I slumped further into the bar stool I sat on, resting my head on folded arms. Price had been quiet so far, leaving me restless about what he was thinking. I wanted to know if I’d somehow ruined whatever image he had of me. I didn’t want to seem like some weak, pathetic guy with no backbone. That wasn’t me. Tonight, though, that was exactly how I felt.
Price returned, standing on the other side of the bar counter. He had a wet washcloth, a few bandages, and a bag of frozen broccoli. “You guys don’t have peas, so this will have to do,” he said with a smile. “Lift your head and look at me. I wanna take care of these before I cook.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I don’t need any of that. I can take care of it myself.”
Graspingthe washcloth, he shrugged. “I know you’re capable. I just don’t think you will. I bet you’d barely wash those cuts off in the shower and then let them scar or get infected.”
I stayed silent.
“That’s what I thought.” Price sighed and grabbed my chin, his grip gentle, the pads of his fingers smooth as he moved my head from side to side.
My cheeks burned as licks of humiliation made their way through me. I flinched a little when the cloth touched my skin, though I didn’t move away entirely. I tried to avert my gaze or stare at the wall behind Price, but I was failing miserably. His face scrunched with concentration; his eyes locked onto each individual graze.
It didn’t hurt as much as I was expecting. The rough texture of the rag barely fazed me thanks to the slow, calculated movements Price used. I watched as he pulled the cloth away, the once-yellow color tinged with red. He didn’t move immediately, his grasp on my chin tight as he examined me.
“I found some ointment. You have quite the first aid kit, Pretty Boy.” The way he said it wasn’t with praise. It sounded like disappointment. “Barely used for someone with a penchant for getting roughed up.” He grumbled before squeezing some onto his fingertip, dabbing it along my face.
Fuck, his hands felt so warm. The ice inside my chest was thawing with each stroke against my cheek.
My forehead.
The curve of my nose.
Everywhere Price touched me, fire trailed soon after. He was burning me up from the inside out.
I still hadn’t said a word, not for the lack of them, but because I was afraid. Being alone together at work was one thing. It was something else entirely to be in my home, my sanctuary, after being battered for my stupidity.
Worse yet, being taken care of by him was chipping away at my resolve. My eyes slid closed as I got lost in the moment. Price’s touch and the care he took in making sure every wound was covered in ointment lulled me into a sense of security. Something I hadn’t felt in years, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise.
Price pulled back, taking his warmth with him. “You feeling okay?”
I blinked my eyes open with a slow nod. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”
“No problem.” He threw the tainted washcloth into the sink. “So, what was that about anyway? Did you know those guys?”
Back to the questions. I laid my head back down, resisting the urge to shiver when my cheek met cold, hard marble. “Not on a personal level.”
Price moved around the kitchen effortlessly. Ingredients I didn’t know we had were piled onto the counter by the stove, and the way he wielded a knife had my heart clenching. Why did he look so beautiful like that? “Professionally, then. They didn’t look like the type of clients you take.”
I snorted so forcefully my head rolled a bit. “They weren’t clients. They were also workers… or rent boys as they called themselves.” I sighed heavily, repeating the encounter in my mind. “I fucked things up for them, I guess. They were pretty angry.”
“I’d say.” Price cracked a few eggs into some sort of mound made of flour. “How did you fuck things up for them?”
“Let’s see.” I sat up, resting my elbows on the counter. “I have a home, for one. I’m no longer working out there because I actually had the choice and audacity to take a break. I’m also the most requested prostitute in the area, so the clients, or ‘customers’ as they called them, are pissed.” I gestured with finger quotes.
“That hardly seems like it’s your fault. You’re popular, so what?”
“That’s the thing, Price.” I rubbed a hand down my face, wincing a bit at the tenderness. “I fucked it all up. I’m popular for a reason. I take aggression with greed, always taking more and more. If they aren’t using me as an outlet for their anger, then I don’t waste my time with them.” Shame rolled in my gut, making it cramp with more than pain from the punches I’d taken.
The eggs and flour Price was working with before had now turned into a nicely shaped lump of dough. He didn’t speak, letting silence fill the room as he covered the lump with cling wrap.
With his back facing me, he ran his hands under water at the sink. “Go on,” he urged.
That was the problem. I didn’t want to continue. Didn’t want toadmit my direct involvement in this mess. I sighed as I wrapped myself into a ball, pretending I was the dough Price had made.
If I were that small, maybe I wouldn’t have to face the world. “Because of me and my… specialty, the clients have taken to using force to have their way. Apparently, if they can’t have me, they grab whichever guy is available and they play by the rules I set.”
I saw the hesitance as Price’s chopping slowed. The knife’s hilt suddenly seemed much more interesting as it paused with him, the blade barely touching the broccoli on the cutting board. “So they request you, can’t get you, and instead take it out on someone else?”
