“Do it,” I say.
He makes one thin slash on my inner thigh, so quick and sharp that the pain flares and vanishes all in an instant, before I even register it. Blood wells up, darker than wine. He catches it on his tongue, lapping the shallow wound, and then closing his mouth over it. I feel his tongue sliding across raw nerve, and then the gentle sucking as he latches on.
His mouth soothes me.
I lean back against the wall, eyes closed, fingers slipping into his thick, soft hair once more.
I scratch my nails gently against his scalp while he sucks at the cut. When he pulls back at last, I’m no longer bleeding.
I look at the mark, thin and clean. I know from experience this won’t scar.
It’s the ones you cut deep, the ones that are ragged, the ones you make over others that are still healing: those stay forever.
Cole rises, pulling me up with him. He kisses me on the mouth. I taste the sweet musk of my pussy and the metal of my own blood. Neither feels wrong. In fact, it’s a combination so perfect I might have come up with it myself, given enough time to experiment.
The orgasms have made me placid and calm.
“What do you want me to wear?” I ask Cole.
He drives us to Neiman Marcus on Geary Street. The venerable stone building stands on the corner, its layers of glass display windows impossibly chic and imposing even from a distance.
“Can’t we just go to Urban Outfitters or something?” I grumble.
Already I’m regretting the cooperative spirit that prompted me to climb in Cole’s passenger seat. I don’t want to go in some stuffy store where the sales ladies are sure to give me the kind of side-eye employed on Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. They can tell when you’re poor, when you don’t belong.
“Or better yet,” I say, “I can keep wearing your clothes.”
Cole let me borrow a pair of his old-money woolen trousers and a cashmere sweater. He even punched a new hole halfway down one of his belts to keep the pants up. It’s all way too big for me, but I like baggy clothing.
“Absolutely not,” Cole says. “That was a desperate measure. One we’re about to rectify.”
Just walking through the doors makes me uncomfortable. We have to pass under the glare of two security guards, entrusted with keeping the homeless people out. I’d feel more relaxed in one of the many tents camped out in Union Square. I’d rather smoke a blunt with one of those dudes than cringe under the aggressive, “Good morning! What are you two shopping for today?” from a lipsticked blonde brandishing a perfume bottle.
“Good morning,” Cole replies, coolly ignoring the rest of the question as he sweeps past her, keeping his vice grip on my arm while he steers me onto the steep escalator to the upper levels.
Compared to the crowded streets outside, the ladies’ department feels oddly empty. I stare around at the pristine racks of clothing, organized by designer, bright and rich and appealing, but unseen by anyone else. We’re alone up here, except for a few scattered sales associates.
“Where is everyone?” I whisper to Cole.
“There is no ‘everyone.’ You’re shopping with the one percent—there’s not that many of us.”
The surreal silence unnerves me. I approach a rack of fall coats, gingerly lifting one sleeve. The material is thick and heavy, with elaborate embroidery along the cuff. Real elk-horn buttons are handsewn along the placket, and the fur trim on the collar is so rich and soft that it immediately makes me think of Arctic animals that burrow in the snow.
Flipping over the tag, I let out a startled bark of laughter.
“Eight thousand dollars?” I squeak to Cole. “For one coat? What’s it made out of—hair clippings from Ryan Gosling?”
It boggles my mind that someone could stroll around in an outfit that represents a year’s earnings for me. I mean, I knew expensive clothing existed, but I’ve never actually touched it before.
It feels different in every way. It smells different in here. I’ve stepped into another world—the world of privilege, where numbers become meaningless, and you just swipe your card for whatever you want.
Cole’s not even looking at the price tags. He grabs whatever catches his eye, laying the garments over his arm. Before I can blink, a saleswoman materializes, saying with unctuous politeness, “Can I start you a fitting room, sir?”
Cole hands her the clothes, already striding toward the next rack. He surveys each collection with a practiced eye, pulling out a mix of tops and bottoms, dresses and coats.
I don’t even try to help him. I’m intimidated and conflicted. I always wanted to make money, but I never really pictured myself using it. I have too much resentment for the rich to ever really believe I’d become one of them.
Besides, I’m not rich. I sold one single painting.
Cole is beyond rich. And apparently planning to splash out a lot more money on a new wardrobe than I was expecting.
I grab his arm, muttering, “This stuff is too expensive.”
He takes my hand, pulling me toward the fitting room.
“You don’t know anything about money. This isn’t expensive—it’s pocket change.”
That only makes me feel worse.
The economic chasm between Cole and me is far wider than any of our other differences. We both lived in hundred-year-old San Francisco houses, but mine was a moldering shack and his a literal palace. The more I step into his world, the more I see how little of it I understood from a distance. He knows everyone in this city, everyone that matters. They’re intimidated by him, they owe him favors.
He can accomplish things with a snap of his fingers that I couldn’t manage in a hundred years. Even people who don’t know the Blackwell name, like this woman waiting on us, even she falls under the spell of the effortless confidence that tells her Cole is someone of value, someone who must be obeyed.
I have never been someone of value.
Not to anybody.