Chapter Text
Ben’s mother was, technically, Jewish and his father was, loosely speaking, Lutheran. Ironically, his mother would have scolded him for drinking in a dive bar on Christmas Eve, and his father would have hailed the bartender and ordered a whiskey sour. Judaism, as Han had frequently smarmily reminded Leia when she tried to make Ben and Han participate in some sort of holiday father-son bonding ritual like carol-singing or tree-decorating, was matrilineal. His mother, in turn, always wondered allowed whether Ben’s father had been reading a thesaurus because that was such a big word.
“Hi.” That was one little word, but it caught his attention – or rather, the woman who said it caught his attention, because she had lipstick on her teeth. “Happy Christmas.”
Because he was both his father’s son – an asshole – and his mother’s son – a Jew – Ben remarked, “I’m Jewish, and there’s lipstick on your teeth.”
“Oh, shit.” The woman – girl? – looked very embarrassed all of the sudden.
“I don’t practice. I didn’t even have a bar mitzvah. When I was born my mother insisted I get the old snip-snip and that was the extent of her Jewishness.” Ben made a scissor-like motion with his long fingers. “I’m sorry, I’m drunk. Is telling you I’m circumcised inappropriate?”
The girl flushed pink, as pink as her lipstick. “I meant my teeth – I never wear lipstick.”
Ben took another sip of his third – fourth? – whiskey sour. He wasn’t particularly gregarious on a good day, so why, on Christmas Eve, of all days, he was making obnoxious small talk with a stranger, he wasn’t sure. Very patiently, he asked, “Why are you wearing it now?”
“Because – because…” The girl floundered. Her cheeks turned, adorably, bright red. She seemed to seize on something. “It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Like I said. I’m a Jew. What does Christmas Eve have to do with you wearing lipstick?”
The girl plunged on, ignoring his quip, as if she’d rehearsed this speech. “Are you lonely? No one should be lonely on Christmas Eve. Even Jewish people.”
Ben blinked at her. “What?”
“You seem lonely.” The girl swallowed hard, as if steeling herself. “You don’t… you don’t have to be. I could keep you company.”
“Oh.” Ben coughed out a laugh at how absurdly forthcoming she was being. “Are you hitting on me?”
“No-o.” The girl drew the word out carefully into two syllables. She didn’t elaborate, and suddenly, she looked horribly embarrassed. She pressed her lips together, smearing the lipstick.
She was a beautiful girl; she didn’t need makeup. It looked almost garish on her. Equally out of place was her dress – black, short, too tight. It was made of a cheap polyester blend material. She worried the hem of it with her chewed, calloused fingers. Her eyes were made up in matching black kohl. They were desperate eyes. Not desperate like other girls’ eyes – not desperate for validation or sex or a husband. They were desperate on a deeper level.
All of the sudden, Ben realized that she had answered his question – why wear lipstick, tonight, if she didn’t ordinarily? – without really answering it.
“You’re soliciting me, aren’t you?” Ben set his whiskey sour down, almost delighted by how absurd this was. This sort of thing didn’t happen to him. It happened to other people, people with more exciting, interesting lives. Now the girl scowled, as if she had hoped he would play along with her, speaking in double entendres and innuendo. She was trying to look mean, scowling, but her flush was so pretty he couldn’t help teasing. “Ah, you are. Why me?”
The girl glanced from side to side as if making sure no one was listening in on their conversation – prudent, considering the topic of conversation. “You’ve had four whiskey sours and a sad look on your face all night.”
“You mean I look like a sucker.”
“You look like you can afford… it.”
“Afford you.” Ben corrected her. She scowled some more. “I can. I’m a lawyer.”
The girl nearly bolted right then and there, falling off of her barstool. On instinct, Ben caught her arm, steadying her. She tried to wrest away and he held her still. He wasn’t sure why he did; it would be no great loss if she ran off. “Jesus, not that kind of lawyer. Mergers and acquisitions.” When she didn’t react except with a suspicious look, he clarified, “Taxes. You do pay taxes, don’t you? How do prostitutes report their income?”
“Fuck you.” Her voice trembled a little, but she apparently still had some dignity. “I’m not a prostitute.”
“What are you, then?” Ben cocked his head, feeling drunk and rude. He was enjoying this, a little too much. He thought, for a wild moment, that maybe he could pay her to sit there and take his verbal abuse all night. “An escort? I thought those were just high-rent prostitutes, for politicians or quarterbacks.”
“I’m… I just need the money.” Oh, that, that worked and he hadn’t expected it to. Her chin wobbled and he wasn’t sure if it was an act. Was she just whoring out her emotions along with her body?
