612 opens the door and lets me walk through first, almost like a gentleman would. For such a gigantic place, there is barely any furniture. He walks me through the hallway and each room has a chair, maybe a coffee table, but nothing bigger than that rocking chair from Goodnight Moon, which Marcus used to read to me when he was six and still needed to sound out the letters, waiting for Mama and Daddy to come home from work.
“Want some water or something?” 612 stands in the doorway to what must be the kitchen, awkwardly rolling his neck until it cracks.
“Got anything harder? Whiskey or something?” I know people say not to mix drinks, but I like the way they swirl together in me and, if I’m going to make it through whatever happens next, I need something to make it feel fuzzy, give me a chance at not remembering tomorrow.
He nods, turns around, and goes into the kitchen. I stay in the hallway, not even sure I can handle another step. The only thing I want is to remove the heels from my feet and sleep. I try to blink enough that I’ll remember I’m on the clock, that this man has red hair and an appetite I will only fill for the remainder of the next couple hours, if that. He returns a couple minutes later sipping a cup of water, hands me a glass of amber liquor, and leads me down another hallway to a room with a bed. The bed has a quilt that looks like something Daddy used to try to make when he was sick and gave up on halfway through.
“Can I sit?” I ask 612, desperate to peel the plastic from my toes.
His words tumble out, “Of course, please,” and I sit on the edge of the bed. The lights in the room are still off and I say a silent prayer that he won’t try to illuminate the room. Don’t wanna look at the way the red spreads across his cheeks.
Shoes off, I climb farther onto the bed. My dress is sticky and I’m almost glad 612 starts removing it. My back rests on the quilt and it’s itchier than I expected it to be, a violent stench coming from it. When he gets on top of me, I can tell he’s trying not to put his whole weight on me. I place my hands on both sides of his shoulders and pull down a little, so he presses harder. It’s not that I want all his weight on me or nothing, I just don’t like the feeling of him trying to restrain himself. Only thing worse than a man untamed is a man on the edge of it.
612 moans like he ain’t never fucked before. That whole body release, he twists his head and scrunches his eyes together: lion mid-roar. I grab on to the fabric of the pillowcase, focus on the sound of the mattress springs. I don’t even sleep on a bed at home, never heard the scratch of wood frame and mattress bounce at the same time.
He finishes quick, just like I remember, and immediately reaches over to his bedside table to turn on the lamp. I wish he wouldn’t. His face is flushed an even deeper red and I reach up to cross my arms over my chest like it even matters. I move to grab my dress from the floor, but 612 takes it from me before I even begin to lift it over my torso.
“That shit is nasty. Here.” He tosses me the shirt he was wearing, sweat stains and all, as if it’s any better. I put it on and it doesn’t reach below the top of my thighs, wide and sagging on my chest.
“You gonna pay me?” I ask him, reaching down for my heels and already dreading the walk home.
He laughs from across the room, putting on a new shirt, clean and gray, like the house.
“Already paid you. Told you about the sting, didn’t I?” He turns around to look through a drawer, shaking his head.
I stop, mid-motion. “Didn’t ask you to do that. Need my money.”
I’m fully aware of his uniform laid out on a chair in the corner of the room, handgun and all. I know I should have asked for the money before the sex, but I also know it wouldn’t have made a difference.
He looks back at me, traces of eyebrows rising. Just stares. Like a ghost might up and spill out my mouth. Maybe I’m just that magical or maybe he is plotting how he’s gonna explain my arrest or my death or why that pretty girl don’t come around no more.
And then he smiles and those red cheeks just get redder. “How ’bout this: you stay the night and I’ll pay you in the morning? Couple more hours, place to rest your little head. That work for you?”
The thought of lying back in that bed, smelling the mold grown between stitches of his quilt, remnants of someone else’s perfume, makes me want to climb back into my shoes and walk another five miles. But I’m not about to waste the past hour of soaking up his splotches and leave without my payment.
“Okay,” I tell 612.
This time, when he gets into the bed, he lies beside me, pulls the quilt up over both of us. I stay propped up in the bed until 612 pulls at my arm to get me to slide down to his level. I do. He drags his arm over my body and pulls so I am pressed against him. He’s asleep in minutes, snoring into my ear, and his breath smells like mint been living in it. I don’t know how his body lets him fall asleep like that: so effortlessly, like he’s never had a nightmare before.