Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
“Please,” he says, his voice oddly devoid of emotion. “Feel free to use my desk any time.”
“Thanks.” I swallow.
He waves at the folder. “Those are good. Have you been doing this for long?”
I dare to face him again. “Since forever, it seems. I’d been selling some in secret. Gus and my mom don’t know, so I’ll appreciate it if you don’t mention this to them.”
“You’re talented.”
I clear my throat. “Thank you.”
“You said sold, as in past tense.”
“The guy who sold them at his flea market stand for me was afraid Gus would find out, so he stopped.”
“You should be publishing comic art, not waste your time in a tattoo parlor.”
“I’m grateful for the job, Leon.”
He nods, the gesture stiff. “Maybe we should take a raincheck on that dinner.”
I swallow again, trying to ease the tightness of my throat. “Okay.”
Tilting his head toward the entrance table, he says, “Your new identity documents arrived. They’re in the envelope.”
“Um, thanks.”
Rapping his knuckles on the balustrade, he nods as if to himself this time. A second passes before he turns on his heel, takes his jacket and his keys, and walks through the door.
Stupefied, I remain rooted to the spot.
The reason I hide my drawings and never sign my name on them is because of Leon’s reaction. He’s even more disgusted with me now.
The thing is, I’m not disgusted with myself, not for my drawings. For the theft, yes. But the drawings are part of me, and I refuse to be shamed for who I am.
The engine of Leon’s sportscar starts up. If I hadn’t been so engrossed in my drawing, I would’ve heard his car when he arrived. I would’ve had time to hide the folder.
Maybe it’s better like this, with less secrets between us.
Somehow, I feel lighter. That doesn’t prevent the tears from running over my cheeks when the sound of his car grows silent in the distance, and once again, I’m left alone in his prison with the official document to prove just how trapped I am.
CHAPTER 12
Leon
It hurts like a plaster that’s been ripped off, bothering me with a lingering burn.
Violet has neatly catalogued her feelings for me in a picture book of stunningly expressive images. Just like the heart she carries on her sleeve.
I’m the monster in those pictures, the alien who imprisons the female time after time in various scenarios of humiliation and downright torture. And I don’t like the picture she painted of me. The sensual Violet with her violent sexual tastes is a part of every image. Those pictures must’ve sold for quite a few bucks, because they’re raw and honest and fucking potent. Her mind is amazing.
Yet, as my mother used to say, the truth hurts.
Out of options and tired of facing a dead-end street wherever I turn, I call Ashley. She’s one of the sex workers I visited a few times. We met in Zambia. The last time I saw her, she told me she was moving back to Johannesburg. She sent me a text message with her new number shortly after. That was two years ago. There’s a good chance she changed jobs or her number. She may not answer unlisted numbers.
I must still have some luck left, because just when I think the call will go onto voicemail, she picks up with, “Ashley, here.”
“Ash? It’s Leon.”
“Well, well,” she drawls. “Leon Hart. Hold on. I’m checking through the window. It must be snowing.”
“Yeah. It’s been a while.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Are you busy tonight?”
“I have a client at nine, but for you I’ll move him to next week,” she says in a sultry tone.
“I’m not calling for business. I just need to talk.”
“Shocker. How disappointing. I was already looking forward to your legendary skills.”
“I’m married now.” I switch on the indicator to take the highway, but I have no idea where I’m going.
“Holy shit.” She’s quiet for a couple of beats. “Give me a moment. I’m battling to wrap my head around what you just said.”
“Can you meet me? I’ll double the money you would’ve earned.”
“Sure. Why not? What do you have in mind?”
“I booked a restaurant for eight. Oscars. Do you know it?”
She whistles. “You don’t fool around. Your treat, and I can have anything on the menu.”
“As always. Do you need a ride?”
“I prefer to make my own way there, if you don’t mind. I like to keep my escape options open. You know, in case the conversation gets boring. Besides, I have a nice new Porsche and I still need to run in the engine.”
I chuckle. “The dress code is formal.”
“I know what the dress code is.” She blows a kiss into the phone and hangs up.
I drive around aimlessly for a while, not able to return home because I’m a mess. Seeing that I have two hours to kill, I make a quick decision and head toward the gym in Randburg. My membership is current even though I’ve been working out at home since I bought the house.