Does It Hurt? (6)

“Unfortunately,” is my answer.

“You don’t look twenty-nine,” he comments, before returning the card. That’s insulting because I’m only a year younger than what the ID says.

I force a smile. “I’m terribly sorry for not passing your standards on what a woman of twenty-nine years should look like. Thank my skincare routine. Can I have my drink now?”

The bartender rolls his eyes before moving away to make said drink. The second he steps away, I deflate. My chest is tight with anxiety, but I don’t dare let that show.

That’s my face on the ID, but not my name.

Jamie Harris is a successful business owner in Los Angeles, California, has a stellar credit score, and a credit card limit of a whopping fifty-thousand dollars.

He’s also a man and doing quite well for himself.

Well, I suppose it’s me that’s doing well for myself now.

However, I have no plans to spend all that money—not more than absolutely necessary. Before flying here, I took out enough cash to last me a while.

All of my victims are men, and most of them have unisex names, making it easier for me to impersonate them. I’ve also slept with almost every one of them. Some… I didn’t really want to, and my skin crawled with every touch. But it was necessary to take what I needed.

I don’t have the skills to do it online, so the good old-fashioned way is my only method. And in order to get close enough to obtain their private information—they have to take me home.

I could get a job, but that would mean either stealing the identity of a dead person that no one knows is dead or using my real name, and both make me want to fucking vomit. If I’m being honest, stealing other people’s lives, to begin with, makes me want to die.

I’m a shit person, no doubt about that. But I’m not a sociopath, either. I don’t lack empathy, and I’m not guilt-free.

Nevertheless, no one can know where I am. Who I am.

So no, I can’t sleep at night, nor do I look myself in the mirror.

But I’m doing what I can—the only thing I know how to do to survive.

The bartender comes back with my vodka and Sprite and slides it over, shooting me a disgruntled look.

“What’s your name?” I ask, sipping on my drink and instantly smiling. For someone who doesn’t seem to believe me, he made the drink awfully strong.

Which I’m glad for, considering this is the only drink I plan on buying. I can’t risk getting drunk. Not when I’m working tonight and need to have all my wits.

Though I didn’t come here only to work, but to celebrate as well. The pregnancy test came back negative. After that scare, I immediately got an IUD. It cost me money that I didn’t want to spend, but it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than a child. No babies or periods for the foreseeable future, and that’s something to definitely fucking celebrate.

The nurse at the clinic confirmed that my period is most likely late due to stress and also pointed out a few other health concerns. Apparently, I’m underweight, and hardly being able to eat certainly doesn’t help.

While Jamie’s credit limit would allow me to buy a brand-new car if I wanted, I can’t bring myself to buy more than the bare minimum. Once I leave a place, I never use their card again in case they figure out who I am and get the police to track me down. Don’t know if that’s possible or not, but my paranoia won’t allow it otherwise.

“I have a busy bar to run,” is his answer. I glance both ways down said bar, spotting not a single soul. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday. This bar is shit, and apparently, the bartender’s attitude isn’t any better than the outdated décor.

“You really don’t like me. Why?”

“You give me a feral dog vibe.”

My mouth parts, before a bout of shocked laughter bursts from my throat.

“A feral dog?” I repeat incredulously. It's so true that I can't even be offended. I rest my chin on my hand, a grin on my face. “Do tell.”

He rests both arms on the bar and leans down. “You’re destructive and uncontrollable.”

“You must be a psychologist,” I return dryly.

“I just know trouble when I see it.”

I tighten my lips and then shrug, taking another sip instead of giving him a verbal answer. Still not wrong.

He eyes me, waiting for a response. When I only take another sip, looking him straight in the eye as I do, he nods as if confirming something to himself.

“You’re scared. That makes you dangerous,” he finishes. My expression drops, and with that validation, he clicks his tongue, slowly sliding his arms from the bar and walking away.

To tend to the ghosts, I suppose, since there’s still nobody fucking here.

Or at least I thought so.

“Didn’t you know? A drink comes with free therapy these days.”

The deep, accented voice from behind me is startling, though it’s not the familiar Australian accent I’m used to hearing. I jump, twist in the barstool, and take one look, then immediately turn back around.

“Nope. I could get pregnant just looking at you. Go away.”

He grunts. “Isn’t that a rite of passage to manhood? Knock a girl up and leave?”

I snort. “That’s what they seem to think.”