“My privilege? Does this look like a face that’s privileged?”
He points to his face, to make his point, like he thinks maybe I haven’t looked at him in the last twenty seconds, like maybe I forgot what he looks like, but he still doesn’t get it.
“Yeah, it does,” I say. “I hate to break it to you, but your face isn’t a detriment. It’s not. If anything, it helps you. People take you seriously, not only because you’re a man but because you’re a man who clearly went through hell. They don’t look at you and see something broken. They see something strong, something that won’t break, because you’re still standing, despite everything. It intimidates them. They respect you for it. But if you were a woman? You’d be ruined. The world would look at you and think ‘aw, poor thing, someone broke her, she must be so weak.’ That’s what they think about a woman who has been though hell. Believe me, I know.”
“I don’t think you’re weak.“
“But you think I’m broken,” I say. “You asked me who broke me, like I’m made of glass and someone can just shatter me and scatter my pieces, like I’m that fragile. I might be hurt, I might be beat down, but I’ll be goddamn if a man will ever break me, Lorenzo. But the world can’t comprehend a woman being that strong. We’re supposed to buckle and break, like the only time we can possibly have any strength is if there’s someone with a dick standing by our side. It’s like a penis is a prerequisite for an opinion, so if I don’t have one myself, I’ve got to be utilizing someone else’s in order to have any say-so in my own fucking life.”
He stares at me like I’m speaking some foreign language that he’s never heard before, and I’m suddenly wondering what kind of women this man spends his time with, because they certainly can’t be the type to stand up to him. “I haven’t the faintest fucking idea what to say right now, Scarlet.”
“Of course you don’t,” I say. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to pretend to be helpless just to stay safe. There’s a reason girls yell ‘fire’ instead of ‘rape’, why we lie and say we have boyfriends instead of just saying ‘no’ when we’re not interested. Because a lot of men respect another man’s property more than they respect a woman’s right to her own body. So while I’m forced to live in a man’s world, I do what I have to do. And if that means taking my clothes off for some schmuck with a few bucks, then by golly, I’ll do it, no matter how you feel about it.”
I get up, to leave, because he’s really touching a nerve right now and I’m dangerously close to doing something insanely stupid, like trying to fling him off of the roof. Wrapping my arms around my chest, my fishnet-covered feet trudge a few steps toward the door back down to my apartment when his voice calls out. “I get it.”
I stall, turning around. “Do you?”
“Mimicry,” he says, swinging around to face me. “You be whoever they need you to be.”
Exactly.
“And I didn’t mean to hurt you when I said you were broken,” he continues. “It’s just a word, you know. Broken. Just a fucking word. Hell, you can call me broken if you want. You can call me anything.”
“Except Scar?”
He reacts as soon as I say it, body tensing, hands clenching in his lap. “You can call me that, too, if that’s what you really want. Doesn’t make a bit of damn difference.”
“You say that as you make fists, like you want to punch me for it.”
“Maybe I do,” he says, standing up, strolling toward me. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to, though. It’s a free country, Scarlet. Choose your own adventure. If you’d rather keep bending over for with these yellow-bellied motherfuckers, I won’t begrudge you for it. But if you want to try something else, I’m sure I can find a place for you.”
“I won’t fuck you.”
“We’ve already fucked.”
“I mean I won’t be your whore,” I say. “So don’t think I’m some thing you can just have or use or pass around. Nobody touches me without my permission, so don’t think—”
“I don’t think it,” he says, cutting me off. “Wasn’t my intention. You’ve got other assets, you know… pussy isn’t the only thing you’ve got going for you.” He grabs my wrist, pulling my arm up, his thumb pressing against the pulse point beneath my tattoo. I can tell it annoys him, not knowing what it stands for. “You’re smart… stealthy… sharp... am I even getting close?”
I shake my head.
His cheek twitches. “Regardless, you are. You’re slick, Scarlet, and I don’t mean that in the wet pussy kind of way, although, well…” He pauses as he looks me over, like he’s lost his train of thought, before he shakes it off, letting go of my wrist. “I’m just saying sex isn’t all you’re good for. You don’t want to fuck me? That’s fine. Under no circumstances is fucking me a requirement. But I’ve seen what you’re capable of. So maybe you’re right, about being a woman. I don’t know, because I’m not one. Maybe, to make it on these streets, you need someone in your corner. In that case, you need to reassess who that someone is, because if they’re not taking you seriously, Scarlet? If they don’t see you for the threat you are? They’re doing you no goddamn good, because when trouble comes, they buckle, baby. They’re the ones who aren’t strong.”
He stares at me, like he’s awaiting some reaction, some sort of intelligent response to that declaration, but he’s kind of rendered me speechless, so I just offer him his own words. “I haven’t the faintest fucking idea what to say to that, Lorenzo.”
A smile cracks his face as he grasps my chin, tilting my face up further, and holding me there. His touch sends sparks through my body, my heart racing in my chest. Working for him would be dangerous, very dangerous, in every conceivable way, and I’m just not sure if that’s a risk I can take.
“You just think about it,” he says. “Jamaica Estates over in Queens… it’s a white house on Midland, not far from Grand Central Parkway. You want me, that’s where you’ll find me. My door’s always open. Literally. I don’t lock my doors, either.”
His thumb lightly swipes across my bottom lip before he pulls away, letting go, his hand leaving my skin.
I just stand here as he leaves, waiting until he’s gone before returning to my apartment. I shower and change clothes, grabbing my oversized black hoodie, tugging it on before leaving, too.
I need to clear my head. I need to make sense of this mess.
I need to make another trek to Brooklyn.
Dry heat billows from the vent in the ceiling right above me, ruffling my frizzy hair, blowing wayward strands into my face.
I don’t bother pushing them away.
It feels like Death Valley in this glass cube they call an office, the fluorescent lights too bright and the air too warm. My palms are sweaty, hands shoved in the pocket of my hoodie. Every breath makes my lungs burn, stiff and achy in my chest, like smoke inhalation got the best of me this morning.
I’m still high.
I can feel it.
The blinds are up and the door is propped open, giving a clear view inside the office, so anyone walking past can see me sitting here. It’s unnerving, but I’m grateful for the openness. It means the detective is too busy to think about hanky-panky right now.
He’s been in and out of the office for the past thirty minutes, barely acknowledging my presence, shuffling through paperwork and muttering under his breath. I’m curious what he’s working on, but if I ask he’ll just say it isn’t any of my business, even if it is... he doesn’t tell me anything.
I stare past him, beyond him, out of the office window of the precinct, a stream of sunlight reflecting off the glass, reminding me of the orange glow this morning. “Two hundred and eighty sunrises.”
Gabe shuffles through a few files as he says, “You shouldn’t be here, Morgan.”
That’s what he always says.