Page 21 of The Client
My body aches everywhere as I get the shoes on my feet, risking furtive glances at McConnell as I do. He doesn’t seem panicked about what just happened, or guilty either. He seems more irritated at being tricked, at the inconvenience of having to deal with me.
Then again, it’s difficult to read a man like him, who apparently requires the sight of literal blood to change his expression. I wonder how this would be playing out differently if I hadn’t bled at all. Some girls don’t their first time. I guess I never really gave it much thought.
The second I finish tying my laces, he says, “Let’s go.”
I get up, grab my duffel, and follow him to the door. Even these few steps are enough to send fresh waves of soreness through me. I feel raw and burning between my legs, my inner thighs aching like they’re bruised, my lips puffy when I run my tongue over them. I’m sure I’ll be fine in a day or two, but for now I feel shell-shocked and exhausted.
McConnell opens the door and gestures for me to leave first. I skirt past him and out into the hallway. That’s when it finally hits me: it’s over now. It’s done. I’m free to go.
A wash of relief cascades over me, followed by a pang of disappointment.
There will never be another time like this one. Another client like this one. Moving forward, the men that Zoric allows to purchase me will never compare.
“Downstairs,” McConnell directs me, then speaks quietly into his cellphone. “I need you to come around front. Please take my guest wherever she needs to go.”
Once we’re in the front entry hallway, he pulls out his wallet and digs out the wad of cash that he tried to give me earlier.
“It’s twelve hundred,” he reminds me, shoving it into my hand. “Take it. Please.”
The money sits in my palm, a dirty reminder of what just happened. Pleasure is one thing. Being paid for it feels completely different.
Swallowing hard, I tuck the cash down the side of my waistband.
“Thank you.” The words are so quiet, I’m not sure that he hears me.
Moving to the front door, he opens it wide.
“Good night, Miss—”
He looks at me, waiting for me to supply my name, but I don’t. Instead I dart through the doorway, wincing as it shuts behind me. It’s just as well he doesn’t know who I am. That way we can both try to forget this ever happened.
A private car—McConnell’s, it must be—pulls up outside the gate a second later. I slip through the gate and duck into the car hurriedly, giving the driver my address through a pane of glass that rolls down. Then I close my eyes and sink into the heated leather. My pulse is finally starting to slow.
I did it. Somehow. I survived. And I’m okay.
The night replays itself in my head, from getting picked up at my apartment by Zoric’s man to the ride home now. What does it say about me that I liked it? It was the most terrifying experience of my life…until it wasn’t.
His demands, his roughness… they weren’t scary. They were hot. He called me a whore, and it turned me on. He used me hard, treated me like his fuck toy, and I climaxed. Twice.
One thing is certain, though: I hope I never see that man again. At least the anonymous clients in my future won’t be able to remind me of how shamefully I enjoyed losing my virginity, despite the fact that it was a business transaction. Despite the fact that McConnell was so cruel. From now on, nothing that I do with the men who buy me will mean a thing.
Pulling my phone out, I power it back on and check for messages.
A breath goes out of me. Konstantin Zoric messaged me five minutes ago. It’s nearly two a.m., but his text reads,Stop at the office before you go home. I’ll be waiting.
Shit. He can’t possibly have another client lined up for me already…can he? My insides still feel achy and bruised. There’s no way I can go through this again. But I’m not allowed to say no, am I? I have to do whatever Zoric says.
My stomach knots as I text him back, telling him I’m on my way.
Then I lean forward and tap on the glass partition. The driver lowers it.
“I’m sorry, but can you take me to a different address?”
“Of course. Where would you like to go?”
I give him the address, then clasp my hands tightly in my lap as I stare out the window. At this time of night, the city is quiet, the streets nearly empty. The KZM offices are in the heart of the business district, just a few more minutes away. The building is sleek, modern, the kind of gleaming skyscraper that instills a sense of glam and fame. You get the sense that you’re walking into greatness when you enter, that your future will be secure once you sign on the dotted line. Because that’s what they want us to believe, isn’t it? And we do.
Last year, right after I had won the international modeling contest that KZM sponsored, I began receiving deceptive emails and phone calls from men claiming to be working for KZM. Excited by all the opportunities coming my way—and what they might mean for my family—I replied to a few of the messages before quickly realizing that they were not legitimate. These scammers were trying to lure me away from my hometown so they could abduct me. I found out later that this type of scam is common, and it terrified me that I almost fell for it.
