The Virgin and the Whore

Chapter 27

Chapter 27

"I don't know where anything is," Esther admitted, in a sheepish voice, standing in the middle of my kitchen.

Maybe I should tell her that if she truly felt a need to repay me, she could just read a book out loud, any book really, so I could hear her voice for a prolonged amount of time. Maybe she could read, and I could record her, and then I'd be able to listen to her voice all the time.

The thought felt shamefully pleasant.

I walked over to her with a smile, pushing that ridiculous idea out of my head. "What do you need?"

"A small pot. But only if you have vinegar."

"Pretty sure I have that somewhere," I replied and rummaged through a couple of cabinets. "Pots and pans are here," I told Esther, pointing to the right spot.

If she was actually going to stay in my penthouse, she should know where things were.

I wanted here to feel comfortable enough to actually want to stay.

I didn't want her to have to go back to her grandmother's house if her mother and her boyfriend were still there.

I wanted to do everything I could to protect her, for as long as it was possible.

I knew what it was like, to feel alone and powerless.

I wondered why she wasn't staying on campus. It would fix her problem. Maybe it was a money thing. I felt like she was studying on a scholarship, and that would have covered the costs of living too, but maybe I was wrong.

Maybe she'd saved up just enough for her tuition, but not enough for housing.

Would she say yes if I offered to pay everything for her? She probably wouldn't...

"Do you have food allergies? Or things you just really dislike to eat."

"Everything that is in this fridge, I will eat."

"Even the old pickle juice?" Esther asked with a teasing smile, while holding out a canned mason jar.

I frowned. "I have pickles?"

Esther shook her head, and the jar. "No pickles. Just the juice."

Fucking Trey.

"If you can refrain from serving me pickle juice, I would be eternally grateful."

"I'll see what I can do," she replied with a grin.

It was nice. To see her smile. To see her getting busy in my kitchen, moving around. She was entirely focussed on her purpose, and it was nice to watch.

She looked cute when she was focussing on something. This wasn't the first time I noticed it. I snuck more than one glance at her anytime we worked on our school project together and she got particularly concentrated on her work.

It was the little serious lines forming between her eyebrows and the way she bit the inside of her cheek.

It was nice because she was so distracted with her work she didn't notice my staring. And I realized I liked staring at Esther.

I noticed, as I watched her, that she washed her hands a dozen times. It wasn't an exaggeration, I counted. I wondered if this was a coping mechanism. Often, when people were abused they tried taking back their control by repeating comforting actions.