Mr. Berkley checked his rear-view mirror and backed his Beamer out of his driveway onto the two-lane highway. His Rolex-laden wrist lifted so he could adjust the mirror a tad, then he ran his fingers through his silver hair. An aging man of expensive metals, he was. I sat in the passenger seat, my hands in my lap holding the twenty dollars I had gotten for watching he and his wife's two little girls for the night. This marked the last of the tuition I needed, the last bit my Stafford loan hadn't paid for. I figured this ride home would be silent, like all the others. Mr. Berkley cleared his throat, though, and said, "So what kind of faggot takes a babysitting job?"
I was stunned. "Excuse me?"
Mr. Berkley laughed. "Ah," he said. "The same kind of faggot who says, 'Excuse me,' when he's just been called a faggot." He pulled the car over onto the shoulder and looked at me. "Look here, little girl, there were a few hundred-dollar bills on my dresser this evening before Susan and I left for dinner. I get home, and voila! They're gone."
"What?" My head was whirling. First he insulted me, now he's accusing me of thievery. "I didn't take any money off your dresser, Mr. Berkley."
"Heh. No, Mike, you didn't. I know that. I put it there, and I removed it." I stared at him. What was he talking about? "My lovely, trusting wife Susan, however, didn't see me remove it. She knew I put it there before we left. She knew it wasn't there when we got back, after I mentioned it. She has suspicions in place."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
Without warning, Mr. Berkley shot his fist into my stomach. I lurched forward in my seat, feeling the crushing weight of my lack of breath. "You keep your mouth shut when I'm talking to you, faggot." Tears spilled down my cheeks. "Do you know what I did before I was a lawyer, little girl?" Why does he keep calling me that? I shook my head 'no.' "Before I went to law school, before I even thought about passing the bar, I made a living as a performance artist. It's hard making money at that." I coughed, took a full breath. "So on the side, I learned a bit of pick-pocketing, some lock-picking. Some thievery of my own." I wanted to ask him why he was telling me this, but I kept silent. He looked over at me. "Good girl. The reason I tell you this is because you need to know what I can do. Check your jeans pocket." I reached into my right jeans pocket. Nothing. I checked the other one, and froze. My hand brushed paper, paper that hadn't been there an hour ago. I pulled it out, and looked at three crisp hundred-dollar bills in horror. I shook my head, though.
"This doesn't prove anything! Especially now that I know about it!" I thought I had caught him.
He clucked his tongue. "I've looked into your record, little girl. Twice you've been arrested for shoplifting. Twice. That doesn't look good."
"I was fifteen! That was three years ago!"
His fist shot out again, in almost the exact same spot. I sat doubled over while he explained the way things worked. "Three years ago, three days ago. Doesn't matter. Do you know how many times I've been caught picking pockets? Zero. I have a spotless record. I'm a prominent defense attorney for some of the biggest names in town. It will be my word against yours that you didn't steal my money, and I know the only person who will believe you is your poor, dear mother. Do you think she could take the scandal, though? Do you think her employer will be happy to hear about her thieving, lying son?"
I was defeated. I didn't know why, I could barely understand how, but I knew that I was done. I sat up and started crying. "So what do you want, then? Why would you do this? This must've been a lot of work."
Mr. Berkley chuckled. "Yes, it was a lot of work. Not hard work, but tedious." He unbuckled his seat belt, then unbuckled his belt. "But now it's done. My, my, little girl." He pulled his pants and briefs down to mid-thigh, exposing his rock-hard seven-inch dick. "Now, little girl, you're going to suck my cock."
