“No,” she said. “So I can blow you here in the parking lot too.”
I gave a half nod.
“Must be hard,” I said. “This line of work.”
Her head snapped toward me, and suspicion sharpened her features.
“Do you usually work at the inn?” I asked.
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s with all the questions? You a pig or something?”
Her hand slid to the door handle.
“God, no,” I said with a short, bitter laugh. “That’s an insult, considering what they’ve done to me and my family. I can’t stand the cops.”
She studied me, her eyes searching my face for lies. She didn't seem to find any as she shifted in her seat and let go of the door handle.
“That rash of yours,” I said, nodding at her chest. “That’s shingles.”
She laughed. “What, you a doctor or something like that?”
“Something like that.” I kept my voice casual. “Shingles follows dermatomal distribution. It hides out in your ganglia, along the spine. Then it travels outward. That’s why it shows up on your chest. Sometimes it goes away on its own. But sometimes it can also cause postherpetic neuralgia.”
Her gaze dropped to the blisters on her chest.
“It can also make you blind if it spreads to the eye,” I added. “You don’t have HIV, do you? Because that can make the complications a lot worse.”
She looked up fast. Eyes wide now. “What happens if somebody has HIV and shingles? I’m asking for a friend.”
“That depends,” I said.
“On what?”
“If people are on antivirals. And if they are generally healthy and willing to take medication to treat the shingles. And the HIV.”
Her fingers played with the edge of her dress. “What if they can’t afford their HIV meds?”
The fake designer purse. The cheap dress. The worn-down heels. My chest tightened for this woman.
“Then they should treat the shingles with antivirals as soon as possible,” I said. “They’re not expensive, even without insurance. And I could get them for free.”
Our eyes met.
Shock flickered across her face, struggling to process what I just said. Like kindness was a language she didn’t speak anymore. Seeing her this vulnerable made me hate Myers even more. As if he were responsible for her misery too.
“I…I have HIV,” she confessed, like I didn’t already know. “That’s why I only give blow jobs right now. ’Cause I can’t afford the meds to keep my count low.”
I nodded. “Well, it’s better if you don’t do that either,” I said as kindly as I could. “It’s very, very rare, but if there’s blood-to-blood contact, like a cut in your mouth and a wound on a client, it’s possible to pass it along.”
Her face drained fast.
“It’s really unlikely,” I added quickly. “Extremely unlikely. Have you had any injury in your mouth lately?”
Her head shook hard. “No. I haven’t. I promise.”
I reached for her hand before thinking. It was cold.
“As I said, it’s unlikely. But we need to get you back on your meds. Not for the filthy bastards treating you like an animal. But for you. The Massachusetts HIV Drug Assistance Program pays for HIV meds for people who can’t afford them. No questions asked.”
