during
my life in New York and stare down at it. The desire to claim my cash from
the bank and know I have it is powerful, but out of the blue, an image of
Liam comes to my mind. He’s a billionaire, a man who has the money to
find out anything he wants to know about just about anyone, including me.
How do I know that whoever is chasing me doesn’t have just as much
money? What if my cards are all flagged or tracked in some way? I sigh with
painful resignation and slip my card back into my wallet. If I touch that
money it has to be on my way out of town, or maybe the country. My gut
says I should keep my cash card and my old identification that lets me
withdraw larger amounts in my purse, just in case.
Removing the new card my handler has given me, I slide it into the
machine and punch in the code I’ve been given, searching for my balance.
My name comes up on the account and I wonder how my handler managed
to set up the account without my signature. My balance is $5000. My new
rent is $2200, but it’s paid for this month already. I have no idea if I really
will get more money as promised, and I’m too cautious to assume I will.
That means I have to hold onto two months’ rent to feel secure until I see
another cash deposit in this account. That leaves me with $800 to buy
clothes and food. I’ll need more money to survive. Please let there be more
money.
My head begins to spin and I remind myself my handler said he’d
deposit weekly installments into this account, but when? On what day? Do I
have utility bills to consider? I remove the card and head into the lobby.
There is no way I’m letting anyone, not even my handler, track me by my
card number. I’m withdrawing all the money now.
***
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in a dressing room in a store by the mall,
wearing a pair of black shorts and a pink tank top, with a cheap, but cute,
pair of black Colosseum-style sandals on my feet. And what a relief they
are. In only a few blocks my feet are blistered—or, as my father used to say,
my dogs are barking. I’m going to take the tags to the cash register and
wear my clothes out of the store.
I’m just gathering together several other small items, enough to
make three cost-effective outfits that I can wash and rotate, when the
phone in my bag starts ringing. I sit down on the wooden bench against the
wall and listen to it, fighting the urge to pull it from the bag. I should have
taken the phone by the hotel first, but the idea of walking into that fancy
place with my t-shirt and skirt on was too much. And now it’s ringing and it
can be only one person. Liam. Liam is calling me and I want to answer.
Without a conscious decision to do so, I reach in my bag and pull out
the box holding the phone. It stops ringing and starts back up almost
instantly. I set the box down on the seat and stare at it like it’s some kind of
alien. It stops ringing again and my stomach twists and turns like rope in a
tangled mess. I’m a tangled mess. A beeping sound comes next. A message.
Liam has left a message and I don’t even think. As if I want to prove I am
indeed a mess, I snatch up the box and open it, punching the message line
and listening.
I haven’t heard from you and we both know you’re in some kind of
trouble. Call me, Amy.
Don’t text. I need to know you are okay. If I don’t hear from you in the
next fifteen minutes I’m leaving my meeting and heading to your
apartment.
A thunderstorm of emotions rushes through me, and I let the phone
drop to my lap. Liam is worried about me? He’s going to leave a meeting to
check on me? He barely knows me. Why would he do that? We both know
you’re in some kind of trouble. I squeeze my eyes shut, conflicted clear to
my soul. No one worries about me. No one should know enough to know to
worry about me. But Liam does. He does and I want him to. I want him. The
phone starts to ring again and I can barely catch my breath. I
my life in New York and stare down at it. The desire to claim my cash from
the bank and know I have it is powerful, but out of the blue, an image of
Liam comes to my mind. He’s a billionaire, a man who has the money to
find out anything he wants to know about just about anyone, including me.
How do I know that whoever is chasing me doesn’t have just as much
money? What if my cards are all flagged or tracked in some way? I sigh with
painful resignation and slip my card back into my wallet. If I touch that
money it has to be on my way out of town, or maybe the country. My gut
says I should keep my cash card and my old identification that lets me
withdraw larger amounts in my purse, just in case.
Removing the new card my handler has given me, I slide it into the
machine and punch in the code I’ve been given, searching for my balance.
My name comes up on the account and I wonder how my handler managed
to set up the account without my signature. My balance is $5000. My new
rent is $2200, but it’s paid for this month already. I have no idea if I really
will get more money as promised, and I’m too cautious to assume I will.
That means I have to hold onto two months’ rent to feel secure until I see
another cash deposit in this account. That leaves me with $800 to buy
clothes and food. I’ll need more money to survive. Please let there be more
money.
My head begins to spin and I remind myself my handler said he’d
deposit weekly installments into this account, but when? On what day? Do I
have utility bills to consider? I remove the card and head into the lobby.
There is no way I’m letting anyone, not even my handler, track me by my
card number. I’m withdrawing all the money now.
***
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in a dressing room in a store by the mall,
wearing a pair of black shorts and a pink tank top, with a cheap, but cute,
pair of black Colosseum-style sandals on my feet. And what a relief they
are. In only a few blocks my feet are blistered—or, as my father used to say,
my dogs are barking. I’m going to take the tags to the cash register and
wear my clothes out of the store.
I’m just gathering together several other small items, enough to
make three cost-effective outfits that I can wash and rotate, when the
phone in my bag starts ringing. I sit down on the wooden bench against the
wall and listen to it, fighting the urge to pull it from the bag. I should have
taken the phone by the hotel first, but the idea of walking into that fancy
place with my t-shirt and skirt on was too much. And now it’s ringing and it
can be only one person. Liam. Liam is calling me and I want to answer.
Without a conscious decision to do so, I reach in my bag and pull out
the box holding the phone. It stops ringing and starts back up almost
instantly. I set the box down on the seat and stare at it like it’s some kind of
alien. It stops ringing again and my stomach twists and turns like rope in a
tangled mess. I’m a tangled mess. A beeping sound comes next. A message.
Liam has left a message and I don’t even think. As if I want to prove I am
indeed a mess, I snatch up the box and open it, punching the message line
and listening.
I haven’t heard from you and we both know you’re in some kind of
trouble. Call me, Amy.
Don’t text. I need to know you are okay. If I don’t hear from you in the
next fifteen minutes I’m leaving my meeting and heading to your
apartment.
A thunderstorm of emotions rushes through me, and I let the phone
drop to my lap. Liam is worried about me? He’s going to leave a meeting to
check on me? He barely knows me. Why would he do that? We both know
you’re in some kind of trouble. I squeeze my eyes shut, conflicted clear to
my soul. No one worries about me. No one should know enough to know to
worry about me. But Liam does. He does and I want him to. I want him. The
phone starts to ring again and I can barely catch my breath. I
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