Page 67 of Shamed
I guess it is good information to have. What would happen if I suddenly ran into him on the streets of Chicago and was totally blindsided? What if Jayne runs into him? Does she know he’ll be released soon?
I simply thanked Neil and then switched topics by asking about Sienna and his son.
There’s always been a need to keep in contact with him. Perhaps it’s just that I don’t want to cut myself off completely from a good, decent human and live my life in complete isolation, like Mom suggested I’m doing.
My finger hovers over our text thread, but the sound of a door banging open, followed by the chatter of women, pulls my attention up to see a small group of them filtering out of the alley beside the club.
Gone are the tiny strings of fabric they wore all night, replaced with clothes meant for comfort. Some are still dressed up, as if their next stop is another club, but even the dresses ending just under their ass cheeks can be considered modest compared to their previous outfits.
I started standing farther down the street than I did the first couple of nights, away from their assessing eyes as they passed by with a mixture of curiosity, interest, and suspicion on their faces.
The ones whohadn’tcome to my class saw me waiting there and gave me a wide berth, even as their eyes strolled down my body.
I was the distrusted stranger lingering in the dark alley at two a.m., so their wariness was understandable.
Whether they thought I was a threat is still unclear.
Theyshouldthink of me as such.
Only the ones who had gotten a lesson from me were friendlier in their glances.
But they never asked what I was doing there. Never tried to stop Jayne from walking my way or stop me from trailing after her.
Regardless, I didn’t want to worry them too much, so I moved out of plain sight.
I’m not sure if Jayne told them who I was and what I’ve been doing, but something tells me she doesn’t have a close relationship with any of them.
I’ve never seen her walk out of there, talking to any of them. And in our few conversations, she’s never talked about any of them.
Why she works there is no less a mystery to me, even after the nights I’ve spent walking with her. There was no part of her that looked happy with her choice of work when I went in there that first time. And the misery seems to follow her out after every shift.
She said she was working with her dad before this, so what the fuck happened? Obviously, they must have had some kind of falling out.
The door opens again, and I watch to see who it is this time. When the light brown jacket with dark fur comes into view, I return my gaze to my phone.
This is the game we play: I pretend not to be waiting for her, and she pretends not to notice me as she approaches.
Sometimes, she’ll speak up when she reaches me, or when we’re waiting for the bus—an indication that we’ll likely be walking together the rest of the way.
But other times, she remains silent, and I keep my distance, all while she sneaks glances back at me.
“Heyyyyy, stalker,” she says as she approaches, her voice loud.
Gaze flicking up, I immediately know something isn’t right.
She doesn’t talk like that, and usually, her grim face represents what she’s probably feeling on the inside.
Unhappy.
Tortured.
Broken.
But right now, there is an unsettling, crooked smile on her face.
She giggles when her steps falter and she falls into me, hands pressed to my chest to steady herself. “Ready for our walk?”
I hold on to her waist with one hand and pocket my phone with the other. “You feelin’ okay?”
