A Girlfriend's Dare: Ch. 15

Steph woke to the sound of a phone alarm and a tongue so foul it felt furred. The apartment had an aftertaste, a chemical sour of latex and disinfectant and, if she was honest, something more feral beneath. She blinked up at the ceiling and let the pounding in her skull tick through the night's events: the parade, the eggs, the aftermath in the bathroom, where Jamal had laughed so hard he nearly pissed himself (and then actually did, onto the ruined skirt Annie had left in the tub).

Annie was already up, dressed in a hoodie and leggings, stirring instant coffee into a mug so chipped it bled brown down the side. She didn't look up, but Steph could see the flush on her cheeks, the way she braced her free arm against the counter to keep from shaking.

Steph padded past her and splashed water on her face at the sink. "You sleep?"

she asked, not really caring.

Annie shrugged. "If I did, I don't remember."

There was a silence. Steph thought about saying something, but she was still mad at herself--at the way she'd sat on the curb outside the park and nearly come in her own jeans while Jamal narrated the egg-laying, at the way she'd whispered "good girl" into Annie's wig after, as if that made any of it normal. She rinsed her hands a second time and wondered if it was possible to disinfect your own brain.

The buzzer went off, violent as a police raid. Jamal, early.

He didn't even wait for Steph to buzz him up. There were two stomps on the stairs, the door swung open, and he stood in the kitchen with his gym bag slung over one shoulder, grinning. "What's up, you beautiful bitches?" he said.

Neither answered.

Jamal set down the bag and clapped his hands together, businesslike. "Alright, troops. Quick meeting. Day of Service is on for today. We're due at the shelter by ten, and if you're late, they dock your hours and I don't get the community credit."

He turned to Steph, all teeth and project manager. "You're in charge of wardrobe.

Get our girl ready for the big debut."

Annie's grip on the mug tightened. "I thought you said that was a joke," she said, her voice thin.

Jamal laughed. "Oh, baby, nothing I do is a joke. You should know that by now." He scanned the room, eyes lingering on Steph's flannel pajamas, then on the bare patch of thigh where Annie's leggings had failed to cover a fresh bruise. "Let's keep it on theme," he said. "Something modest, but, you know, sissy as hell. We want these guys to know she's a freak, but not get sued for sex crimes."

Steph nodded, brain already sorting the costume options. "Clean or dirty?" she asked.

Jamal rubbed his chin, considering. "Start clean. We'll see how long she can keep it that way."

He tossed Steph the bag and headed for the couch, where he sprawled out and started scrolling on his phone. "You got twenty minutes," he called.

Steph looked at Annie, who looked like she wanted to throw the mug through a window. "You can shower if you want," Steph said, and then, softer: "You don't have to do this."

Annie snorted. "Yeah, I do."

* * *

The homeless shelter is worse than the park, worse than the porn store, worse even than Jamal's filthy imagination. Annie can smell it through the glass: sour mildew, stale blankets, the faint ghost of disinfectant fighting a losing war against a century of piss. Jamal flings the car door open, then yanks her out by the arm, not even pretending to be gentle. He's got her in the see-through mesh panties and a gray sports bra--unwashed for days, already clinging to the shape of her tits and the obscene ballooning below. Steph walks a pace behind, her blazer buttoned tight, sunglasses perched on her head like a tiara. She looks hungover and dangerous, the way all women do when their lipstick is perfect but their eyes are black-ringed and unfriendly.

There's a line outside the door, men and women and kids, some still clutching their bedrolls, a few with dogs on string leashes. Every pair of eyes follows Annie as she staggers after Jamal, heels sinking into the gritty sidewalk. There's no one here who looks surprised. Maybe they've seen stranger. Maybe, in this city, a tranny in full porn regalia isn't even worth a mention before noon.

Jamal holds the door for Steph, then drags Annie through the foyer, past the folding tables and the battered vending machine. The room is a gymnasium, stripped of all dignity: steel cots stacked against the wall, piles of old coats and boots, and a sea of cafeteria tables covered in battered trays of cold soup and thick slices of white bread.

A staffer in a bright green shirt stands by the coffee urn, arms folded, eyes flat and unamused. "You can't bring that in here," he says, jerking his chin at Annie. "We got families--"

Jamal holds up his phone, already filming, and says, "She's here to volunteer. Part of her community service."

