Suggested by the story GUY LINE
by Olderneighbor

I had never considered myself a slut. I’d had my share of sexual adventures in school, sure, including the loss of my virginity to a friend’s brother when I was 14, and a few misadventures at parties and at bars, and in dorm rooms during college, but no one ever called me loose, no one ever wrote filth about me on bathroom walls, and certainly no one ever accused me of being a total slut. I am quite sure I now deserve that title.

It happened a month ago. Four weeks and two days ago. I was at my laptop emailing when Chelsea called my cell phone. “What’s up, Scooter?” I asked. I’d called her Scooter since middle school.

“You know what I forgot to ask?”

“What?” I said, backspacing to start the sentence over again—I was emailing my sister, Jenn.

“Tonight’s Dad’s poker game night.”

I sat up straight. I let the phone drop into my hand and held it to my ear. “What?”

“I know,” she said, instantly contrite. “I’m sorry. I forgot. I really did. I’ll call Dad and tell him it’s no go. Right now. I’m really sorry, Lise.”

I bit my lip and looked around the house. It belonged to her dad, who let us have it for a ridiculous $850 a month. One of the conditions was letting him borrow the huge dining room for his Friday night poker games. An inconvenience, sure, but not a particularly painful one. So, what if we lost a party night? We always had Saturday night. And half the time Mr. Burns pitched in the rent from his winnings, bought us food, paid the cable and phone bills, the utilities ... for God’s sake, we practically lived there rent free.

“Don’t you dare,” I ordered. “I’m not doing anything to endanger our free ride.” I cringed, praying her dad wasn’t in earshot.

“No way. I am not leaving you alone with those old lechers. Dad’ll understand.”

“Don’t you dare,” I repeated. I closed the MacBook to free myself of distraction. “After all your father does for us? I think I can manage an eight-some of geriatrics. Let them come.”

“Even, Gary?” she asked doubtfully.

“Even, Gary,” I agreed, though doubtful also. Gary the pig, oink-oink. I hated him. “Tell him I’ll be out for the evening and he can do whatever he wants. The house is his. Fill it with smoke and stinky farts. I’ll be OK.”

She laughed, imagining the 50-somethings grouped around the dining room table smoking cigars and raising a cheek to emit noisy toots. It made me laugh also.

“What are you gonna do?” she asked.

“I’ll think of something,” I said, reopening the MacBook. Matt was in San Jose, visiting his mom for the weekend. Chelsea was on her way to Salinas to weekend with her mom. My mom lived in Oceanside now, too far for a casual drive down the coast. I’d think of something to do.

“Don’t worry about it,” I assured her. “It’s Friday night. I’ll party somewhere.” On a beautiful May evening, that was an absolute fact.

She thanked me again ... and again ... and again, and finally we hung up. I sighed, wondering whom I’d call. I was so used to being with either Matt or Chelsea that I felt helpless without them. Not that I was helpless. I was anything but helpless, usually. But I’d fallen into a rut in the past year because of grad school and I needed a little wing-stretching. I had just opened my phone to decide who to call when my email program pinged. I looked up from the display. You have One new message.

I didn’t recognize the name. I didn’t like the name: OzoneBreather. Who the hell was that?

I leaned forward to tap the touchpad at the same moment that I noticed the attachment. I paused, biting my lower lip. This was a Mac, relatively safe from all those nasty little critters attacking PCs. I’d listened to Chelsea rant and rave recently about her own lack of PC security though and didn’t want to press my luck. I leaned forward and read the header without touching anything.

Lisa, you’ll want to see this.

No name to go along with the email address; just OzoneBreather.

Delete this email, I told myself.

Don’t delete this email, I told myself.

I sat on the edge of the chair with my legs crossed uncomfortably and my lower lip caught between my teeth.

I knew what it was. Someone was dropping a dime. Matt was about to be outed. Who with, I wondered, although I knew.

Sitting there, tears stung my eyes.

I’d suspected a while, but suspecting is the equivalent of an IOU instead of cash, a whiff of smoke, rather than flame, a breeze, not a hurricane. A hurricane, bearing down on me.

With a trembling hand I moved the cursor over the email and tapped it gently. There was no text; the body was empty. The attachment was a ZIP file, simply labeled Archive.zip. I moved the cursor and right clicked the file. I told Mail to scan the files for viruses, which it did busily. It declared the file harmless. With my trembling fingertip I told Mail to download the file to the desktop. It did. I told another program to examine the file and expand it. The file had 3 videos and 16 photos. One video was sufficient.

