The next time it happened, I opened my eyes a slit. It was a boy, probably only a few years older than me, twenty at the most. It wasn’t the lecherous old man that I’d imagined. It was a boy, like any boy I might pass on the street or go to school with. His hand was up my shirt again, but this time, I reacted.

I spun around and grabbed his balls in my hand through his grubby shorts. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes as they locked onto mine: surprise, quickly developing into overwhelming lust. He actually thought I was going to jerk him off for a second, I’m sure of it. He let out a stuttering sigh and pressed his hips forward, grinding his erection against my arm, and that was when I snapped. I started squeezing, slowly at first. Then, as I increased the pressure, I began digging my nails in. At first he enjoyed it. He groaned. His hand was still up my shirt, and he began fumbling for my breast again.

The feeling of his hands on my skin made me want to throw up. I squeezed harder. And harder. And harder. Eventually, the motherfucker got the idea that I was less pleased about being groped in my sleep than he’d first thought.

He started to squirm, trying to get away, but I held on as tightly as I could, pressing my nails into the soft, delicate skin, until my hand had formed a fist around one of his balls and it felt like it was going to pop. I had him screaming by the end. He had to punch me in the side of the head to make me let go.

By the time Vaughn got back from his shift, both of our belongings were packed up and I was sitting on the shelter steps with the center manager, who told my brother I’d assaulted another resident during the night and I was lucky the young man in question didn’t want to press charges.

I didn’t tell the center manager why I’d nearly castrated the guy who’d climbed into bed with me. Admitting that I’d been violated like that somehow seemed like an admission of weakness. Vaughn never questioned me about it. He must have been able to tell from the look on my face that there was more to the story. That the guy must have gotten what was coming to him.

Vaughn didn’t work nightshifts after that, though. I was never alone overnight in another shelter by myself again. And I’ve never since let a man touch me without my permission.

I could give a fuck about a guy’s sexual gratification. I’ve gotten down on my knees and given more than one blow job and ended it before ejaculation; I’ve climbed off a guy’s lap once I’ve come, irrespective of whether or not he has. You’d think this would incense most men, fill them with a sort of rage, make them swear they never wanted to see me again for as long as they lived, but for some reason, the opposite happens. It makes me mysterious, enigmatic, perhaps, or tantalizingly frustrating. Or perhaps someone they just wanted to conquer. Except they never can, because I won’t let them. Even during my most intense orgasm, I never lose myself the way a man does. I’m always fully aware, so I can maintain the correct dynamic between me and my bedfellow. I own them. They never own me.

I’m planning on doing the exact same thing with Aidan. I’m experienced enough by now to know that I’ll be able to pull it off, and what could be more satisfying than ruining a man’s business, taking the roof from over his head, the clothes from his back?

Crushing his spirit, of course.

I know just how good that is going to feel.

THIRTEEN

AIDAN

I decide to walk to the restaurant. I have a car, but it’s a pain in the ass to drive in the city. I have a driver because it’s basically expected of me, but I hate using him. Ray’s not a bad guy, actually. I use him more than I’d like, only because going out in public has become more of a chore every single year. Oh, if my friends in Hawaii could see me now.

It’s not that I don’t want to go out, but it’s so fucking awful to be recognized all the time. I know there are a lot of people out there who wouldn’t mind fame and fortune, but living with it every day is crippling. Those people who crave attention don’t realize what a gift it is to be able to go out and not have anyone follow you, or try to take your picture. Yes, once in a while it might be nice to be recognized or admired, but when it happens every single day, when you can’t even go across the street and grab a coffee without complete and utter chaos developing around you, it quickly loses its novelty. In fact, it’s enough to make you want to disappear forever.

So, that’s why I use Ray sometimes. At least the darkly tinted windows of the Lincoln get me from one place to another without being manhandled by half of the city.

Tonight, though, I wear an old Nixon baseball cap pulled down low. It’s faded out and beaten up from the hours and days I used to wear it spun around, peak backward at the beach in Hawaii. Now, it’s my favorite hat to wear when I need to go out and need to be unrecognized—hasn’t failed me yet. Perhaps it’s because I can hide behind the brim, my nose and my mouth the only real visible parts of my face. If I keep my head down, I could be anyone walking down the street.

It is nice to be out walking, to be anonymous, to be able to overhear people’s conversations, conversations that have nothing to do with me, about people I don’t know and will probably never meet. I’m basically an auditory voyeur. The discussions I overhear are formed around the most mundane things:

“Tell Jen I’m running five minutes late.”

“Will you get more baby wipes while you’re out?”

“I’m going to pick up a pizza for dinner.”

These little snippets bleed into the air around me as I walk on by. It seems so strange to think that all over the world, this very second, billions of people are busy acting out the plays of their lives. I am walking to a restaurant to meet a woman that I’ve had my eye on for almost five years now, though she doesn’t know it. That woman in the green dress is on her way home from work. Those two guys are going to a Cubs game, even though they’re certain the Cubs won’t make it to the playoffs this year. Somewhere in the city, someone is giving birth. Someone is dying. Someone’s fucking a hooker. Someone’s tucking their infant daughter into bed. It’s so strange to think of all the things people are out doing. As I walk, I wonder what Essie is thinking, what she’s doing.

She’s probably getting ready. She’s probably getting ready and maybe she’s feeling a little nervous. I don’t want her to feel nervous; if anything, I want to put her at ease, though I’m also still a bit confused as to why all this is happening now. Did she really just email me out of the blue about going on a date?

A part of me wants to tell her I’ve kept track of her all these years. I think it would be hard for her to understand, though. She’ll automatically assume I did so in a creepy way. I prefer to think it was more a guardian angel type thing. Arturo thought I was mad to even bother. When Essie didn’t file a lawsuit against the Callahan Corporation, he wanted me to stay the hell away from her and, ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ He definitely didn’t want to have her working at the law firm. The grouchy old bastard sweetened to her as time went by, though. Before he died, he actually asked me to continue watching over her since he wouldn’t be around to do it himself anymore.

My mind drifts as I walk. For a moment, I’m laying on my back on my surf board, staring up at the faded out denim blue of a sky far away, the sound of the ocean filling my ears, the motion of the vast body of water rocking me gently.

And then I’m back.

Perhaps it’s not that strange that Essie emailed me. Working at the law firm, of course she would have seen me, and though the idea still seems baffling to me. I have somehow become one of the most eligible bachelors in Chicago. Girls talk about me. Plenty have tried various tactics to get me to take them out on a date. Really, Essie’s approach has been the most straightforward.