She’s twenty-four years old, fresh out of Fashion School, and way too damn naïve. She’s also damaged, irrefutably broken, but she hides it well under her six-figure wardrobe, beneath a smile that she’s been groomed to perfect.
I’ve only been watching her for a few weeks, but I already know her day to day habits. Every move in her predictable, unwavering routine.
Monday through Friday, she steps outside her expensive condo for a two-block walk to The Paper Café. The order is for her boss, and it’s always the same: Caramel spiced latte, add foam, hold the sugar. She hails a cab to Vogue’s headquarters in the One World Trade Center, where she spends the next twelve to fourteen hours catering to the whims of the top magazine editor in the country.
During her hour-long lunch breaks, she phones her best friend—Gillian Weston, and they talk and laugh about absolutely nothing. (I don’t even bother trying to overhear their conversations anymore.)
After work, she tries her best to distract herself from the loss of her mother by buying new books she’ll never read or running through Central Park until she can’t take anymore. She occasionally slips through the doors of Club Swan and spins her pain away, around the comfort of a pole; from what I can tell, she only dances on the faraway stage and she never lets any customers touch her. She’s there for herself, not anyone else.
It takes all of the restraint in the world for me to not go in and watch…
On weekends, she starts her mornings by faithfully penning five new pages in her diary. It’s a habit she’s kept since she was twelve, and the entries range from the sensible (“I really wonder if Fashion is what I’m meant to do with my life.” to the utterly absurd (“Last night, I dreamed that I was a bird,”). When she’s not watching Law & Order: SVU marathons or running last minute errands for her boss, she spends her Saturday nights swiping on Tinder. She almost always swipes left. (Especially on me, for some goddamn reason.)
Tonight’s “right swipe”—a blond-haired Wall Street guy who calls himself Jameson Turner—is an aberration in her system. He’s due to meet her at a bar down the street in thirty minutes, and I can already tell from the blush on her cheeks, that she’s fantasizing about all the dirty things he’s sent via private message.
“I’m going to leave your tight pussy soaking wet, have you begging for more of my cock … Tonight will be a night you’ll always remember, sexy girl.
She has no idea that his name isn’t really Jameson Turner, that he’s not even from this city. He’s actually Connor Ryan, a five-time sex-offender from Philadelphia who has all too easily escaped felony rape charges due to his parents’ massive wealth and influence.
His approach on nights like this is laughably lazy and unoriginal. Twenty minutes before the date, he calls the girl and asks her to meet him at a nearby lounge, so they can “cut through the noise to get to know each other a little better.”
Once there, he charms her like a skilled predator who knows his prey—telling her stories of all the places he’s traveled, listening carefully about who she truly wants to be in life. Mid-conversation, he slips two “roofies”—date rape drugs— into her drink and then he patiently waits for her to say the inevitable: “I think I need to go home, my head hurts.”
Of course, the girl never gets home. Instead, she wakes up in an abandoned alley hours later—bleeding and confused. By the time she pieces together the night, his Tinder profile is deactivated and he’s crossing state lines to play his twisted game with someone else.
I can’t believe how many times he’s gotten away with this shit…
Blushing and wide-eyed, Meredith suddenly steps closer to the curb. She holds her phone up to her face and her smile falters.
Jameson has rescheduled her date at the last minute, promising to make it up to her on New Year’s Eve.
She mouths, “Ugh!” and her stunning silver stilettos almost give way as she waves to her Uber driver.
I take one last drag of my Cuban cigar, and steal a long and hard look at her sinfully red, sexy lips. My brain races with thoughts of how perfect they would look wrapped around my cock, how my hands would easily grip her almond-colored hair and guide her greedy mouth up and down my length.
Don’t even think about it…She’s just a job. Just a job.
A grey Nissan pulls over, and I tap my steering wheel. I’ll wait a few minutes before heading home and calling it a day.
I promise myself that after tonight, I won’t intervene in her life anymore—even if it’s for her own good. I’ll have to treat her like any other assignment. Otherwise, I’ll fuck up and get attached.