Three hours later, Mr. Burns arrived with two of his friends. I heard his truck in the driveway. It was a big diesel, one of those monsters with front and back doors and four tires on the back. It was loud, the diesel engine burping out black smoke. The engine died and I heard doors open and close. I heard voices, two of them, and then three of them. I shivered. I had shivered all afternoon. I met them at the side door.

“Hey, Mr. Burns,” I said, pecking him on the cheek. Behind him were Jim, and Richard, his two closest friends. Jim was a construction worker, a job-site supervisor or something, Richard a plumber. “Hi, guys,” I greeted, grinning. The grin felt taped to my face. I shivered continually, but the men seemed not to notice.

“Lisa,” Mr. Burns said, returning my kiss. I stood aside and let the men in. I left the door open for the coming arrivals. I counted on everyone tonight, the whole eight yards.

“This is very considerate of you, Lisa. I know you’d rather be out enjoying yourself tonight,” Mr. Burns said. He was 55 years old, graying with short-cropped hair, stout, but still muscular. He wore glasses he didn’t need for anything but reading. He wore a mustache, mostly gray. His clothes were Sears or JC Penney standard issue. He wore scuffed brown work boots. So did the other two.

“I wasn’t doing anything anyway,” I lied. “Might as well play barkeep and server. You know I love you guys,” I added, offering a fragile grin. I kept my hands casually in my front pockets. I leaned forward on my toes. I wanted just the right combination of guilelessness and appeal.

Jim blinked. Mr. Burns winked affectionately, and Richard seemed not to notice.

I had set up the table as well as memory allowed. Five decks of cards sat in the middle, along with the trays of multicolored chips and scratch pads and pencils, bowls of chips and pretzels, and glasses for their beer around the perimeter. I couldn’t remember who did, and who did not drink beer from a glass. It didn’t matter. Jack Daniels was in the cabinet beside the sink, but I’d never seen the men drink anything but Coca Cola and beer. I had stocked in Heineken, Coors and Corona. There was a lot of beer, eight cases. I wanted them drunk. The drunker, the better. I wanted them malleable, suggest-able, horny and eager. My plan depended on it. My plan was foolproof. They were men, after all. My only worry was Mr. Burns. Him, I had to convince.

By ten after seven, all eight men were present. Mike had arrived alone. Bill and Nick showed up ten minutes later with another, mostly unneeded case of Heineken. Robert and Gary showed up just after seven o’clock but stood around in the driveway trading jokes with the next door neighbor for ten minutes. Come on, I muttered to myself, annoyed. Finally, they detached themselves and came in.

“Hey, Lisa,” Robert said, offering a hug. Gary, Mr. Pig-eyes, glanced at me, nodded, arched his right brow and eyed me speculatively. I shivered, for an entirely different reason than I had before.

“You look good tonight,” he offered.

I felt myself blush and nod. I fought the urge to hunch my shoulders and hide my breasts. “Thank you,” I muttered and closed the side door. Robert and Gary continued into the dining room while I headed for the kitchen. Mr. Burns followed.

“Let me help you with that, sweetie.”

“I got it,” I said. I removed nine bottles of Heineken from the cooler and sat them on a round drinks tray. I planned to drink mine from the bottle also. Just one of the guys.

He lifted a bottle and untwisted the cap, dropped it in the trashcan. I opened mine. We both took a gulp, and I shivered.

“You cold or something?” he asked.

“Uh-uh. No, sir.”

He put his right foot on a chair rung.

“You been shaking since we got here tonight.” He eyed my forehead, my cheeks, my ears, my neck. “You shouldn’t be doing this if you’re sick, Lisa. We should be taking care of you, not the other way around. Chelsea’d whup my ass if I let you serve beer when you should be in bed. You’re still shaking,” he noted.

“I’m fine,” I lied. Changing the subject, I asked: “What are you playing, tonight?”

“Texas Hold’em.”

“Is that like poker?”

“It is poker,” he corrected, downing another gulp. “The most popular kind of poker there is nowadays. It’s where the big money is. They play it in all the casinos.”

“Five card draw?” I ventured.

“That too. Not as popular as Texas Hold’em, though.”

“How do you play?” I asked.

“Come on out, and I’ll show you.” Tray in hand, I followed him out to the dining room.

