Which is true. Which is why it’s not exactly helpful to spend virtually every waking moment thinking about getting banged by Jonah Marks.
“I know you have to work hard,” Arturo says as he returns to the table, putting Shay’s ginger ale in front of her. “But that just means you have to play hard, too. ”
Did he just say—
“Are you choking?” Shay thumps my back. “Gone down the wrong way, hasn’t it?”
“I’m good,” I say, and I manage not to laugh.
• • •
By Friday night, I don’t feel like laughing.
Whenever I let my mind rush ahead to the hotel room, my whole body trembles with fear and anticipation. I don’t know which emotion is stronger. Right now I hardly know which way is up.
I’ve taken a couple of fail-safe steps. Carmen and I have made plans to go to the farmer’s market tomorrow morning. If I don’t show up at her place by ten A. M. , she’ll start looking for me immediately. I also scheduled an e-mail that will go out to her, Arturo, and Shay in three days, if I don’t delete it. The e-mail reads: If something has happened to me, the police should look for Jonah Marks.
Of course I don’t think that’s going to be necessary. If I believed Jonah was definitely dangerous, I wouldn’t go to the hotel in the first place.
. . . but he’s a little dangerous. Enough for the fear to feel very real.
Rush hour. I drive against the traffic into the heart of downtown Austin, to the tallest hotel in the city, which is usually peopled by visiting celebrities, wealthy tourists, or corporate clients. Jonah didn’t skimp. He’s arranged an exquisite locale for his first attack.
“We have you for one night?” the check-in clerk says brightly.
“Yes. Just one key. ” How do I sound so calm? The role-playing has already begun.
The room is luxurious in a sophisticated, minimalist sort of way—a broad bed with a white duvet and half a dozen pillows, a long desk of polished wood for the business guests, and soft mood lighting shining from sconces carefully placed on the cream-colored walls. It’s on one of the higher floors, and the windows look out over the cityscape. I admire the view while the sun sets, then close the curtains, so nobody can look in.
Getting here three hours early was overkill. Although I try to watch TV, my mind refuses to focus on the lights and sounds in front of me. Finally I give up and start getting ready. Tonight I want to take my time with it—to carefully put myself together so Jonah can pull me apart.
A long hot shower relaxes me slightly; the sugar scrub I brought softens my skin. I dry my hair upside down so that it will be bouncier and wilder than I usually wear it.
I’d contemplated getting a bikini wax but ultimately decided against it. Better if I seem—unprepared. Still, I use the electric clippers to trim everything neatly. Then I step into a pair of white lace panties. No bra.
For Christmas, my mother gave me this perfume she likes and I don’t. It’s one of those sultry, overpowering 1980s fragrances, the kind of thing that comes in a purple bottle. The scent might as well say fuck me out loud. Tonight is the first time I’ve ever worn it. I apply my makeup like my older sister Chloe taught me, the way I almost never bother with. Most days, powder, mascara, and tinted lip balm do the trick. Tonight, I go with a smoky eye and shimmery blush that contours my cheekbones. The lipstick I wear is dark glossy red.
I bought this dress online last year, on impulse, goaded by the deep final-sale discount and the website’s red letters reading Only One Left! When it arrived, though, I realized it looked less glamorous, more trashy. The filmy, raspberry-colored fabric clings to every curve, and the hem barely covers my ass. Two slender straps hold it in place.
Should be easy for Jonah to tear through those.
Simple diamond stud earrings—anything dangly would just get in the way later. Finally I step into my silver strappy sandals. Done.
I stand in front of the mirror, trying to see myself as Jonah will see me when he walks into the bar. Everything about me says sex. This is the kind of outfit that jackass rape apologists say means a woman is “asking for it. ”
Tonight, I actually am. I’m asking for it.
In the hotel bar, I feel conspicuous. Certainly I stand out among the various travelers, most of whom are wearing dark, comfortable stuff that packs well. As I slide onto my bar stool, I have to cross my legs to keep from flashing the entire room. The bartender gives me an up-and-down look before saying, “What can I do for you?” Probably he thinks I’m a hooker searching for clients.