Without much thought behind the action, I placed my hand on his arm. A muscle there twitched at my touch, flexing with pristinely maintained strength. I tried not to think about how close we were. The heat of his body radiated towards me. The woodsy scent he carried with him overpowered anything else, the smell of spices from the food he cooked just barely noticeable beneath it.
I was trying to comfort him the best I could. I wasn’t very good with words. I tried to keep an inviting facial expression, hoping to exude patience and understanding.
The side of his lip twitched with a nervous smile. “When I was a kid, I got burns and cuts all the time. I was really clumsy. As I got older, I got more serious about cooking. It was my lifeline, you know?”
I nodded.
“Anyway, I used to hate my hands. Didn’t care for them much. Isn’t that odd?” He chuckled at himself, stealing a glance at me before shaking his head. “My hands used to cause a lot of destruction. But then, there I was, creating something everybody needed. A basic need most forms of life have. Food. I wasn’t only making food; I was creating fucking edible art.”
He cringed a bit. “Sorry, that sounds so cheesy.”
I shook my head at him, noticing that I had once again closed more distance between us. “Keep going.”
“My hands are important to me now. They create something sustaining. If I were to hurt my hands, I’d lose the one thing I love the most. So, I’m careful. A lot more careful than the other cooks. I’mhyper-vigilant to my surroundings. I pay extreme attention to what I’m doing just so I don’t harm myself.”
Price was looking at his hands now, palms up. I couldn’t stop myself. There was an invisible force tugging at me, forcing my hand to cover one of his. God, they were smooth.
Gentle.
Beautiful.
The complete opposite of who I was as a person.
After hearing his explanation, I noticed tiny, faded scars littering the skin over the top of his hand. I guessed they were from when he was young, but they didn’t look like burns. They were jagged, most of them grouped in threes or more, almost like deep scratches. Were they from a jagged knife? Or perhaps an unruly childhood cat?
“That’s why you hit that guy with your elbow, huh?” I asked.
He gripped my hand, squeezing it. “Yeah, it was out of habit. I do what I can to protect my hands.”
“And your quirky need for more than one lotion?”
He barked out a laugh at me. Our bodies jostled with the couch, vibrating with the force of his joy. I knew his laugh would play on repeat in my mind later. I joined him, letting our laughter harmonize and bounce off the walls together.
When we got ahold of ourselves, I was still holding his hand. I didn’t let go, and I didn’t dwell on it. It had been years since I’d idly touched someone like that other than Willow. “I don’t think any of that is weird. It makes sense.”
I looked down at our joined hands, a sudden craving to kiss his knuckles creeping into my mind. I must’ve been messed up from the beating I took. That must be why when I looked up into Price’s eyes, my heart started to beat faster.
The rush of heat flashing up my back had to be a symptom of sorts. It had nothing to do with the fact that all I could see was a kind, tortured soul staring back at me from within his pupils.
For the first time, I could see something similar between us. Sadness hid just deep enough to be out of sight, but I knew Price was hiding something, just like me.
Something I didn’t know or understand. He hadn’t told me withwords, yet I understood all the same. We both had demons that came with rules.
If we didn’t follow those rules, we would drown. With mine, I had to sell my body and carve my misgivings straight into my skin.
His, I wasn’t sure of yet. But I wanted to know.
Price looked at me, and I could see it. I could tell he was searching my eyes for the same. “I’ve talked a lot about me. Can I ask you a question now?”
I seriously must have been hit in the head hard because in no other lifetime would I have agreed. Yet I did. Easily. “Sure.”
My hand was getting slightly sweaty from Price’s grip, but he didn’t let go. He didn’t seem to care or notice in the slightest. “Why did you start sex work?”
The question felt like a gut punch. Harder than the one I’d received earlier. It traveled up my stomach, lodging itself in my esophagus. My muscles went rigid, and my heart pounded against the bones of my ribcage.
I hadn’t given it much thought. If I did, I knew I’d crumble. Once I lost my resolve, I wouldn’t ever gain it back. The way he looked at me, how he genuinely cared about my answer, broke something inside of me once more. My grip on control was so loose I was dangerously close to losing it completely.
He looked at me with kindness. Compassion I didn’t want nor deserve. I’d been asked why before. Willow started asking when we were young, despite my never giving a true answer.
