Free The Brute by Tabitha Levin Page B

to things you might normally not agree to. So I said, “Yes, I’d love one actually. Thank you.”
    Normally I’m not one who accepts gifts from strangers. Yeah, I had the lecture as a kid, too. Don’t take sweet things from strangers, it’ll turn out real bad. (Ha!) My only excuse was that I was ravenously hungry, my stomach was churning with desire, and wasn’t thinking straight. I really wanted that muffin.
    And what harm could it be? (I’m rolling my eyes as I write that last line. Famous last words and all that.)
    So we go inside and sit down at a booth. It wasn’t at all awkward like you would think. He sat on one side and ordered a coffee with a soft vanilla biscuit (which also look delicious), and I had the muffin.
    It really was the most delectable thing I’d had in a long time. The crumbs burst with sweetness and I’m not sure, but I think I actually moaned at the taste. Just thinking about it again is making my mouth water.
    He was charming and witty. I immediately felt at ease with him.
    I could see he was a lot older than I was, but it didn’t bother me. I’m guessing he was late forties, although I never found out his real age. He was a good looking forty - you know how some men look better with age - he was one of them. Had that George Clooney sort of swagger.
    “Meet me here tomorrow? You can have another muffin,” he said.
    “Yes, okay. I’d like that.”
    And that was how it started.

4
     
    Every afternoon at three o’clock, for one whole week, I’d meet him at that same cafe. He would order me a muffin (which had become the highlight of my day), and order himself a coffee and biscuit with vanilla icing.
    Our chats turned from general nothingness to more personal questions. I asked about his life (I was careful to make sure he didn’t have a wife or kids tucked away somewhere), and he asked about mine.
    I told him the sorry saga about how I lost my job, and how I wasn’t willing to go back home yet, and admit defeat. I didn’t see any problem with telling him. Why would I? It wasn’t like it was a big deal to tell a complete stranger, when I couldn’t even bear to tell my parents.
    Why is that? Why can we tell our deepest darkest secrets so easily, to people we don’t know (like me telling you my story), yet we can’t tell our closest friends and family?
    “I’ll pay your rent for an extra month. It’ll give you more time to find a job.”
    “Of course,” I said, “that’s a lovely offer, but why would you do that?”
    He waved his hand in the air like it was no big deal. “I have too much money, and enjoy our talks. It’s selfish on my part, so we can hang out more.” That should have been an alarm for me right there, but by then, I enjoyed hanging out with him too.
    “Really? You’d do that?”
    “Of course. I like you and want to continue seeing you.”
    The whole ‘don’t accept money from strangers’ thing? Yes, I accepted it. So I’m partly to blame. But you’ve got to remember, I actually liked him then - he was good company, and for an older guy, not bad looking.
    As you’d expect, it didn’t take long for things to lead to the bedroom. He made sure of that. And I’ll be honest he was pretty good in bed. Experienced. Better than the younger men I’d been with in college who thought tweaking my nipples like they were trying to turn on a radio was all a girl needed.
    It wasn’t just the sex and the rent either. Soon he was giving me gifts. Jewelry, clothes. Nothing extravagant. But lovely, nonetheless.
    He sounds nice doesn’t he? Like someone you would actually date if you had the opportunity. So, by now you are probably wondering why I call him The Brute, and wanted to get out of the situation (or even why I don’t just walk away).
    Stay with me, I’m getting there.
    As the weeks passed, I didn’t look for work as often any more. I didn’t need to. He was paying for my rent, giving me an allowance to pay bills, buy food. I was living the city