The men were already seated around the table, each in his usual chair. The dining room set seated six; the other two chairs were hand-me-down mismatches that Mr. Burns had scrounged somewhere. We’d need a ninth chair, if I was to sit in, so after placing the tray on the table, I wheeled my chair over from the desk.

“I thought we’d instruct the young’un here,” Mr. Burns said. “Let her sit in a few rounds. Get some experience under her belt. The least we can do, seeing’s how good she’s providing for us.”

Jim, seated to his left, scooted sideways, opening a space. I wheeled the chair in and sat down nervously. I didn’t have to feign discomfort, believe me: a single girl, surrounded by her future gangbangers. They just didn’t know it yet.

Not surprisingly, except for Gary, the table looked pleased by my inclusion. I flashed a general smile, met their eyes momentarily and sat with my hands studiously clasped on the table. I hadn’t stopped shaking. I hadn’t stopped wanting to scream. Mike Colson, directly opposite me, said: “You’re a newbie, then?”

I nodded.

“Play any card games at all?” he wondered.

“Draw poker,” I admitted. “A little. With my dad, mostly, when I was young. Sometimes we get a game up, Chelsea, Matt and Mark and me.” Mark was Chelsea’s sometimes boyfriend, from Chino. “Mostly I just lose a lot,” I said, laughing. I was surprised that I could say their names without grimacing.

“So, you know the basic rules?”

I shrugged. “Call, bet, check, fold. I know you deal five cards.”

Mike shook his head. “In Texas Hold’em, you deal seven. Two are your hole cards, five more are for the table.” He tapped the table with his middle finger. “The table cards get dealt three at a time, then one and then another. In the game, they’re called The Flop, The Turn, and The River.” He grinned at the silly names. “The Flop gets dealt after the opening round, after the initial betting. The Turn gets dealt after the second round of betting, after The Flop. And The River gets flipped after that.”

I grinned crookedly, to show I was confused.

“Don’t worry. It’ll make sense once you’re in the game. You’re the Small Blind, by the way.”

“The Small Blind?”

“There’s a Small Blind and a Big Blind,” Jim explained. “The two players to the left of the dealer. You’re Small, I’m Big. You put in half the amount I do, which is a dollar. You put in 50 cents.”

I shook my head to show I still didn’t understand. Most laughed. Gary scowled at me. Robert looked worried. Should I be worried about that, I wondered?

There was a hockey puck on the table. It sat before Mr. Burns, who expertly shuffled the cards, sucking his unlit cigar. Four cigarettes were going around the table, and the cigar being puffed on by Gary (of course), with packs of Marlboro’s and Kool and lighters at the ready. I knew Mr. Burns hadn’t smoked in years. The cigar was a placebo. He mouthed around the tip: “That’s the button there. The button shows who’s currently the dealer. It travels clockwise around the table along with the deal. You’ll be dealing next,” he advised with a grin.

A little panic leaked into my voice. The men all laughed.

“You won’t have any trouble, believe me. Simple as pie,” Steve said. “The whole game is.”

It didn’t need to be, as I planned to lose every hand.

I didn’t think to ask how Mr. Burns—Steve—got first deal. Maybe it always started that way; maybe they had drawn for it while I’d been in the kitchen. Regardless, he would deal first, and the deal would go clockwise around the table with each hand. It turned out the decision to deal or not was mine; what worried me more was how I’d buy in. I had 20 bucks.

“Um ... Mr. Burns?”

He watched me rub my arm in embarrassment. “Steve,” he said. “None of this ‘Mr. Burns’ shit. Mr. Burns is my father.”

I nodded, embarrassed, while the others laughed. “I don’t have any money,” I said. “You guys play for big stakes. I’d last less than a minute.”

He grinned at me again. The others laughed and snickered. “The buy-ins a hundred bucks. I don’t expect you to put up the money yourself, kiddo. We will,” he said, grinning around the table. When Gary, or maybe it was Robert started to object, he said: “She’ll just lose it back to us again, really fast. We’ll most likely have to front her a second hundred. Maybe a third, even, before she gets the hang of it. No one’s counting here, anyway. Right, boys?”

“I can’t pay it back,” I said quickly, shaking my head, not looking at the others. Everything depended on this. If Gary or Robert or one of the others objected too strenuously, I wouldn’t get in the game. Or stay in the game long enough to earn their trust. Trust wasn’t the right word; pity was better. I needed to play long enough that my presence was accepted at the table, my sexuality was absorbed, my dependency understood. I needed them to want me there, want to fuck me, fantasize about me. They also needed to be drunk. I picked up my beer and sipped at it tentatively.

