Page 12 of Mating Theory
I glance at him, and he’s watching me with challenge in his blue eyes. He expects me to balk at the fanciness, and maybe I should. I’m probably going to make a fool of myself. I have to weigh my pride against my hunger. Hunger wins.
I’m handed a large, leather-bound menu that has words I’ve never heard before and no prices. A bread basket arrives laden with thinly sliced raisin bread and thick slabs topped with caramelized onions. I take a piece of the onion bread with shaking hands and tear it apart. God, it’s so soft. And still warm from the oven. My mouth feels like it’s too full of saliva. I understand those cartoons with drooling animals in a real way. I’m not drooling, but this is how it would happen. Days without eating and then a gourmet bread basket in front of me.
I shove it in my mouth. My eyes close in unwilling ecstasy.
Sutton’s lids have fallen low, and I realize I made a sound. A moan.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, already pushing more bread into my mouth. Humiliating. That’s what this is. Maybe that’s how he meant it. It would have been less embarrassing for him to fuck me in the street, but I can’t stop eating now that food’s in my reach.
“Slow down,” he murmurs. “You’ll give yourself a stomach ache.”
How does he know? How does he know how starving I am? I inhale two more pieces of bread before I can bring myself to speak. “You’re making a joke out of me.”
“No one’s laughing,” he says, and I have to admit that it’s the truth. His blue eyes are wholly serious. And knowing. As if he understands this level of hunger.
“Then why did you bring me here? I don’t belong with these people.”
“These people are nothing special. The fact that they have money and you don’t is mostly a matter of luck. Randomness. A game of chance, and you’re losing.”
I take another piece of bread and force myself to eat it in slow, steady bites. “Is that why you have money? Because you won the game?”
A ghost of a smile. “You could say that.”
“Can you teach me how to play?” The question comes out before I can stop it, earnest and hopelessly naive. This is the part where Ky would shake his head. He knows about the world. About men. I’m the one stuck with my head in a poetry book.
He’s saved from answering when the waiter arrives. Sutton orders a medium rare rib eye for the both of us, along with flame-grilled artichokes and beet and goat cheese salads.
The waiter leaves, and we sit in silence. The quiet clink of silver against expensive china provides a backdrop. Somewhere in this restored church, around some corner or up those stairs, someone’s playing a harp.
“You want to play the game,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “This is how you do it. You demand to be taken to places like this. There’s always going to be some sad fucker like me willing to do it. You don’t ask for two hundred dollars. You ask for a car. A condo.”
He might as well be speaking another language. I understand organic chemistry better than this. “And you think men are going to pay for that?”
“They already do. They’re paying some woman. Why not you?”
I look down at myself, at this body that’s supposedly worth so much. It doesn’t make a difference. I hardly recognize myself. My arms, my legs. My breasts. I could be walking around in someone else’s skin. “That’s not how you made your money.”
“The world isn’t fair, darling. I figure you already know that.”
“I know that,” I whisper, thinking about throwing a softball and father-daughter dances. That wasn’t my childhood. I got indifferent words and wandering hands. I took it and took, until one day I decided I’d had enough. I ran away from home and never looked back. No matter how cold or hungry or desperate I get on the street, I never wish I was home.
“Now I’m going to ask you again: Come home with me.”
* * *
His house is a ranch in the outskirts of Tanglewood. Every mile away from the west side erodes my confidence. Ky’s going to freak when he gets back. I can’t turn back now. Not only because I wouldn’t have a ride. I can’t turn back because this man wants me. For some reason, he wants me. And I need the money enough to see it through.
Headlights flash across a copse of trees. Gravel rumbles beneath the tires. He stops the car, and we sit in the quiet, with only the pops of the engine and the croak of crickets to guide us. “Having second thoughts?” he asks, his voice husky.
Yes. I’m afraid. Hold my hand. “Of course not. We made a deal.”
