But when he shakes his head, I know exactly why he hasn’t told Mike. “You bastard. You think I’m going to thank you for not telling him? By sleeping with you. Let me guess, you have a car outside you want me to follow you to and then after, you can just drop me off on Mike’s doorstep.”

For the first time since he sat down, he appears angry. “Jesus, Athena. How the hell do you come up with this stuff?”

“Tell me I’m wrong.” I want to believe he’s wrong. He’s never looked at me with that look. The one men look at me with when they realize what I am. That’s probably one of the only reasons I’m still at the table with him.

“You’re wrong.”

“Fine then.” I cross my arms. “Tell me why you sat at my table to begin with.”

“Answer one question first.” At my nod, he continues. “Did Isaiah know you were coming here to shop?”

It’s the most absurd question in the absolute most absurd conversation I’ve ever been in. It’s so absurd, I don’t hesitate to answer. “No. He just knew I was shopping. He didn’t know where.”

“That’s why.”

“Because Isaiah doesn’t know where I am?”

“Exactly. Because I’m guessing it’d make him just a little upset to know you were in the same mall as the younger Mrs. Martin, his wife. Three tables away from her to be exact.”

Chapter Thirteen

He’s saying something else, but I can't make out what over the buzzing in my ears. I’m going to faint. I feel clammy, and spots dance before my eyes.  The edge of my vision starts to go fuzzy, and someone is pushing my head down.

“Damn it.” It’s Harris and he’s whispering. “Breathe. You better not pass out. That’s all we need is for you to call attention to us.”

I inhale deeply through my nose and exhale through my mouth. Little by little, things settle down a bit ,or at least I don't feel like I’m going to fall to the floor. anymore. Oh my God. Isaiah’s married. Fucking married. It can’t be true. I keep my head down for several more minutes, and when I look up, I’m furious.

“How dare you make something like that up? Seriously? Who does that?”

His lips tighten into a fine line. His blue eyes I once thought looked so good widen in surprise. “I’m not making it up. But I can understand why you might think I would.” He nods to my  left. “She’s right there. In the yellow sundress.”

I don’t want to, but I can’t help it. I slyly turn and look at her, anxious to see the woman who shares Isaiah’s name. Supposedly.

My first impression is wholesomeness. Everything about her screams the word with her- shiny brown hair and friendly brown eyes. She’s having lunch with someone, and she’s smiling at what the other woman is saying. Her skin has a faint tan, probably from sunbathing too frequently in the Vegas sun. I smile a little, the famous dry heat of the Southwest obviously took her by surprise. Not an uncommon occurrence for Southern belles. It’s clear that’s what she is. The food court isn’t that crowded. I can hear the faint cadence of the accent she shares with Isaiah.

Everything about her brands her as the type of woman Isaiah wants. Which is everything I’m not. Hell, she was probably a virgin when they got married. I really want to hate her.

She lifts her cup to her mouth and my gaze falls on her left hand. A small diamond and thin gold band grace her ring finger. I mutter a curse under my breath.

“Her name’s Lydia. She’s a nurse. Works in the NICU at Valley,” Harris says.

It’s too good to be true. She has to be the most perfect woman on the planet - beautiful, happily married, a pastor’s wife, and she cares for severely sick infants. She probably conducts cancer research in her garage during her off hours.

But again, nothing he’s saying adds up. The dots don’t connect.

I glare at Harris. “I know you’re lying. I’ve been at Isaiah’s condo for the last few days. He’s not married. His place has obviously never had a woman in it. I can’t imagine a more typical bachelor pad.”

“Right, because he’s really going to take you to the house where he keeps his wife. Fuck, Athena, were you born yesterday?” He’s pleading with me. For some reason he desperately wants me to believe Isaiah’s married. I just can’t.

Isaiah’s a pastor and he’s just starting out. Even though his family has money, he’s already told me his mother wasn’t happy about him moving to Vegas. No way would she support him enough for him to be able to afford two residences.

Besides, I remember Mrs. Martin and there’s no way she would accept Isaiah’s wife working outside of the home. It’s not done in her world.

“I don’t believe you,” I tell Harris.

“Doesn’t make it untrue.”

I stand up. I’ve had enough of Harris and his lies about Isaiah. “I have to go. There’s a saleslady holding a dress for me.”

“I have no reason to lie to you, Athena.”

“Wrong. You have every reason to lie to me. Isaiah has no reason to lie to me.” I stand up and leave the table before he can stop me. I start to walk back to the store, but out of the corner of my eye, I see the young girl and I change my mind.

***

The first time I tried to leave Mike, I told him about it.

It’s late summer and I’m done. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life having sex with strangers and Mike’s an idiot if he thinks I am. I pull a short black wig on. It won’t disguise me, but for some reason it brings me a certain amount of security. He’s standing silently in the doorway, watching me pack.

I don’t know where I’m going. To be honest, as long as it’s not here, I don’t care where it is. I have two hundred dollars in my pocket. It won’t last me long, but if I’m lucky I can find a cheap hotel room and maybe get a job sweeping floors or something. I’ll do anything that doesn’t involve sex or being naked.

It’s embarrassing how little I have to pack in the battered suitcase. There’d probably be more, but I don’t want most of what is in my apartment. I slam the top of the suitcase down and march past Mike. His smug expression pisses me off.

I’m early for the bus, which is a bad thing, because it gives me too much time to think. I keep doing the math in my head. I subtract how much the bus ticket will cost, and I’m afraid I won’t have enough money to live.

What if I don’t get a job as quickly as I think I will? How long can I afford to keep looking? Not nearly as long as I’d like. The doubts taunt me. I push them to the back of my mind because I know if I don’t leave now, I won’t ever do it. But they don’t leave me alone.

No one will hire you with zero job experience for the last year.

When the money runs out, and it will, you’ll be right back doing what you do best.

What kind of job do you think you’re qualified for anyway?

The longer I sit, the louder they get, and the more I believe them.

I revise my plan. Maybe I’ll just stay for another six months. No longer than a year. It’ll give me time to save more money. I weigh it out in my head. Is it better to do another six months and guarantee I never have to sell myself again or leave now knowing I might have to?

When I leave, I’ll never have sex for money again. Tears fill my eyes as I realize that means I should stay for now. The bus pulls up, and I feel sick because I’m not leaving on it. I tell myself it’s better this way. This way I’ll be financially secure when I do leave. And I will leave. I promise myself I will.

But something in my soul breaks, because I know that by deciding to stay, I’m choosing the life of a prostitute.

I don’t watch as the bus drives off. It’s enough that I smell the fumes from the bench I’m sitting on. Footsteps approach me. Slow. Even. Methodical. I brace myself for the inevitable.