She growls and snatches the remainder of her precious fry out of my hand before shoveling it into her mouth, along with the rest of the food on her plate until not even a crumb remains.
>
My breathing slows. How did I not notice before?
The spaghetti strap shirt she wears lowers, and I see the thin frame of her collarbone protruding more than what is healthy. I glance at her wrist I held only moments before. Now it seems so frail I could snap it with the twist of my hand. And I swear I can see her hip bone sticking out through the thin fabric of her shorts.
She’s too skinny. Too frail. Too hungry.
I’ve known women like her. Some were drug addicts.
But from the lack of needle marks on her skin, I know that is not that case. And even though she’s drunk a lot of beer, I don’t get the feeling that she is an alcoholic. Her body doesn’t tremble at the sight of alcohol.
Others I’ve met were whores.
But from the innocent way she keeps biting her lip, I can’t imagine her selling her body to survive.
And others…others were sold.
“Who did you escape from?” I need to know if she escaped from an enemy or from one of my own. If she escaped from my enemies, then I will have great pleasure in keeping her from them, but if she fled from one of my own…
She cocks her head to the side, studying me, trying to understand the hidden meaning behind my words.
“Answer me.” I grab her wrist again firmly, showing her I won’t let her go without an answer.
Her breathing speeds, and I feel her pulse skipping rapidly through her icy veins. I was right. She was sold. I just need to know who her master was. Then I can decide what to do with her.
I don’t agree with men kidnapping and selling women like cattle. But right now, staring at this endearing creature, I get the appeal.
She closes her eyes, and I imagine she’s picturing her master’s eyes, his commanding voice, even his cock as it drives inside her.
I study her body. She’s thin, but not bruised. She hasn’t been broken yet. He may have not even fucked her yet. She’s just hungry and hasn’t been taken for long, which makes me want to break her myself.
I’m sick.
Jocelyn isn’t mine. And I won’t take her and be her master. I just need to know who I should return her to.
“I belong to myself. I’ve never been sold. And I will never be taken.”
Her eyes puncture mine with sharp ice, and I realize she’s speaking the truth. I’ve always been good at judging people. I know when someone is telling the truth or a lie.
“Then why are you starving?”
She trembles and her eyes are downcast as if that was the question that hurt her. Not the one before, assuming she was a slave.
I feel the tsunami of emotions behind her olive eyelids, before she opens them and erases any remnants of pain.
“I’m not starving. Not anymore. I’m surviving.”
Jocelyn looks to where I’m still gripping her wrist, as if her eyes have any control of my hand. But somehow I can’t resist what her eyes demand. I release her.
She stands. She’s done with our conversation. I’m almost done too, but it doesn’t stop me from getting the last word in. I stand, and our bodies collide in the thin space between our bar stools.
Her movement is fast. So fast I shouldn’t even notice it. No normal person with an ordinary upbringing would notice her action. My buddies sitting in the booth deep in the corner of the bar wouldn’t. And no one sitting the length of the bar would.
But I do.
It’s the oldest trick in the book.