Chapter 97: The Virgin's Pursuit
The alley air was a cold slap after the sweat-drenched heat of the club. Lydia tugged her ruined silk top together, the fabric irreparably split where eager hands had torn it open. She could still feel the thick, sticky proof of multiple men sliding down the inside of her thigh, a visceral reminder that made her shiver with something that wasn’t quite regret. It was just a fact. A testament.
She took two steps toward the buzzing main street, her heels clicking on the wet pavement, when the hurried scuffle of shoes made her turn.
“Wait!”
It was the boy. The one with the trembling hands and the stunned, reverent eyes. He’d pulled his jeans back on but his shirt was still misbuttoned, his face pale under the flickering neon sign of a pawn shop.
She stopped, arching an eyebrow. “Forget something?”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing violently. “I… I didn’t get your name. I’m Leo.”
“Lydia,” she said, the name feeling oddly formal on her lips after what he’d done to her, after what she’d let him do.
“Lydia.” He tested it, like it was a sacred word. Then he blurted it out, the words tumbling over each other. “Can I take you to dinner?”
A laugh punched out of her, raw and unexpected. It echoed off the brick walls. “Dinner? Leo, I just had your cock in my ass. You don’t take a woman to dinner after that.”
He flinched, but his gaze held. A stubborn, beautiful innocence. “Why not?”
“Because that’s not how this works. This,” she gestured vaguely between them and back toward the velvet-draped door of the club, “is a transaction. A fuck. It’s not a date.”
“I want it to be,” he insisted, his voice gaining a shred of courage. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “You’re… you’re incredible. I’ve never… I want to talk to you. Just talk.”
Her amusement softened into something closer to pity, but a sweet, beguiling pity. He was so painfully young. So untouched by the grinding cynicism that had carved out her own soul over these last months. He reminded her of her students, in a way, but one who had seen her laid bare and fucked raw and still looked at her like she was a miracle.
She stepped closer. The scent of him—young sweat, cheap soap, and the faint, unmistakable musk of sex—washed over her. She reached up and traced the line of his jaw with her thumb. His skin was smooth, barely needing a shave. “You’re adorable,” she murmured, and she meant it. “But you have no idea what you’re asking for. I’m not a nice girl. This isn’t a romance.”
“I don’t care,” he whispered, his eyes wide and fixed on hers.
She saw the determination there, brittle but real. She thought of Dima, sitting in his cold cell, of the ledger she’d hidden, of the gulf between the woman she was tonight and the wife she’d been a year ago. What was one more complication? One more surreal twist in this fucking carnival her life had become?
A wicked, tired grin spread across her face. “What the hell,” she sighed, the fight draining out of her. “Alright, Leo. You can buy me dinner.”
His entire face lit up, a sunrise of pure, unadulterated joy. “Really?”
“Really. But not now. I need a shower. I need to…” she glanced down at herself, “become a person again. Meet me at Giovanni’s on Seventh. The little Italian place with the red awning. Nine o’clock.”
“Giovanni’s. On Seventh. Nine.” He repeated it like a prayer. He was stunned, his grin becoming manic, splitting his face. “Okay. Yes. I’ll be there. I… thank you. Okay. Goodbye, Lydia.”
He didn’t move. He just stood there, grinning like a fool, until she laughed again, the sound genuine and delighted this time. It broke the spell. He gave an awkward little wave, turned, and almost tripped over a discarded bottle before righting himself and half-walking, half-jogging back toward the brighter lights of the bus stop.
She watched him go, shaking her head, the laugh still lingering on her lips. Then she turned and hailed a cab, the smile fading as the city lights blurred past the window.
Her apartment was a silent tomb. The ghost of her old life—photos of her and Dima hiking, her teacher of the year award, a half-knitted scarf—watched as she walked naked to the bathroom. She avoided the mirror at first, turning the shower to near-scalding.
The water hit her like a punishment, sluicing away the night. It ran in grayish streams between her breasts, over the faint red marks on her hips, down her thighs, carrying with it the scent of other men, of the club, of Leo’s frantic, clumsy release. She soaped herself roughly, scrubbing at her skin until it felt raw and new. She washed her hair twice, working the lather through the long black strands, rinsing away the smell of smoke and cheap champagne.
Only then did she look.
Her reflection was both familiar and alien. Her eyes were dark, hollowed with exhaustion, but alive with a frantic energy. Her lips were slightly swollen. There was a bruise blooming on her collarbone. She looked used. Well-used. And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t see shame in that gaze. She saw a fact. A woman who had chosen her own degradation, her own pleasure, as a tool and a weapon and a escape.
She thought of Leo’s earnest face. His request for dinner. A part of her, the old Lydia, screamed that this was madness, a dangerous crossing of wires. The new Lydia, the one forged in the velvet-draped shadows of the club, was merely curious. What would it be like to sit across from such innocence, to have a normal conversation, while still feeling the phantom ache of him inside her? The contradiction was thrilling.
She stepped out, steam fogging the glass, and wrapped herself in a clean, soft towel. The apartment was still too quiet. She dressed simply in black jeans and a navy sweater, clothes that covered the marks, that made her look like someone who could be taken to dinner at a nice little Italian restaurant.
She glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty.
She had just enough time to pour a single finger of whiskey, to sit in the darkening living room and feel the strange, quiet thrill of anticipation coil in her stomach, before she had to go out and meet a boy for a date that never should have happened.