What choice did I have, though. The officers say they ain’t gonna hurt me, that they’ll pay me and, at least half the time, they do. Their guns and tasers have a bigger presence in this room than their bodies and even when I try to say no, they just laugh. They like that I’m young, that I don’t know what I’m doing, and I keep on telling myself it’s only for a while, that they’ll let me stop when I want to. Except I know they care more about their badges than me, that I am nothing more than a reward in their game.
The cops got a suite in a run-down motel everyone calls the Whore Hotel off the freeway. The king bed looms on the other side of the room from our table. It’s probably close to midnight now and they’re all wasted, getting sloppier with their eye contact and where they let their gaze go. I know it’s gonna happen soon.
The difference between the cops and street men is that the cops like to make it a game. They wait to fuck me, instead watching me, salivating, trying to figure out how to make me just scared enough that the fear swallows me and leaves a body worth getting on top of, hands to clasp behind my head, fear to lick away. Most of them are like that and then there are a few like 81, with his neatly trimmed beard and shy smile, or 612 across from me, with the red curls and eyes that linger on the table. Not that they won’t find the thing in them that wants to lie on top of me and shove a finger or two in my mouth. It’s reliable work, though, and it’s done more for us in the past week than my job at Bottle Caps has in the past year. I’ve already made enough to pay Vernon half of what I owe so he won’t evict us.
It’s 220’s turn and he’s got a jack of spades and a facedown card in front of him. He squeezes my thigh and slams his palm on the table.
“Hit me.”
The dealer flips a card over in front of him: a six of hearts. He’s three points away from winning me, six points away from losing it all. The game’s been going for a few rounds and there’s gotta be at least three grand in the pile. Three of them have already folded and they’re all watching as 220 jitters, preparing himself to turn over the last card.
He leans closer to me and whispers in my ear, “You think you’re my good luck charm, darling?” 220 flips it over and a three of diamonds sits on the table, his arms raising as he shouts, “It’s mine, motherfuckers,” and pulls the cash toward him.
The other men cuss and slip their hands in their pockets as 220 rises, grabbing my hand so I’m pulled up with him.
“Don’t mind if I take my prize.” His hair hangs limply, swinging as he nods at each man, who forget their losses and holler, their eyes lingering as he leads me to the bed, undresses me so the calluses on his fingertips meet bare skin.
He pushes me onto the mattress and reaches down for his belt and I think he’s gonna take it off until he goes straight to his holster and unleashes his handgun. Black metal so sleek I can see his fingerprints all over it. He unzips his pants but doesn’t remove them, climbing onto the bed so he’s hovering over me. 220 glances behind him at the rest of them and smiles, refocuses on me to place the mouth of his gun to my temple.
“You like that?” His voice is a growl.
I feel the tears find their way to my eyes and I want him off me. I find somewhere inside me that still believes in a god and I am praying for an ending. He’s on top of me, his penis inside me, his hands all rough and the barrel of the gun cold and threatening above my eye, where I can only feel it, only hear his grunts and the snickers from the men behind him. I pray that it will end, that I will stop all of this and go back to being broke, to begging Marcus to find a job. Anything for the gun to go back in its holster.
I can tell that part of what he likes is knowing the others are watching. Ones like 81 and 612 avert their eyes at first, but eventually they all stare, waiting to see what 220 will do next. The only thing worse than them watching is when they get bored, start chatting about the upcoming championship game or whose wife won’t get off their ass about the dishes. 220 still has his gun pointing at my head while he thrusts and none of them even seem to notice, listening to my body wilting just a few feet away.
They take turns and sex feels no different from an insistent punch to my gut. The cops believe they are invincible. They want me only to show themselves they can have me, that there will be no consequence to putting a gun to my head, to taking me. They want me to feel small so they can feel big and, in this moment, they have succeeded.
After they’ve all had a turn, they don’t even let me catch my breath. One of them throws my clothes at me while another pulls some cash out of his pocket, not even giving me enough time to count it before they’re shoving me through the motel door and leaving me to walk home, feeling more naked than I did lying in that bed. That’s when I count the bills, when I realize they paid me less than a fraction of what 220 made tonight, and I can’t do nothing about it. Even if I tried to fight them, these are not the men who would care. These are the men who load their guns and point them with a grin, who find a girl in an alley and decide she is theirs.