“We don’t expect you to,” Steve said evenly. He looked at the others. “We invited you in. You’re our guest now. If I can’t take care of my daughter’s best friend, what the hell good am I anyway?” he said, laughing.

Gary, Robert, Nick and Bill were obviously concerned. Gary for the money he’d shell out; Nick for the advisability of having an inexperienced and obviously nervous young girl in the game from his expression; Bill for the same reason, and Robert, from his expression, worried that what I planned could come about. Robert worried me. He could ruin this. Then Mike came to my rescue.

“Steve’s right. We’re playing with our own money. Chances are we’ll each of us win back exactly what we put in. And if not--” He grinned hugely. “—it’s more in my pocket cause you guys don’t play worth shit, anyway.” He dug out his wallet, extracted five $20 bills, tossed them at Steve, and then counted out an added $13 which he set before him on the table. Nodding, Steve dropped the $100 dollars into the bank, stacked a corresponding dollar amount of white, red and blue chips in separate piles, and slid them across the table to Mike. While he picked up the $13 and set it aside, I mentally counted $5 in white chips, $50 in blue chips, and $45 in red chips. The denominations were 50 cents, $1 and $5. In a group, the rest of the men, some grumbling unhappily, repeated the process and took their hundred in chips and anteed up my buy-in.

“Thirteen times eight,” Steve said. He dropped the stack of ones, fives and tens into the bank and counted out $104 dollars in chips. Shoulders hunched, hands clasped between my thighs, suitably grateful, I nodded as Steve slid the pile of chips over in front of me. “You’ll do just fine,” he assured me fatherly, patting my shoulder. I intended to fuck Steve last and spend more time with him than anyone else. I prayed it would work out.

Steve put one of my white chips in center of the table, joined a moment later by a blue chip put in by Jim. I still didn’t understand.

“Ante,” Jim explained. “It insures there’s something there to play for on every hand.”

“That doesn’t seem fare,” I commented. “Not that I’m complaining because it’s me. How come everyone doesn’t ante up.”

“Rules of the game,” Jim said simply. “It follows the deal around the table, so nobody gets singled out.”

“Oh.” I still didn’t understand. I kept my hands clasped between my legs to keep them from shaking, my shoulders hunched to keep the men from seeing how hard my traitorous nipples were. I didn’t understand that, not at all. I was terrified. Determined, yes, but terrified. Part of me was aroused?

While Steve dealt, I followed the swish of cards around the tabletop. I knew more about the game than I let on, not enough to play it well though. I knew the betting would get very heavy once the “The Turn” was dealt, with the bet raised repeatedly. I’d seen a thousand dollars won at this table in one pot. Amazing. Frightening. I figured my $104 dollars would last about ten minutes.

“Those two are your hole cards,” Jim said about the two cards sitting before me on the table. “Look at them, but don’t let anyone else see them.” He showed me, cupping a hand over his cards and peeking at them with the other. His expression remained completely neutral. I had a lousy poker-face. One look at my face would tell everyone exactly what I had. That’s why I always lost. Peeking, I discovered a Three of Diamonds, and a Six of Hearts. I grinned, purposely, like an idiot. The men around me snorted, taken in.

“You don’t bet,” Nick said, grinning sarcastically. In all innocence, I said: “I don’t?”

“No, you don’t. The betting starts with Bill. You put out the Small Blind; that’s your first bet. You’ll see when we get farther along.”

I said “OK,” as if that meant anything to and put my hands back between my thighs. Would I ever stop shaking? My insides vibrated like Jell-O. They felt like Jell-O, especially my bowels. I shuddered; hoping none of them saw me. Why was I doing this? It was insane.

The rest of the men examined their cards. To a man, they donned their poker faces. Grunting, Bill picked up a blue chip and said, “Call” as he tossed the chip onto the small pile. In order, the rest of the players followed his example, each calling in turn. I noticed they were much more reserved this evening than normal; any other time they’d be cutting up and laughing and giving each other a dangerously hard time. They needed to do that tonight, I thought. They need to be looser tonight than ever. Much looser. Feeling stupid, I wondered what I could do to loosen things up. I was too scared to generate a coherent thought, much less formulate a plan. I felt helpless and pedestrian, mediocre. Who would want me, I wondered?