“How much?” Ben intentionally left the question vague. He might have meant, how much do you need? Or, he might have meant l, how much do I have to pay to fuck you and make that pretty little mouth tremble some more?
She stuck her chin out. “A thousand dollars.”
Ben barked out a laugh. “I don’t really know the going rate for hookers but that seems a bit unrealistic. Can you blow me while you do a headstand or something?”
The girl took a deep, long-suffering breath. She looked determined. It was an odd look. It was oddly seductive. It should have turned him off – he didn’t want to fuck someone who saw fucking him as something to be endured a stiff upper lip, for God’s sake. It didn’t. “For a thousand dollars, I can.”
Ben looked at her for a long moment in disbelief. This girl had no business sense, it seemed. She was demanding an outrageous sum. She wasn’t flattering him and making him feel desired and desirable. He knew she didn’t desire him, but he thought she should at least act like she did if she wanted his money.
“Eight-hundred.” He heard himself say, half into his whiskey glass. The glass distorted the words.
“Eight hundred.” The girl repeated, nodding, too quickly. It made him wonder if he should have bid lower. She was obviously desperate.
And so, Ben realized, as he stood up and slowly took a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet, laying it on the bar next to the whiskey sour he didn’t bother finishing, was he.
“They… they say not to get into cars.” The girl hesitated when they walked up to his black beamer on the curb.
“They?” Ben goaded her.
In a small voice, the girl admitted, “People on the… internet.”
“You googled how to be a hooker?” Ben couldn’t help himself; he started laughing.
The girl frowned, looking almost stern and matronly for a moment. “You aren’t sober, are you?”
“If I were, I wouldn’t be paying to fuck you.” Ben observed. If he had been, he also would have known better than to suggest what he suggested next. He was committing a crime. He didn’t need a witness. “I’ll get an Uber.”
“We can walk.”
“Fuck, no. My apartment is on the east side.”
“I’m not comfortable going to your apartment.” The girl said, quite bravely. “No one would know where to look for my body if I went missing.”
Ben snorted. “Did Google tell you that, too?”
“There’s a motel across the road.” The girl forged on. “I want to go there.”
“A motel?” Ben wrinkled his nose. “A motel is for, like, cheap hookers. You’re fucking expensive. I’m blowing my cocaine allowance for the month on you – I’m kidding, I’m kidding.”
“Think of it as… role-playing.” The word sounded foreign in the girl’s mouth, and it was only then that Ben realized she had a foreign accent. He wondered if she was faking it, to disguise herself. It was a ludicrous thought. He dismissed it. She clearly hadn’t put that much effort into ensnaring a client. There had been lipstick on her teeth. “You’re meeting your secretary in a sleezy motel. Your wife doesn’t know.”
“I’m divorced.” Ben said, flatly.
Bizarrely, the girl’s face softened. “I knew you were lonely.”
For some reason, Ben cleared his throat, uncomfortable at how naked the emotion was on her features. She looked at him like she… related to him, on some level. It made him feel the need to introduce himself to her, finally. “I’m Ben.”
“Kira.”
“That your real name?”
“No.” Kira’s grin seemed real. “Is Ben your real name?”
“I didn’t realize I was supposed to use a fake name.” Ben admitted, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
“Have you ever done this before?”
“No. Have you? Wait, don’t answer that.” They’d, somehow, as they talked, crossed the road and ended up in front of the moldy old motel. Ben ducked inside before she could answer. He didn’t doubt she would, even if she didn’t mean to – she was a terrible liar. He booked a room, trying to act casual. His ears burned as he fished cash out of his wallet.
There was an ATM outside the glass door of the motel lobby. Ben gestured to it, wordlessly, and Kira nodded, looking embarrassed but somehow relieved – as if now, he couldn’t back out. She stood behind him in silence, at a respectful distance, as he withdrew eight-hundred dollars.
When Ben turned around, Kira was hunched over, holding a device in her palm. It was brightly lit. It was an electronic device. A recording device.
His stomach lurched. “Jesus Christ, are you a cop?”
“No!” Kira tried to hide the screen, her face panicked.
“Why are you recording me?” Ben lunged for the video recorder and she ducked away from him. In that moment, he was angrier at himself – he’d really fucked up this time, worse than the DWI, worse than his divorce, worse than getting fired, worse than punching his father – than he was at her. He was going to go to jail. Prison. Was there a difference? “What the fuck is this?”
He got a hold of her wrist and, none too gently, wrenched the blue-lit palm-sized device from her.
“No!” Kira yelped. He held it out of her reach and with a shuddering sigh, almost a sob, she turned away from him. Apprehensive, Ben looked down at the white, plastic piece of cruddy, outdated technology.
It was a baby monitor.