I looked at my reflection in the mirror, trying to steel myself.
“Have dinner with Danny,” I wrote. “Be a good friend. Then we can talk.”
“What we’ll talk about?” he wrote.
“Incentive,” I wrote back.
…
Johan met us down in the lobby. Suddenly, he was back to his old self, paying attention to Danny and showering him with congratulations for his victories that day and offering words of encouragement for the next day’s events.
We went back to the same pizza place as the night before. Again, Johan ordered beers for each of us and a Coke for Danny.
I was unusually quiet at dinner, barely eating, slowing sipping my beer, watching as the minutes ticked away. But despite the creeping dread I felt as each slice of pizza disappeared from the table, I could see that Johan was breathing life and confidence back into my son, and that brought me a strange measure of relief.
Then, the meal ended, and I knew the bill was going to include more than just dinner.
Johan had been so focused on Danny throughout dinner, but as we rode the elevator up to the 11th floor of the hotel, he gently placed his hand on the small of my back. I felt my heart starting to pound as if his fingers were a set of jumper cables.
“Well, it’s time for me and Danny to hit the hay,” I said, stepping out of the elevator. “Big day tomorrow.”
Johan gave Danny a big high-five.
“Big day indeed, champ,” he cried. Then, he turned quietly to me. “So Nikki, about that talk…”
“I need to get Danny settled in,” I said.
He paused, mulling this over. Then, he nodded and walked away.
As I helped Danny get ready for bed, my mind raced wildly.
I wasn’t sure what to do, but after the way he had put his hands on me in the elevator, I was now certain of one thing: if I went to Johan’s room, he would expect us to do more than just talk. And I couldn’t allow that to happen.
After Danny was in bed, I lingered in the bathroom, hiding from both my son and his so-called friend. But then my phone buzzed.
“Youre late”
“Danny’s being difficult,” I wrote back. “Nervous about tomorrow.”
A pause. Then, bubbles.
“IDGAF,” it read. “Come now”
“I can’t right now,” I wrote back. “Be nice tomorrow and we’ll talk then”
“Incentive or GTFO”
“I can’t leave the room,” I protested. “He’ll freak out”
There was a pause for several seconds. And then:
“Send pussy”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. This whole situation was completely overwhelming, and I was utterly spent from an entire day taking care of Danny and trying to keep my own anxiety at bay. I didn’t have the stamina to keep arguing with Johan, but I knew that if I cut him off, he had the power to hurt me or my son.
Then, slowly, I unzipped my jeans and pulled them down, stepping out of them. Just get through this, I thought to myself. You’re only here for two more days.
I was wearing a pair of stretchy, lycra boyshorts beneath a loose-fitting tank-top. Slowly, I rolled the boyshorts down around my milky thighs, exposing the thin triangle of soft, dark hair above my 34-year-old mound.
I held up the camera, framing my waist and thighs, careful not to include any details that could identify me. Then, with my eyes shut tight, I snapped a photo of my pussy.