The staffer stares for a second, like he's weighing whether to call the cops, or just let the world do its thing. He shrugs. "Keep it PG, man."

Jamal grins, all teeth, and leans in. "You hear that, princess? Keep it PG."

He hauls Annie to the far end of the gym, where a battered wooden table is set up with an army of stained plastic bowls, a stack of spoons, and three battered soup pots, the kind used to feed livestock or football teams. There's a chalkboard on the wall, the daily menu scrawled in shaky block letters: "Cream of Chicken, Oatmeal, Generic Stew." The handwriting is nearly illegible, but it's still better than anything Annie remembers from home.

Jamal shoves a ladle into her hand, the handle slimy with old broth. "Serve them, princess," he whispers, voice a snake coiled at her ear. "Smile for the camera."

She looks down the line: gaunt faces, sunken cheeks, a little girl in a shredded Elsa hoodie picking her nose and staring through her. The first man in line is huge, linebacker shoulders and a beard that covers half his chest. His coat is army surplus, torn at the sleeves, and his knuckles are tattooed with crude blue letters.

Annie hesitates, but Jamal jabs her in the ribs. "Start with him."

She dips the ladle into the stew, her hands trembling. The first scoop is too thin, liquid dripping back into the pot, and she has to try twice before she can fill the bowl.

"Look at him when you hand it over," Jamal hisses, just loud enough for her to hear. "Say thank you, slut. Show some gratitude."

She meets the man's eyes. They're flat, the color of dishwater. She forces her lips into something like a smile. "Thank you, sir."

He takes the bowl, not smiling, not even blinking. He's seen worse. He moves on, replaced instantly by another body.

There's a rhythm to it: ladle, hand off, repeat. The line never gets shorter, just rearranges itself, so every time she looks up there's a new face waiting to judge her, or leer, or look away in disgust.

Steph stands behind Jamal, arms crossed, smile sharp as a blade. She's the only person in the room who seems to enjoy this, except maybe the teenage boys near the back, who've started egging each other on with whispered dares and pointed finger-guns. One of them, a pale, ferret-faced kid with a cleft lip, says, "Can I get seconds if I grope the tranny?" His friend snickers, eyes flicking between Annie's chest and the ballooned crotch of her panties.

Jamal laughs, not unkindly. "You heard the man, princess. If you want to earn your keep, you gotta let them touch."

Annie's hands shake so bad she spills broth onto the table. The next woman in line--a mom, maybe, or just someone who's lost the thread--shoves her chipped bowl under the ladle and says, "Don't worry, honey. They're all talk." Her voice is raspy, but there's a kindness in it.

Annie fumbles the pour, soup sloshing down her glove. The woman takes the bowl, offers a thin smile, and moves on.

Jamal leans close, lips at her ear. "You want to make it out of here in one piece?" he whispers. "Stop flinching. These people smell fear."

She tries, but every new face is a shock to the system: the old woman with a black eye and a ragged scarf, the man with a cross tattooed on his forehead, the little girl who keeps pointing and asking, "Why is that boy wearing a bra?"

When the line slows, Jamal grabs Annie by the hair and yanks her down to kneeling, right in front of the battered trays. The motion sends a shockwave through her insides, the pressure of last night's eggs still pulsing in her gut. The panties are half see-through, the filth of her own ass smeared across the elastic, and when she kneels, she can feel every pair of eyes lock onto the trainwreck between her legs.

Jamal shoves a tray into her hands. "Bring this to that table," he says, nodding toward a cluster of old men in stained coveralls. "And make sure they get a good look at you."

She scuttles over, the tray shaking in her grip, and sets it down. One of the men grins, toothless, and says, "You working off a DUI, sweetheart?"

The others laugh, not kindly.

Annie forces a smile. "Just volunteering," she says, voice shaking.

The toothless man leans in, breath sour with cigarettes. "They make you wear that, or you just a freak?"

She feels her face burn. "It's a costume," she manages. "For a--charity thing."

He laughs so hard he coughs, then grabs her wrist. His grip is strong, too strong for her to pull away. "You should stick around after lunch," he says. "Some of us could use a little dessert."

