“Starting pay?” she countered.
Well, fuck. “I’d need a trial period consisting of at least one to two shifts to show you the ropes and make sure you’ll fit in well. If it all pans out well enough, I’d be glad to match your current monthly take-home.”
Crew huffed a bit, crossing his arms over his chest. “You wouldn’t be able to match it.”
“Is that so?” I tilted my head to the side.
He nodded. “I want higher than minimum wage.”
“Done.”
“At least three bucks higher an hour.”
“Sure.”
“And flexible hours.”
“I can compromise.”
“I want a number. How much?”
I felt Willow’s gaze burning into the side of my head. I didn’t pay it any mind, watching Crew’s expressions closely. It was entrancing. “How much are you worth?”
When I was met with silence, I chuckled and turned to Willow. “I’d like to set up an official interview, but something tells me I’d only be ignored if I got contact information from Mr. Crew directly. Would you be so kind as to enter your number?”
After blinking at me slowly, seemingly comprehending what I was asking, Willow took my phone and typed a number into it. “I never did get your name,” she said just as she put the phone back into my palm.
I glanced at the new contact in my phone before pocketing it again. “Oh, yes, I’m so sorry. It’s been so hectic, I must have left my manners in the kitchen. I’m Price Iverson, one of the managers here.”
Crew sighed from the other side. “Are we done here? I’d like to finish my meal in peace.”
With my best practiced grin, I nodded. “Of course. If either of you needs anything, I’ll text Willow. You two enjoy the rest of your night, and I hope to see you soon, Crew.”
Now I had to hope Willow convinced Crew to come in for an interview, get him to agree to a job, and convince Brandt or Matt to take him on to our staff. With a position that didn’t exist.
On my walk back to the kitchen, reality began to settle in. I easily could’ve stayed away. I could have mentioned we didn’t have any openings. There were a million ways I could have ignored both of them, but I couldn’t.
Not when those sad, frozen eyes calmed the fire inside of me. Not when I began to sway where I stood at the memory of his soft, scarred skin against my palms. Crew was complicated and unique. One small fuck-up and I knew everything would explode.
He reminded me of my passion in life. However fucked up it sounded, Crew was a new recipe I had yet to learn, and I desperately needed to know him.
Through only a few interactions and a handful of fleeting touches, I was ready to freeze underneath his intricate, ice-made design. I needed his skin against mine to calm the chaos beneath it until we made something uniquely flawed, yet perfect all the same.
Willowand I were stuck in a loop. No matter how much time passed, she was still as wary as the first time she found out I was doing sex work. She worried over me, completely unaware that the damage I’d do to myself would be far worse if I couldn’t do it.
I didn’t know how to explain it to her in a way that would ease her concern. There wasn’t a magical string of words I could use to somehow make her stop worrying or try to change my mind.
If I told her the truth, she’d look at me with a million different emotions I wasn’t ready for. One of them being pity. I didn’t want pity. I chose my path with full awareness of what I was getting into. Though I was a dumb teenager yearning for something familiar, I knew the lasting effects it would have on me.
Willow has asked me a million times if I’d have done anything different back then and my answer remains the same each time. Looking back, the only thing I’d change would be the amount I charged my first few Johns.
I didn’t start selling my body out of any real necessity. Some kids were homeless and had nowhere else to turn to. I knew boys and girls whose parents sold them out against their will.
My choice was my own, and Willow didn’t seem to get that. I understood its significance when I hooked up with a stranger the first time. Once I started, I knew I’d never stop. I’d be a whore until the day I died—a decision I probably shouldn’t have made so young.
I wasn’t made for love and tender moments shared between intimate whispers. That wasn’t what I needed.
It all started soon after I got home from Tiger Claw Camp that last summer. I created a routine, following it to a T. My urgent need for destruction ruled my life.
