Free Resist (Songs of Submission #6) by CD Reiss Page A

appeared.
    “Do you wish for things you can’t buy?” she’d asked.
    I’d looked over at her. Blades of grass sat in the foreground of my vision, slashing her face, which was turned to me. Her eyes were tobacco brown, wide and light with sun inside them. “You’re fascinated with money,” I said.
    “I think I am.” She’d smiled. “It’s made you different, you know. You’re fearless. It’s exciting, kind of. Watching you is like watching someone who’s really, truly free.”
    I’d laughed. I never felt free in my life. “What do you wish for? Besides money.”
    “You make me sound like a gold digger.”
    “You are, but you’re terrible at it. I think a few more years and you’ll be sleeping with the right guy.”
    She’d flung herself on top of me and pinched my sides. I laughed and rolled her over until I had her pinned.
    “Tell me what you wish for, and if it’s any part of my body, your wish will come true at the Regency Hotel in forty minutes.”
    She’d giggled and turned her face to the sunlight. “Free, Jonathan. I wish to be free.”
    I’d unpinned one of her shoulders to pluck a seeded dandelion out of the grass. “Blow.” I held the white puffball in front of her.
    She’d blown hard, and the seeds went into my face. We laughed, and blew the rest of the seeds off together, wishing her free from the constraints of her family and her scarcity. They floated away on their sinuous parachutes, like little messengers to God, saying take me, take me, take me. Set me free.

Chapter 19.
    The bus. West on Sunset. South on La Cienega. Hour and a half. A cab ride from my house to Jessica’s studio was fifty bucks one way. I wished I could have taken the hundred for a round-trip cab out of Jonathan’s ass, but that would have to wait for another day.
    I wore three-quarter sleeves and long pants. I wrapped a scarf with a spider web pattern around my neck to cover the bruises. I felt lucky it was getting cold, but I had no idea how I’d hide the roughness of my private life in the summer.
    The walk was a quarter mile, but it was cool, and I’d worn comfortable shoes. Jonathan hadn’t texted me back the night before, nor had I received a nine a.m. ding. Was he angry? Was he shutting me out because I hadn’t fallen for the busted starter trick? Or was the emergency that pulled him away so dire he couldn’t answer me? Both concerned me. I had a gnawing anxiety that grew worse with every step toward Jessica’s studio.
    Up ahead, a big white truck was parked and running outside a light industrial building. The building was painted west-side tasteful—charcoal, with white trim and a chartreuse door—and guys in bunny suits trotted in and out with six-inch diameter hoses. I checked the address, and I was sure I had the right one.
    A guy in a polo shirt put orange cones on the sidewalk, stopping me. “Street’s closed.”
    “Is that twelve thirty-eight?”
    “Sure is.”
    “I have an appointment here.”
    “Not today, you don’t. Got a lead and asbestos removal team coming in. It’s a hazard, so you’re going to have to go around the block if you want to pass.”
    I pulled out my phone. No message. Crossing the street, I craned my neck around the truck and saw Jessica in the side alley, arguing with a guy holding a clipboard. Her smooth veneer was slipping, just a little. It seemed to be as much of a surprise to her as it was to me.
    Of course.
    Jonathan.
    Well. Didn’t that just suck ass.
    I started calling him and thought better of it. I texted him and deleted the whole thing. I’d already thrown out one unfounded accusation and gotten no reply. A string of them would do no more than make me look psychotic.
    I walked to Washington Boulevard, where I’d at least be able to find a café where I could sit down and blow my cab money. I found a purple building housing a tea shop called Yellow Threat. I got something hot and herbal and sat down on the outdoor patio.
    She texted me soon