The betting came back to me, and Steve explained: “You already put in half your bet. All you do is add 50 cents to match the Big Blind. Bets are based on the Big Blind, and whatever is raised during the hand. During the round, actually,” he clarified. “If you bet, you have to match the Big Blind, and whatever the raise amount is.” He picked up another white chip from my stack and held it expectantly. “Call? Or fold?”

“Call,” I answered meekly. He dropped the chip on the pile and then Jim checked, and the betting was done. By my count, there was now $9 in the pot.

“Everybody in,” Steve announced. After burning the top card, he flipped up the Eight of Spades, the Three of Spades, and the Three of Hearts. That gave me three of a kind: three threes. My stomach clenched and rolled unexpectedly. I let my false enthusiasm show. I picked up two blue chips and said, “I call, and I raise a dollar” and dropped my chips in the pile obediently. Most oowed and awwed at my bravery—or foolishness, as the case might be--while I grinned sheepishly and blushed. My hands returned where they belonged between my thighs.

Was anyone ever going to talk? Would my stupid traitorous nipples ever lose their erection? And would my tongue stop feeling like a sheet of sandpaper however much Heineken I drank? Reminded, I reached out and picked up my bottle and took a long sip. Three of the men, Bill, Nick and Richard, did likewise. Encouraging, I thought.

“So, how serious are you and this Matt guy?” Jim enquired, too innocent. Nick and Richard both laughed, Mike snickered sarcastically, and Robert and Gary exchanged disgusted looks. Steve glared across the table with a frown, shaking his head back and forth.

“What?” Jim protested.

“She’s my daughter’s roommate, fool.”

“No!” Jim protested again

“She’s really into you, I can tell,” Mike snorted, stabbing out his cigarette and laughing darkly.

“My daughter’s the same age,” Nick razzed. “Do I have to worry about you asking her out too?”

Red-faced, almost as red-faced as I was becoming, Jim protested: “I was just curious! He seems like a nice guy. The two of you make a cute couple, is all I was sayin’. Geez, give a guy a hard time.” He made proper defensive gestures with his hands, grumbled, shook his head and threw in his two dollars.

Bill and Nick both called. “Call and raise,” Mike said, dropping his chips onto the growing pile. Richard called and then Robert called and raised again, making the bet $4, which Gary called. Steve grumbled and chewed on his cigar while he contemplated.

“So how are you and Matt getting along?” he asked.

“Fine,” I lied. “He’s visiting his mom this weekend.”

“So, I understand,” he commented, finally matching the bet. “Call. Your turn, sweetheart.”

Without hesitation, I picked up two chips and added them to my two already in the pile. It struck me that I had reacted too fast, hadn’t let anyone explain that I had to match the bet to stay in. I folded my hands, keeping my eyes trained on the pile, felt my face redden.

“You know more about this game then you let on,” Jim whispered, grinning.

“We got a ringer here, boys,” Richard commented slyly, winking, as my face grew brighter. Had I just blown it? Why had I tipped my hand? “You know what we do with card sharks, right?

My face was bright red now. “I didn’t—” I managed before everyone around the table started to laugh. I flushed dangerously, and damn if my nipples didn’t turn into flint-hard little points poking out my brassiere. It was only obvious what I was trying to do, hunching my shoulders like this, to me, at least.

“I promise you,” I muttered, shame faced. “You have nothing to worry about from me. I am the all-time worst card player in history. Just ask Steve. He knows.”

Steve nodded sagely. “Chelsea has a good laugh over it every time we talk. Especially when you play the risqué version of the game,” he added, grinning while hoots and hollers and guffaws circled the table. How could my face redden any more, I wondered?

“I vote we do that now,” Richard said. “I’m game if you are.”

“Me too,” seconded Nick, agreed to at once by a laughing Jim and Bill. Robert even laughed and I felt the pig-eyed stare of Gary’s eyes boring into me, a feeling akin to being skewered and roasted over a pit.

“I’m not playing strip poker,” I mumbled.

“I don’t see why not,” Nick joked. “You do it with your friends.”

“Do not,” I denied, lying through my teeth. I couldn’t believe Chelsea would betray me like that. And then I thought, are you kidding me? Anger, red-hot and dangerous as a flame-thrower burned through my insides, scorching almost as badly as it had that afternoon. I quickly lowered my eyes and thought about garroting a certain someone to squelch the tears. The continued laughter of the men helped.

