Warning: Bad sex everything
Years ago, you would have marked him. You would have dragged your knife against his skin, a warning for any girls that came near him. But that was years ago, and things have changed.
You're dressed in a cheap red dress, one with nothing underneath that only accents the fact that it's made for easy access. You're working a corner you've worked a million times before, and you're watching cars pass without really seeing them. You aren't paying attention to any of them, because you're waiting for him. You know you aren't his type. You're too old, for starters, too curvy, too grown woman and not enough of the little girl anymore. But it's okay, because you have an in, and you know he likes it rough, and you spread the word around that you'll let anyone do anything to you for a price.
When he stops for you, you have to remind yourself of the little boy you just managed to track down. You have to remind yourself of the years you spent looking, and of all the things you let people do to your body in exchange for the information that would lead you here, to him, to Las Vegas. You slide into the car, and you cross your thighs, and you think about a mop of brown hair, and a familiar smile, and the six days you spent crying once you realized just how monumentally you had fucked up. The man's hand is between your legs, and you force yourself not to think about the girl as he roughly fingers you, the girl you know this man is sleeping with regularly. Early teens and too young to know better, and you know you're going to use it against him. Instead of marking him, instead of turning him in, you're going to use it against him.
He takes you to a house, and you know this isn't going to be easy. It's isolated, and no one's going to hear you once you're inside, but without his money there's no way you can turn things around. You need to stay wherever that little boy is, and you'll do anything it takes. You're numb otherwise, because no one's touched anything that matters in you in so long. You left that in New York, sleeping, and now the only thing you have left is that little boy.
So you go into the house, and you get naked for him, and you let him strangle you until you blackout. You come to with him fucking you, and you let him have you in every way he wants. Every hole, and you let him bruise you, and you let him make your vision go inky with dots and unconsciousness so many times that you think he might actually succeed in killing you. You do all this, and you bide your time. Bide. Bide. It takes two days, and there isn't a part of you that hasn't bled, and eventually he sleeps. You would crawl through glass to get to his cellphone, and it feels like you're doing just that. But you manage, and you send yourself the photos that the teenager told you were there, on the phone.
When he wakes, the photos have already been sent somewhere safe, and you're dressed and waiting for him to quake. And he does. Oh, he does. He agrees, as he sits there naked, to give you the money you're asking for, to stay away from the girl, to never do it again. You know he'll give you the money, and you know he'll stay away from the girl, but you don't quite believe the rest. But you let him go anyway, and you promise yourself you'll keep track of him. But that doesn't matter. It's a means to an end, a way to stay near the little boy, a way to get in with important people, to try to find a way to get him back.
It's all that matters, because it's all you have anymore. His father is long gone, and you can't find him, and the little boy is all you have left that's worth staying alive for.