet. And clueless. In the wrong hands, in the wrong relationship, I could see a brute of a man thinking she was his. A trophy. A little trophy. Something to possess and own. In the right hands, she would have been protected and loved and cherished.
She had found herself in the wrong hands.
Monica asked, “So why did he kick you out, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“I mind,” I said.
She giggled, turned red, and looked away. “I’m so sorry.”
I reached out and touched her knee. I had to be gentle with this one. Her social savvy wasn’t quite up to par, either.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s just a very fresh wound that I don’t want to talk about right now. You did nothing wrong.”
She nodded vigorously. I patted her knee. She looked at me, nodded again, then looked down. She was so unsure of herself. So lost. So helpless. How could anyone hurt this girl? God, I already hated her ex-husband with a fucking passion.
“Sam, can I ask you a question?”
I smiled. “Sure, sweetie.”
“Can I, you know, ask how you’re going to protect me?” Nervous giggle. “Is that okay to ask?”
“It’s okay,” I said, patting her knee reassuring, much as I would my own daughter. And the thought of my daughter—and the possibility of not seeing her or Anthony this Saturday night—nearly brought me to tears. I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and said, “You are either going to be with me, or with someone I trust. You will always be protected.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. She pursed her lips. “Who are your friends?”
“Good men. Honorable men. I trust them with my life. They will protect you when I’m not around.”
“Why would you not be around?”
“Sometimes I have...business to attend to.”
She nodded. She understood business. “And one of your friends is coming over now?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Because you are going out?”
“Right. I have work to do.”
“And I can’t come?” She sounded like a child asking her mother if she could go grocery shopping with her.
“Not this time,” I said.
“Okay.” Petulant. She didn’t like the idea of me leaving her so soon. I didn’t either, but what I had to do tonight she had no business seeing or being a part of.
“Chad is a good man,” I said. “You will like him.”
She nodded again. “Will you be back tonight?”
On the round table near me was the pad of paper that contained my conversation with...something. At least, the beginning of a conversation.
“You really live here?” asked Monica.
“For now, yes.”
“And your husband just kicked you out?”
“Something like that.”
She shook her head and smiled some more, but it was a nervous smile. I sensed her about to giggle, but she somehow held it in check.
“I had the opposite problem,” she said.
“As in, he never wanted you to leave.”
“Yes, exactly.” And now she did giggle. Sigh. As she sat there on the corner of the bed, her dangling feet didn’t quite touch the carpeted floor. She was so small and cute. And innocent. And sweet. And clueless. In the wrong hands, in the wrong relationship, I could see a brute of a man thinking she was his. A trophy. A little trophy. Something to possess and own. In the right hands, she would have been protected and loved and cherished.
She had found herself in the wrong hands.
Monica asked, “So why did he kick you out, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“I mind,” I said.
She giggled, turned red, and looked away. “I’m so sorry.”
I reached out and touched her knee. I had to be gentle with this one. Her social savvy wasn’t quite up to par, either.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s just a very fresh wound that I don’t want to talk about right now. You did nothing wrong.”
She nodded vigorously. I patted her knee. She looked at me, nodded again, then looked down. She was so unsure of herself. So lost. So helpless. How could anyone hurt this girl? God, I already hated her ex-husband with a fucking passion.
“Sam, can I ask you a question?”
I smiled. “Sure, sweetie.”
“Can I, you know, ask how you’re going to protect me?” Nervous giggle. “Is that okay to ask?”
“It’s okay,” I said, patting her knee reassuring, much as I would my own daughter. And the thought of my daughter—and the possibility of not seeing her or Anthony this Saturday night—nearly brought me to tears. I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and said, “You are either going to be with me, or with someone I trust. You will always be protected.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. She pursed her lips. “Who are your friends?”
“Good men. Honorable men. I trust them with my life. They will protect you when I’m not around.”
“Why would you not be around?”
“Sometimes I have...business to attend to.”
She nodded. She understood business. “And one of your friends is coming over now?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Because you are going out?”
“Right. I have work to do.”
“And I can’t come?” She sounded like a child asking her mother if she could go grocery shopping with her.
“Not this time,” I said.
“Okay.” Petulant. She didn’t like the idea of me leaving her so soon. I didn’t either, but what I had to do tonight she had no business seeing or being a part of.
“Chad is a good man,” I said. “You will like him.”
She nodded again. “Will you be back tonight?”
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