Steve came to my rescue. “All right, cut it out, guys. Can’t you see she’s embarrassed? You’re a fine bunch, tormenting the poor girl. Sweetie, they don’t mean anything by it. They’re just a bunch of assholes.”

“Like you,” Nick cut in, to laughter. Jim agreed, and so even, did Robert. But it was true. The teasing was good-natured and frisky, not salacious, at least not yet. Not the way it would have to be for my plan to work. But that was a way off yet. I had to get them good and drunk first. Drunk and horny and reduced to a dog-pack mentality. I had to overload them, overwhelm their sense of decency with lust and craving. Craving for me. I shivered at the thought.

My, God, Lisa? Do you really want to do this?

I thought of the video. Yes, I answered heatedly. I am doing this.

The others finished the round, and Steve burned the top card and then flipped The Turn onto its back beside The Flop: It was the Jack of Diamonds. Though not a face besides my own reacted to the card, I felt a definable sense of excitement sweep the table. Mentally, I could sense the pairs, three of a kinds and full houses snap into place. The card did nothing for me, but I didn’t want it too. Three threes were bad luck enough. I wanted a deuce high.

I made a show of reaching out and touching my cards, let a grin flicker around my lips. I kept my eyes safely down and the men were taken in. What did she have, they wondered? Was I really that transparent, that bad a player, or was I taunting them? What Nick had said about card sharks almost made me laugh. Maybe I had the wrong approach. Maybe I should clean their clocks. Wishful thinking: I really was the worst card player in the world.

Mentally sighing, I called and dropped $2 in the pile. Jim raised, which Bill did also. I figured there was over $50 in the pot now. It made me shiver, thinking how fast it might grow over the next two hands. If everyone stayed in, that is. Stay in, everyone, I thought, jinxing it.

“I’m out,” Nick said disgustedly. He tossed his cards and reached for his pack of Marlboros. Mike called, and Richard folded. I kicked myself for being so stupid. Never wish for the obvious. Never wish at all; it only brings bad luck.

Robert, who had raised last round, raised this round also, dropping $8 into the pot. It was now up to $70 plus. How could they afford to play like this? It made me shrink inside, imaging money like this bet hand after hand. Steve was the best player here, and Chelsea claimed he routinely took home more than a thousand dollars. One night he had won over five-thousand dollars. In a friendly poker game, held weekly. It was insane.

“You in or out, Gary?”

Glowering, Gary turned his pig-eyed glare toward Jim. “I’m deciding.”

“Decide faster, damn it. I gotta take a piss.”

“Piss into your beer bottle,” Gary shot back, inspiring snickers from Nick and Richard and a groan from Robert.

“I could turn my back,” I offered, half-turning in my chair, which brought more snickers and an unexpectedly respectful wink from Gary. I about fell off my chair. Jim and Nick laughed darkly.

“Leave the girl alone,” Steve ordered. To Gary, he said: “Shit or get off the pot, bucko.”

Grunting, Gary folded and threw down his cards. It was Steve’s turn now, and when he called, the round progressed back to Robert, who had raised last. He checked to everyone’s relief.

Almost $100 now, I thought, wonderingly. I wondered how much longer I could keep track. I was never good at math.

Before Steve dealt the next card, Jim said, “I need another beer” and started to get up. Nick wanted one as well, and I quickly pushed back and held up my hand and said, “I got it” before anyone else could rise. I picked up the tray as they started to object.

‘You put me in the game, guys. No way am I letting you get you own beers.” I started to turn away when Nick said to Jim in an aside: “Maybe she’ll take a piss for you, too, bucko,” blowing smoke his way. I enjoyed the razzing; it meant they were loosening up.

In the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator door and took a deep breath. Fear had caught up to me again; I was shaking like a leaf now. I listened to the banter from the dining room and tried to imagine any of them, Gary included, taking me off to my bedroom. The thought of Gary touching me, seeing me nude, fucking me, sent a shudder of revulsion down my spine. I understood how Russian girls sold into slavery felt. I started a bit as Jim joined me.

“Thought you could use some help.”

“Thank you,” I said, handing him bottles, which he de-capped and placed on the tray. Why was he there, I wondered?

Jim was not the best looking of the group. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a bristling gray mustache. He was too tall and too thin. He was stoop-shouldered and stood perpetually in a slump, even when standing rigidly upright. He was nervous now. It was Jim that had asked about Matt and me. He cleared his throat.