Jamal's voice cuts in, loud and clear. "You heard the man, princess. Maybe they'll give you a tip if you're nice."

Steph is watching, her lips parted, tongue pressed to the back of her teeth like she's biting down a laugh.

The man lets go, and Annie stumbles back, tripping over her own feet. The tray crashes to the floor, bowls and spoons scattering. Soup splatters across her thigh, warm and sticky.

The laughter is immediate, and it hurts more than anything Jamal's ever done.

She drops to her knees, gathering the pieces, soup dripping down her leg. She's shaking so bad she can barely hold the bowl, and when she tries to stand, she slips, the heel catching on the tile, and goes down hard, chin smacking the edge of the table.

The pain is white-hot, but she doesn't scream. She just sits there, breathing through her nose, trying not to cry.

Jamal comes over, crouches beside her, and brushes the hair from her face. "You gotta do better than that," he says, soft. "They'll eat you alive if you show weakness."

He stands, wipes the mess off her thigh with the edge of his hoodie, then jerks his head toward the kitchen. "Go refill the trays. And clean yourself up before you come back. No one wants soup with a side of sissy tears."

She scuttles away, eyes fixed on the floor. The kitchen is a blast furnace, steam and old onions, the air thick with sweat and bleach. There's another staffer in here, an old woman in a faded Cubs cap, who doesn't look up when Annie enters.

She dumps the dirty bowls into the sink, runs water over her hands, and scrubs at the soup on her thigh. It's sticky, clinging to the fine hairs that have started to regrow, and when she looks at her reflection in the metal backsplash, she barely recognizes herself: red-faced, eyes wild, lips smeared with glitter.

The old woman finally looks over, sizing her up. "You got a cigarette?" she asks, voice gravel.

Annie shakes her head. "Sorry."

The woman shrugs. "You here with that black dude? He's loud."

Annie nods.

The woman cracks a smile. "He makes you dress like that?"

Annie looks down. "Yeah."

The woman laughs, but there's no cruelty in it. "He your boyfriend, or your boss?"

Annie doesn't know what to say. "It's complicated," she whispers.

The woman nods, like that's the most sensible thing in the world. "It always is," she says, then goes back to slicing carrots.

Annie refills the tray, hands still shaking, and heads back into the main room.

The line has thinned, but the teenage boys are still there, watching her. One of them holds up his phone, camera aimed steady. "Smile," he says, "you're gonna be famous."

She tries, but the smile doesn't land. She ladles soup into their bowls, eyes locked on the floor.

One of the boys leans in, whispers, "You ever suck dick, or you just like to dress up?"

She hears Jamal laugh from across the room, then call out, "She's a pro, actually. Show him, princess."

She wants to die. Instead, she says, "You wish," voice flat.

The boy barks a laugh, then holds up the bowl for more.

She pours it, careful not to spill, and moves on.

At the end of the shift, the staffer in the green shirt gives her a side-eye, then says, "You can go. We don't need you anymore."

Annie nods, then heads toward the door.

Jamal and Steph are waiting outside, Steph perched on the hood of the car, Jamal leaning against the fender, arms crossed.

He looks her up and down, then says, "Not bad. You're tougher than you look."

Steph uncrosses her legs, smooths her skirt, and says, "I liked the part where you almost cried. Very relatable."

Annie ignores them both, just slides into the back seat and stares out the window.

Jamal drives in silence for a few blocks, then says, "Where to next, princess? You want to get coffee? Or you want to make a real impression?"

Steph twists in the seat, her eyes bright and hungry. "I think she's ready for Main Street," she says. "Parade her. See how long before the cops show up."

Jamal grins. "Good idea."

Annie closes her eyes, lets the hum of the engine drown out everything else.

She doesn't want to know what comes next.

But she knows it will be worse. It always is.

* * *

Main Street is a river of faces, no shade, just the glare of sodium light and the thick stew of exhaust and fried meat. The world is awake and everyone's a witness.

Jamal parks half on the curb, throws open the passenger door, and hauls Annie out like luggage. The air hits her first: hot, sticky, a thousand eyes all magnetized to the bare skin between her mesh panties and her borrowed heels.

