by John Benson
It was late and she was tired, and the soft spring air had gone chill. She tugged the hem of her Spandex skirt down and it rode back up. A little Cadillac drove by. The one that zigs. Veronica dredged up the false gaiety of her profession. "Hey Mister," she called out. "Want to party?"
The car window slid down smoothly. The guy was stocky and had a fringe of graying hair. Somebody's dad, probably, maybe some else's grandpa. He looked her over pretty good, but that usual hunger wasn't there. "Hop in," he said.
She reclined in warm soft leather and the car door closed with a satisfying thunk. "Business before pleasure," she said. "Two hundred up front, and then we can have fun."
"You're zonked," the guy said. "It can't be that much fun if you have to medicate yourself just to make it palatable." He handed her some cash.
The car started moving. She looked down at two crisp new hundreds. "It'll be good for you," she said. "I promise." The guy had a point, though. She needed the pills to produce a sense of distance, so it seemed that someone else's body was doing this. When she started she thought it would be sexy. It wasn't. It was clinical, mechanical. About as sexy as getting your teeth cleaned. Luckily the guy was usually tracking in his own fantasy and didn't notice.
"What you need right now is a good night's sleep," he said. "Alone."
She pretended not to hear him. "Turn west on Palmer," she said. "I know a place."
"No thanks, honey. I know a place, too. What's your name?"
"Veronica," she said. Was she being abducted? He seemed okay. The mean ones radiated anger or were at least very tightly wrapped. She could tell this guy was calm by the way he drove. His posture was relaxed. His moves were smooth and unhurried. "What do I call you?" she said. She had to dredge up social skills. Pills and stress had blurred her so they were no longer second nature.
"Mel Harkin," he said. "In the morning I'll have an offer for you, but tonight just rest."
She perked up. "An arrangement? Like maybe a steady mistress or something?"
"Tomorrow," he said. The tone was firm. Not angry or threatening or anything, just not at all inviting further comment. She dozed against leather and let him drive.
She roused as the car stopped in a suburban driveway. He led her into a darkened house. It's not like no-one ever undressed her before, but this guy just tucked her into a twin bed afterward, and kissed her gently on the forehead and went away, leaving her alone and unfucked. She wondered why.
The crisp, fresh feel of clean sheets caressed her body. She had cotton-mouth and a large need to pee. Sun filtered in through curtains with little printed flowers. Impressionist reproductions hung in wooden frames on pale blue walls. A big mirror reflected, bright and clean. A chest of drawers stood near a desk of matching oak. Veronica frowned at herself in the mirror. There was a big fuzzy bath towel on top of the chest, and a toothbrush still encased in plastic. She took them and found a bathroom down the hall.
Cold water jarred her fully awake, then hot soaked her muscles. What was this guy? He was treating her like a niece who had come for a visit, not the kind of girl you give money to. Back in her room she checked her purse. The two hundred was still there. Somehow that reassured her a lot. She wished she had a change of clothes with her. Come-get-me outfits always looked cheap and tawdry in the light of day, and even a little sad.
Smells led her to the kitchen. Mel Harkin was doing pancakes in an electric skillet. Her stomach growled. This was all so healthy, homey, and totally out of context. "You're the shiest John in the world," she said, "or maybe you just don't like girls."
"I have your attention while I discuss my offer," he said. "Meanwhile, juice, milk, or coffee?"
His offer. The possibility of stepping up to something more permanent. "What? Oh. Juice and coffee, thanks. Do you need any help?"
"I'm fine. Sit right over there."
Two strips of bacon, three pancakes, butter, and maple syrup. Veronica found herself hungry, and curious. "About that offer…" she said.
He took his own plate and sat down near her at right angles. "Do you like the room?" he said.
What? "Well, yeah. Sure."
"It's yours if we come to terms. Room, board, spending money. Everything you need to give up the streets, if we can come to terms."
She looked at him, imagining him as the guy. It wasn't that hard, really. A guy was a guy, pretty much. And one was ten times better than ten, and a hundred times better than a hundred. "You want to be the one and only," she said. "Sure. I can do that."
"Learn to listen," he said. "If you always anticipate what comes next, you may usually be right, but you'll fail to listen those few times when you're wrong, and those are the surprises that really matter."
She ate her pancakes. Curiosity ate on her, and overcame stubbornness. "Okay," she said. "I'm listening."
"Good. Here's the deal. You haven't used your independence well. You've slipped into moral laziness and made bad choices. So for a time here you will live under rules suitable for an adolescent rather than an adult. You will be punished every time you break a rule, and once a week to remind you of this." A sweep of his hand took in her outfit.
Punished. The word did conflicting things to her. Made her want to run away. Made her want to stand still and let it happen. She said it out loud. "Punished."
"Spanked," he said.
