Free Constricted: Beyond the Brothel Walls by Rae Ryans

ignored him and placed my hand on his back. “Whatever it is …” I paused to give him time to explain, but he said nothing.
    He groaned as he rose and faced me. “It’s nothing.” Liar, the word popped into my head as if someone whispered it, but only I heard . “Must’ve pulled something. Let’s go to the table.”
    The waiter, I assumed, waited for us at the table when we returned to our seats. My stomach flipped over what Petre hid from me, and those strange words popping into my head. Liar, I knew the term well enough, but French country baffled me. That phrase was new to me. Something was up, but I couldn’t pinpoint whatever affected him in the bathroom or the source of these words. We took our seats, and he pulled out my chair as the waiter spouted off the specials. My hands shook as he handed us our menus. Petre reached for my hand and smoothed over the surface while he ordered himself a drink; I chose water.
    “I can get you something stronger if you’d prefer a glass of wine too.”
    The thought of drinking alcohol never appealed to me. Most of the men who visited the house came in drunk or high on something other than lust. I declined and asked what he was ordering or what he’d recommend eating. I wasn’t about to whisper that I couldn’t read across the table. We’d pretty much eat scraps or broth unless the men brought us something. Us meant the other girls more times than not. With the expense of trucking in food, meat was scarce and too expensive, but I’d learned how to grow some vegetables in the small backyard. One of the regulars even brought pots for me to use and told Jules they were a gift. I’d paid for them, but he knew better than to tell the truth, and I was smart enough not to complain or tattle.
    “Petre,” I’d whispered, leaning closer in my chair, but the waiter arrived before I could say anything. He smiled at us and placed a cloth-covered basket on the table, followed by our drinks. The restaurant held quite a bit of charm, and it was cozy. The checkered tablecloths and candlelight made it romantic too.
    “The chef made those for the lady,” he said, pushing the basket closer. Petre gave a polite nod, but he didn’t lift the cloth. “Mademoiselle and Monsieur, are you prepared to order?” he asked in his thick accent, but I didn’t inquire about where his was from. For all I knew, it was one of the languages Petre had spoken about, and I hadn’t needed any help feeling more insecure.
    “Deux Créma of Chanterelle soupé, s’il vous plait.” I blinked at the smoothness in his voice. The syllables rolled off Petre’s tongue. Fingers dropped, lacing into mine, and he’d flashed a charming smile that made my heart flip. I swore he’d read my thoughts though. Soup, at least I thought that was what he’d ordered, I could eat. “And if it isn’t too much trouble, could you move us to a booth?”
    The waiter nodded as he scanned the small dining room. He told Petre it would take some time, but they’d accommodate or something. I didn’t follow all the conversation and kept my eyes on our connected hands. Another thing I hated; his hand comforted me. The contact stirred emotions and feelings I didn’t understand. His touch, on the train, when I had no idea who he was, I’d wondered what it felt like. The touch of a man typically made me queasy, but not his. My belly tugged, and my skin prickled in anticipation of his icy hands.
    Cold, snow, ice, blustering, those were all words I related to even if he did melt my defenses. He held power over me, and even though I was afraid, Petre showed me how to let go. The voice in my head kept screaming at me to hold back, and I tried to listen. When those lips touched mine or his hand caressed my skin, the voice floated away, drowned out by the sounds of my thundering heart beating against my ribcage.
    “Why a booth?”
    “You’ll see, honey.” He shook his head, grinning wide. I bit my cheek to keep my eyes from