He doesn't bother with subtlety. He grabs a fistful of her hair, yanks her upright, and starts walking--no, parading--her down the sidewalk. The stretch between the shelter and the next intersection is maybe two city blocks, but every step is a decade, every foot of pavement a new trial.

Steph falls in step behind them, her own heels a metronome. She's put on lipstick, dark and glossy, and her lashes are so long they almost brush her sunglasses. She doesn't speak, but her gaze is a spotter's scope, flicking from Annie's wobbling gait to the crowds ahead.

The first onlookers are two sidewalk vendors, one selling bootleg watches, the other hot dogs. The hot dog guy's hands freeze mid-squeeze, ketchup oozing out the bun onto his knuckles. "Yo, what the fuck?" he says, but Jamal ignores him, marches Annie straight through the cloud of onion and charred beef.

A pair of tourists stop dead, clutching their foam cups and pointing. The woman whispers, too loud, "Is that a man or a woman?" The man laughs, takes a photo with his phone.

The stares are bullets. The laughter is worse.

Jamal slows the pace just to savor it. He leans in, mouth right at Annie's ear. "Show them your place," he says, low and intimate. "Let them see what happens to bad little sissy bitches."

Annie's legs are jelly. The wet between her thighs isn't soup anymore, but a mess of sweat and whatever Jamal put in her before they left the car. Her panties are streaked, the elastic cutting angry welts into her hips. Every step, the filth rides up higher, smearing the insides of her thighs, and she can feel it dripping down to the hollow of her knee.

Steph pulls ahead, then stops in front of a boutique window. She poses, back arched, and watches the reflection: Jamal, big and easy, one hand in Annie's hair, the other up her spine, guiding her like a bad dog. Annie sees herself in the glass, lips swollen, eyes red, a runnel of snot from nose to mouth. She looks like something from a car crash video, or a crime scene.

Jamal turns the corner onto the main crosswalk, not even looking for the walk sign. A Prius brakes hard, honks. Annie almost falls, but he yanks her upright, then holds her in place as the cars pile up on either side. The drivers stare: some with disgust, a few with open hunger.

The crosswalk crowd is thicker: teens, moms with strollers, two old men in ball caps and cheap khakis. The teens howl, "Yoooo," and one holds his phone out for a selfie, flipping the camera to get Jamal and Annie in frame. The moms shrink back, dragging their kids behind them. One little girl, eyes wide, says, "Why is that lady crying?" Her mother shushes her, pulls her away, never breaking eye contact with Jamal, whose grin is pure malevolence.

At the far side, Annie's heel catches a sewer grate and she almost eats pavement. The teens are still following, filming, narrating for their followers. Jamal drags her up again, then spins her so she faces the crowd.

"Say hi," he says, voice syrup-thick. "Tell them who you are."

Annie stares at the concrete, refuses. He jerks her chin up, hard, so her eyes meet the world.

"Say it."

She barely gets the words out. "Hi. I'm Annie. I'm a worthless sissy faggot."

The teens roar. The old men shake their heads, then keep walking. The moms are gone, but the little girl peeks out from behind a planter, still staring.

Jamal lets go of her hair, but not of her shame. "Kneel," he says.

She drops. The sidewalk is rough, biting into her knees. Her ass is in full view, the mesh panties riding up, the filth visible even from the curb.

Steph circles, phone in hand, recording. Her voice is soft, almost kind. "You're doing so good, princess," she says.

The vendors, the teens, even the drivers waiting at the red light, all watching.

Jamal crouches, his face level with Annie's, and says, "You see all these people?

They're going to remember you for the rest of their lives. You'll be a story they tell at parties. A meme in their group chats. That's your legacy, bitch."

He straightens, then nudges her shoulder so she wobbles on the spot.

"Stay," he commands.

Steph takes a picture, then another, then lowers her phone.

Jamal and Steph stand together, just behind her, sharing a look that's equal parts triumph and hunger.

For a second, Annie thinks they might kiss. Instead, Steph reaches up, fixes Jamal's collar, and smiles.

The crosswalk clears, the cars move on, but Annie is still kneeling, still watched, still the centerpiece of the world's worst parade.

She doesn't move until Jamal says, "Get up, slut. Show's over."

She rises, every cell screaming, and follows them down the block.

She knows she'll never be clean again.