So that was it. He was into kinky sex. "You like spanking girls," she said.
"Guilty, dear. But I only let myself do it if I also think it's good for you. Come on, Veronica. Try it. Be fourteen again for a while. If you can't stand it, fine. You can always quit. But maybe it's a chance to do it over, and this time do it right."
Giving up her autonomy. Surrendering to an admitted pervert. A good idea, or just another slip down the slope of moral laziness? Another bungled choice? "I'll think about it," she said. Her coffee was getting cold. She took a sip.
"Good. That's really all I can ask. Finish your breakfast and I'll drop you anywhere you want to go."
"I could help with the dishes," she said. It was easier to be involved in what was going on, without the pills.
He smiled. "You're a guest," he said. "If you come back to stay, then you'll help out. Are you done? Come on. I'll drop you off and you can think it over."
The Cadillac looked even better in the daylight. Normally she didn't tell people where she lived, but this guy wasn't that kind of trouble. He was no threat to her at all unless she volunteered, and that wasn't too likely. He stopped right outside her door. "Thank you," she said. "For the rest. For the offer."
"Veronica."
"Yes?"
"If you mean to think about it, then maybe you'll choose to call me. So you'll want my number."
Oh. She dug her little book out, and a stub of a pencil, and wrote down the number as he dictated it. The car door thunked as she closed it and he drove away. She took a deep breath of cool spring air and let it out. He was gone. Her life was back to normal.
She opened the front door and reality wafted up to meet her. Reefer and spilled beer, and a fainter hit of puke. Most of the others were still sleeping off the night's adventures. Janie was up though, looking tiny and lost in her oversized bathrobe.
"Tough night?" Janie said.
"Surprisingly restful. Water's on for coffee?"
"Should still be hot," Janie said. "Rent's due. I'm collecting."
Veronica gave her the two hundred.
"That's all?" Janie said.
"Hey. I had a grand stashed and it went for Zoe's bail, remember?"
"Oh," Janie said. "Yeah. Sorry. It's always something, isn't it? Seems we should be able to get ahead, but it's always something."
Yeah. There sure was, wasn't there? Always something.
Veronica sat on a park bench soaking up the sun. It felt so good to be dressed anonymously in a sweatshirt and faded jeans. So good not to have men slobbering and women hating her. Young mothers played with young children, and the normalcy of it stung her like a rebuke.
She thought about Mel Harkin. It would still be prostitution, in a way. Selling her body for money, just being beaten now, instead of screwed. But it just might be a healthier choice all things considered. Less danger of arrest, infection, getting hooked on drugs. Almost like a voluntary commitment to some sort of rehab that just had a kind of funny way of going about it. After all, she could always change her mind again if it wasn't her thing. She fished in her purse for her cell phone. Her gut was churning, as if there were more at stake then she wanted to admit. She found the cell phone, and then the little book. She listened to it ring. She could feel her pulse beat in her throat.
"Hello?"
"Mel? This is Veronica. Hi."
"Well. That didn't take long."
"Hey, not so fast. I need more info. The rules. You said a young teen's rules. I need to know what they are, exactly."
"Oh. Sure. Here's the deal. Home by nine. In bed by ten. No alcohol. No drugs. No sex."
Pretty much what she'd expected. A young teen's rules. Maybe she should punish herself by living under them for a time. Balance an excess of freedom with a period of too much order. The idea had a funky sort of charm. "This once a week thing," she said. "You know what I mean."
"Pure punishment," he said. "The sort an angry parent might visit on a wayward child in times gone by. There will be bruises. And I will do my best to try and make you cry."
So terribly unwanted, yet so horribly deserved. Her hands shook. "I'll let you know my decision by five o'clock," she said. "I'll call you either way."
"Thank you," Mel said. "I appreciate not being left hanging."
Veronica hung up. She had until five to what? Not to decide. She'd already done that. Not to decide, then, but to admit it to herself.
She stood at the curb with her suitcase at her feet, feeling as shy as a virgin on a first date. The car pulled up and Mel put her suitcase in the trunk. "I hadn't realized how pretty you are," he said.
Jeans and a sweatshirt? "This is my disguise," she said. "When I wear it, I'm invisible."
He gave her a penetrating look, then started the car. "But this is the real you," he said. "Somebody's daughter. Somebody's friend. The other is just an image you've constructed. Somebody's wet dream." The car pulled out into traffic.
Somebody's daughter. "I kind of brought myself up," she said. "My parents were around but they weren't. They pretty much didn't care what I did if they didn't have to hear about it. So instead of learning to be good, I learned to be sneaky. Hide evidence. Always have excuses."
"Some kids thrive on freedom," Mel said. "Some grownups too. Others are more comfortable with a set of rules. This is an experiment, to see if that's what works for you."
"I guess," she said. He was taking another route this time, or at least it seemed so.
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