Raw, стр. 14
I hear the latch click over as Twitch walks out of my apartment. I’m not really sure what I expected…but that was not it. I think I expected at least a goodnight.
My brow furrows. My brain works overtime.
With that exit, I’m left feeling like a hooker who paid her hero back through sexual favors.
And I suddenly feel dirty.
Standing on shaky legs, our combined juices run down my legs as I make it the bathroom just in time to throw up.
I woke this morning in a foul mood. This was expected. I went to bed in a foul mood, so it makes sense to wake up in one too.
After Twitch left and I made my mad dash to the bathroom to lose the contents of my stomach, I showered for the second time that night to wash the dirty feeling off of me. And while I was showering, I wondered what in the hell I was thinking allowing a man I don’t know – a potentially dangerous man – to have his way with me.
My mind blanked. I had no answer.
It was a stupid thing to do. Something I’ll never do again. I vow to never do anything like that again.
Because I am better than that.
“What’s up your ass today?” asks Ling through narrowed eyes.
I barely spare her a glance and keep reading the newspaper without answering. But, Ling being Ling, she can’t help herself. “No, seriously, Twitch? Or should I drop the t-w and add a b instead?”
I hear the smile in her voice and I want to turn her over my knee. This wouldn’t be an unusual thing between us. In fact, most mornings lead to a hard and rough quickie. But my mind is on last night. In short, I’m not up to it.
More like my cock isn’t up to it. Ling is not the person he wants to play with.
I’m rethinking a lot of things since last night. I take a good look around me, at the rooms of my house that are visible from the dining table, and I think the view should make me happy. But today, it doesn’t.
What do you do when the goal you’ve been working toward your whole life goes up in a cloud of smoke?
Right. You find a new goal.
As of today, my new goal is set.
Lexi.
I smile cruelly into my paper.
I’m going to break her.
A week has passed.
A week of bad moods. A week of gut churning anxiety. A week of silent depression.
Sigh.
It’s been a hard week.
Why, you ask?
Well, that’s quite simple. Twitch has disappeared.
Throughout the week I’ve been keeping an eye out for him, hoping he’ll show. Make an appearance. Something. I normally feel his eyes on me before I even see him. Feel something. But, he’s just… gone.
Which leaves me with the following thoughts racing through my head:
Was the sex really that bad? So bad that your stalker dumped you? I know it was awkward, but it ended well…didn’t it?
Being dropped by your stalker is pretty bad. I mean he watches you week-in, week-out for almost a year, and then you have sex and he’s like ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. We no longer require your position as victim. Don’t call us; we’ll call you. It’s not you…it’s me. We’re just at different stages of our stalker/stalkee relationship. I need space.’
How pathetic are you? You’re actually ticked off that your stalker is no longer skulking around in the shadows. That’s just…pitiful.
I know it’s weird, dammit! Which is part of the reason for my super bad mood. So when I settle at my desk, bring my coffee to my lips, and am I’m interrupted by a knock at the door, I growl. Yes. Actually growl out loud. “What is it?”
Charlie appears there, poking his sweet round face into my office, “Hey Lex, you got a minute?”
How could I ever be mad at Charlie? He’s always so polite and gentle when he speaks. I feel like a bitch for growling at him. He makes me feel even worse when his face shows worry and he asks quietly, “Lex, are you okay? You look a little down.”
Shit. Make me feel like a turd, why don’t you?!
Forcing a smile, I tell him, “Just a little headache is all. Nothing a few painkillers won’t fix.”
His worry doesn’t cease. “I can get someone else to do this. It’s not a big deal.”
Smiling harder, I slap my desk. “Lay it on me, Charles! What’s up?”
Seeming convinced I’m okay, he explains, “We’ve got a new sponsor. A plastics company who wants to make a yearly contribution for the next five years.”
That is awesome! Although we’re government funded, there are tons of non-profit organizations and charities out there who need money to keep doing what they’re doing. The government helps out where they can, but the funds are limited and most of them miss out. Which is truly sad. Services like women’s shelters, and homeless dinner drop-off and drop-in centers for street kids depend on private donations to stay afloat. And if we’re talking a five year commitment, we must be talking big money.
Containing my sudden excitement, I ask quietly, “How much per year?”
Charlie’s smile gleams, “Five-hundred-thousand.”
And I grip the edges on my desk to stop myself from sliding onto the floor in a clean swoon.
That is a lot of dough for one company to give. That’s two-point-five-million dollars over five years! That is incredible…amazing…astounding! This is an amount we can work with to make something big happen. Big money over a period of time means big projects.
I’m giddy!
Standing so quickly my head spins, I walk over to Charlie and place my hands on his forearms, gripping them in excitement. I open my mouth to convey my level of excitement…but nothing comes out. Charlie watches my mouth gape and chuckles softly. “This is why I wanted it to be you that took the details.” His eyes turn soft. “No one cares about people more than you do, Lex.”
Finding my voice, I smile my first genuine smile in a week. “Send them in.”
Charlies smile falters, “Okay. But Lex…” He drifts off and I raise my brows in question. But Charlie shakes his head slowly and utters, “Just…just remember our motto, yeah?”
Turning, he walks out of my office, leaving me confused and wary. Our motto.
Equality over stereotype.
In our field, we deal with all kinds of people from different backgrounds, races, and religions. There is no such thing as normal in our job. And the sad truth is that it’s easy to place a stereotype on a person you don’t know. One look at a person is all it takes for our minds to be made up on the type of person we think they are.
And ninety-nine percent of the time, we are wrong.
Well, now I’m a little nervous. Taking my coffee, I walk towards the door, when my heel catches. I wobble on the spot a moment and manage to steady myself, but not before spilling coffee down my arm and onto the floor.
Lifting my head in silent prayer, I breathe deeply, then walk around my desk, pulling a handful of napkins out of my drawer. Lifting my skirt an inch, I kneel down on the floor and start to mop up the mess.