Flicking his eyes to the floor, he merely grunted in response.
My fingers twitched to reach for the gum I’d usually have in my desk organizer. Honestly, I missed that bit of routine. Something ultra shitty to chew on while my life focused on perfect, bold flavors. It wasn’t worth upsetting Crew, though. “Why the blond?”
There went his eyes again, showing me every emotion he kept hidden. Hesitance? Fear? Shame? I hadn’t gotten the chance to stare into his eyes long enough to differentiate them. “Supposed to make me look younger.”
The answer was so far from what I was expecting that I was essentially speechless.
Seeing that I wasn’t going to respond, Crew tried to explain. “Plus, the Johns have a thing for blonds. I’m getting older, Price. It’s fucked up, but when I was younger, I had a much easier time finding the type of clients I wanted. I’m not trying to look like I just graduated from high school or anything. The job I have takes a toll on my body.” He wriggled in his seat and tapped his pointer finger against the side of his thumb, all while refusing eye contact with me. “Okay, this sounds messed up, huh? I should’ve just said I liked the color. Sorry.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I want to understand.”
He looked up, locking his gaze with mine. I could see his face relax, the storm in his eyes calming ever so slightly. “I meet a lot of people doing what I do. I know tons of hook—er, sex workers who are in their early twenties and look like they’re forty. Please don’t get me wrong—I love what I do. I mean, that’s why I do it.” Did he believe that, though? It looked like he was trying to convince himself rather than me. “But staying out all night, sometimes every night, in whatever type of weather? Yeah, my skin isn’t going to look the same. The men I mess around with are rough—like I demand—so I have scars and shit. It’s kinda sick to think about. I had an easier time getting rough clients when I was sixteen than I do now.”
I leaned my elbows onto my desk, solely invested in what he was saying. He said rough like hedemanded, not like hewanted. If I hadn’t already had my doubts, a seed would’ve been planted from that choice of words alone.
“Anyway.” He blew out a breath. “I don’t go out dressing like the other guys anymore. I have enough of a reputation that I can be recognized fully clothed, so I don’t bother. That doesn’t mean I can parade around looking all ugly and shit, though. I need to look good enough. I need to look…” Crew paused, a frown tugging at his lower lip. This time, when he spoke in a low whisper, I didn’t think he was trying to keep our conversation away from the hidden audience. I think he was trying to be so quiet that not even he could hear what came out of his mouth. “I need to look like I did back then. I think… yeah, I had blond hair then. Let it grow out after. Chopped all the blond off.”
Everything was so cryptic with him. I tried to follow along, wondering what timeline he was thinking about. “When?”
My question shocked him, a physical start forcing him to jolt in his seat. “Huh?”
“You need to look how you did when?”
His eyes were glossy when he looked at me. They were muddied again, with a far-off expression. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. I’m gonna go. Let me know if you need anything else with the produce issue.”
I didn’t have time to interject before he was out of his chair and down the hall. Whatever he was talking about, it haunted him. Would he admit that? Probably not.
Watching the camera feed, I followed Crew with my eyes as he made his way to the back exit. Once he stepped outside, he moved into a blind spot, but I knew he was sitting against the building.
I wanted to know more. I wanted to know every secret Crew had. I wanted to hear them from his mouth, taste them on his tongue, and feel them as they writhed underneath his skin.
The moment Crew left my office, the itching came back with a vengeance.
If everything happened for a reason,then why me? People said that shit all the time as a way to gloss over terrible situations, like the excuse made it all magically easier to deal with. When Mom died, that’s all anyone said to me. Not an apology, or sympathy, or even a homemade casserole. Living in the Bible Belt, everyone believed the cosmos aligned, and our lives played out the way they did to reach an invisible prize. All the estranged family that pretended they cared fed me bullshit about it all happening for a reason, then smacked me on the shoulder as if they’d just cured the inescapable grief.
Spoiler alert: they didn’t.
When I thought back to the million brief encounters where that phrase was said to me, I only came up with more questions. What in the hell was the reason formehappening?
Mom swore up and down that I was the best thing to ever come into her life, and while I believed that, I also knew that not having me would’ve been easier. So far, I haven’t found the reason behind my existence.
The idea of needing a reason to live, of having a purpose in life other than to take up space, was so innatelyhumanthat it made me cringe to think about it. I understood mid-life crisis, but what was it called when my entire life had been one huge crisis? I didn’t fit in anywhere.
My only reason for getting up in the mornings was that Willow would be crushed if I didn’t. I thought I’d find my place at school, and I didn’t.
I thought I’d find my place at Tiger Claw Camp, and though I thought I did for a while, I didn’t.
I thought I’d find my place when I started selling my body, camping out at the park in our shitty, small town, and I didn’t.
I thought I’d find my place on the street corners of New York, and wouldn’t you know—I didn’t.
What I wouldn’t give to belong somewhere. To feel needed. To feel wanted. All I wanted was to fit in. The streets were practically home to me, yet I was still an outcast.
Sure, I felt wanted when men picked me up for the night, but it never lasted for long. They only wanted me because they needed someone to want, and I got paid to be that person.
When Price looked at me, I could feel it. He wanted me so badly, his hands almost always reached for me, never quite touching my skin but close enough I could feel their raging heat. I could admit I wanted him, too. I just couldn’t have him. He’d break me in the gentlest way possible.
Price went against every instinct I learned to use for survival. If I gave in, I’d lose my control. I’d sink into the depths of treacherous waters—and I love the woman—but my mother never taught me how to swim. Who the hell didn’t know how to swim in the south?
