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“At three hundred dollars a pop every six weeks? I don’t fuc—fudging think so.” Once, I tried going to the lady Michael sees. Despite how often ‌strange men touch me, it felt awkward. I didn’t even fit on her table. On top of it all, I couldn’t justify the expense when I had a child to feed.

Not that this is much better. The intimacy of ‌Mike touching me gets me both needy and enraged. The way he alternates between gentle soothing and the apparent joy of causing me pain, the way we’re so close but he’s the only one doing the touching.

It’s always him doing the touching.

It’s even harder to take lately, what with his whole thing where he wants us to practice being close or romantic or whatever. That’s my fault; I know it’s my fault. I should never have suggested that he couldn’t pretend to be in love with me.

Turns out I’d rather he not pretend. It might be the thing that ruins my sanity.

“Then I guess you’re stuck with me,” Michael murmurs as he rips another strip off my flesh.

His warm brown fingers skate over the angry pink left behind. Without a word, he reaches for a bottle of aloe gel and smooths it over the abused areas. Whatever thick tension surrounds us in the small room, it must be only in my mind, because he looks completely unaffected.

Just one guy helping another guy wax his junk so he can look good when he gets paid for sex. Completely normal.

My eyes follow his fingers in a hypnotic swirling motion, my body twitching when he brushes over my nipples, later dipping lower over my happy trail, even though he left that alone.

“Oh my God, would you stop?” The words burst out of me before I can call them back.

He does. Carefully, he returns the gel to the little shelf where all the other grooming products are kept, placing it down before he turns and leans back against the sink with an expectant look on his face. I try not to notice how the muscles in his chest and arms ripple as he braces himself.

It’s just that one pec jumps, and then the other. It’s like something you’d see in a movie. Then there’s the little ring of goose bumps around his⁠—

“What’s up with you?”

Where do I even begin? “You’re really asking me that? After the way you’ve been treating me?” I swear, it’s almost like I’m standing outside ‌myself, watching this dumb guy run his mouth and shaking my head.

This is gonna cost you later.

“For six years I’ve put up with your shit,” I whisper-yell as harsh, burning breath saws in and out of my chest. “Six years of you pissing on me, embarrassing me on purpose, of slapping me and pinching my nipples and, God, fucking—” I can’t make it a different word this time. “—fucking my face without returning the favor. If there’s an opportunity for you to put me in my place, you’ve taken it and run it down the court. Now you’re suddenly gonna be all gentle and kind?”

The admission leaves me shaky. Breathing funny. And suddenly there’s pressure in my eyes, threatening to spill over.

He lifts one perfectly arched eyebrow. “You asked me to. Remember? For Ella.”

My hands curl into fists. “Well, I changed my mind. You’ve shown me you can fake it, so fine. We’ll fake it for the interview. Otherwise, don’t bother.”

He presses his lips together. “If that’s what you want.”

God, this is stupid. Really stupid. After years of Michael being an a-hole to me, I’m this close to something I thought I wanted. But it’ll never be real, will it? The two of us will never be the way we were before Billie died. When we were roommates. When we were friends.

I can’t take it, this false romance. It’s too much. This version of me who’s constantly twitchy and frustrated with no outlet? I don’t recognize him. Sure as heck don’t know what to do with him. I’d rather go back to him bossing me around all rough and impersonal. At least I knew what that was.

Mike’s face hardens before he turns to swirl the stick in the wax again. “Turn around. Drop your shorts. Leg up.”

I do as he tells me. Because I always do.

The air in the room has shifted. It’s chilly now. Mike’s efficient to the point of it being painful as he presses my cheeks apart and applies the wax there. So, of course, it would figure that’s when I get hard.

All that talk about all the shit he does to me, and now this.

There’s no gentle press this time. No rubbing. Not that I want him to, really.

“Holy—” My hands grip tighter on the curtain rod. I curl my toes, digging the ones on my left foot into the soft pile of the bath mat.

Neither of us says a word as he finishes, though I wonder if he can hear my heart pounding as loudly as I can.

The rest is him ripping and me biting my lips to stay silent. The angry, buzzing tension reminds me of the way we are—were—when I wake from a nightmare.