Page 2 of The Intimacy of Skin

My entire life, the world had been far too overwhelming for me to handle.

My anxiety had gotten better than when I was a kid, scared of my own shadow and everything around it.

Still, it was too much sometimes. My skin didn’t let me forget it.

A creeping, crawling itch tortured me more often than not most days.

I thought it would get better as I got older. It did for a long time. The itching got easier to manage, my anxiety wasn’t as suffocating, and the world seemed brighter with each moment I spent in the kitchen.

Shit changed. Shit just kept changing, the world on a constant rotation when I hardly had a handle on the current instructions.

Now, I had more responsibility than I ever wanted, and I was completely alone in it all.

My job used to be my sanctuary; cooking being my haven.

I didn’t have that anymore. Instead, I had Brandt-The-Rant who lived up to his name multiple times a day by yelling at me over shit that was completely out of my control and was meant to be in his.

I traded cooking for daydreams of the act, left watching my staff do what I desperately wanted to.

The Arch had all my loyalty. I was too afraid to leave, terrified my lack of experience would only let me down. It was the only thing I had left. My skill was wasted in my position, used for teaching when all I wanted was to be taught.

Brandt left me with everything he was supposed to do. Scheduling, inventory, supplies, managing both kitchen and floor staff, menu additions… the list went on. I was fucking tired.

More than tired. I was itchy and lonely and fed the fuck up.

Brandt was so detached from our craft that I wondered if he remembered what temperature water boiled at.

I worked every day we were open, running every inch of the restaurant while he sat on his ass in the office, and I took the brunt of his rage so my staff wouldn’t leave us in the dirt.

With him around, it didn’t take long for people to quit. Just like Samantha.

I was never going to take another promotion again.

Brandt’s fingers snapped in my face, forcing me to pay attention. His face was a deep burgundy, almost matching the shade of an Aleppo pepper. “Were you even fucking listening?” he barked.

I forced an uncaring, borderline bored expression with my eyebrow raised. “I sure as fuck wasn’t.”

His left eyelid twitched, and I knew he was livid. “I’m not repeating that shit. I oughta write you a good one for insubordination.”

“Oh, please. Like you’d do that to the only person who somewhat deals with your shit.

” He knew it, too. Without me, he’d be stuck without a paycheck from the owner, Matt.

He’d be lost and helpless. “I got it, Brandt. Same shit, different day, and make sure Tobias steps it up or you’ll give him a one-way ticket to Get-the-Fuck-Out Land. ”

“You better not fuck up, Iverson. I’ve got my eye on you.”

He stomped away, running off to his office. I didn’t know why he acted like he was going to get me fired. It wasn’t like he would or could. The guy just hated me, and the feeling was mutual.

My job was no longer the same job I loved eight years ago. It stressed me the fuck out and left me feeling lost. I had tried to raise the morale Brandt ruined, only to realize it was useless, just like my talent that had originally gotten me the job here.

I stopped right after my first and only friend quit and left me in the dust. Samantha couldn’t deal with the shitty management anymore, which apparently meant ghosting me as well. Five years of friendship didn’t mean enough, I guess.

Tiny prickles started at the inside of my forearm. I wanted to scratch at them. Wanted to peel back the skin and force them out. I thought back to the last time I went out, and the man in the motel lobby with arctic blue eyes, so sad and vacant.

He had stood near the doorway, seemingly frozen from all the ice within him.

I ached to reach out, to touch the crystals on his skin.

I saw him when the man I’d paid to sleep with had turned to the front counter clerk.

He immediately overtook all five of my senses, forcing the world to revolve around him and him only.

It was overwhelming in a different way—a calming way.

The bruises on his face made me angry—something I didn’t feel often.

An emotion I despised more than anything.

His lip was busted and bleeding, the bags under his eyes were deep and purple, and a hollowness spoke to me from beneath the tundra in his gaze.

He was the most hauntingly beautiful man I’d ever seen.

A ghost in the doorway, lurking and waiting for something unseen.

I wondered what evil soul had hurt him so bad, who could have done something so despicable.

Something in his eyes soothed the raging fire that constantly churned in my gut, begging me to peel myself open to break free. I wanted to go to him, warm him in my arms, whisper that everything would be okay because I’d make it okay. My heart would surely melt the ice that encased him.

The empty sadness in his eyes reminded me all too much of my mom, matching bruises following my father’s blood-stained knuckles.

I almost went to him. Almost lost my composure, which was out of character for me. It would’ve been an impulsive act—no plan, no agenda to stick to.

The itching beneath my skin begged for the cool touch of his. I couldn’t understand why my very soul was convinced he would be the answer to all my lonely, suffocating nights. I wanted to treat him gently, with the soft caresses I knew he deserved.

Nobody deserved pain.

Especially not him, who looked like he’d already been through a lifetime of it.

My sanity was slipping. I was losing more of myself as the day went on.

Prep was as routine as it could be, something so mundane I could do it in my sleep if I had to.

All my kitchen staff knew their stations, so after a rundown of the menu, they got started.

I didn’t have to yell very much because everyone knew their purpose.

That was how I preferred it. I hated yelling. Hated raising my voice, sounding as though I was trying to overtake everyone else’s. I hated how necessary it was over the sizzling pans, slicing of knives, and clinking dishes.

Like most everything else, I had to become someone different to yell.

Some kind of domineering persona—my voice was steady, confident, unwavering.

I had to be heard over everyone and everything else.

I was the spotlight and the engine, needing to ensure it all went smoothly.

If I were someone else, I could ignore how much it reminded me of my dad.

Otherwise, being the center of attention would only make it worse. The itching, I mean.

Thanks to an unexpected callout, we were stretched for people.

I helped Layla with prepping vegetables, working side by side with her to get everything done.

Layla was a great worker. She was fast, delicate, and took criticism like a champ.

She was every manager’s dream worker, despite one major flaw.

She talked way too much.

For some unknown reason, she seemed to adore me even though I was rarely responsive. She talked like we were best friends. There wasn’t much to like about me. I was aloof at best, an isolated hermit at most.

I tuned her out, deciding to focus on my mental stability rather than her yapping. As it turned out, that was a great error on my end.

“Hello? Are you listening?” Layla paused, her knife mid-chop.

“Uh, not really. Zoned out.” I began to wonder if I should start paying more attention to my surroundings. I felt a little bad, knowing I’d ignored her for so long.

She sighed, laying her knife down completely before turning to me. Long, brunette strands of hair fell on each side of her face. “How long have you known me?”

I tried. I really did try to remember how long she’d worked here. It was pathetic how long I thought about it, cycling through the foggy haze that clouded my head. “A while?” I guessed.

“Six months. Six months, and I’ve never actually seen you smile. You’re always so angry-looking. Especially when Rant is around.”

Could she blame me? They all knew how insufferable Brandt was to be around, and the guy was my boss. She was wrong, though. What she saw wasn’t constant anger. It was a mask designed to showcase anger when really, the burning pit in my veins was constantly trying to burn me alive.

When Layla hadn’t continued her thought, I stopped my slicing and looked at her from the side. “Is there more?”

“You need a hobby.”

Oh, boy.

“Something to do outside of here and cooking at home,” she continued, suddenly closer than she was before.

“Maybe going drinking on our off days.” That wasn’t exactly a hobby.

“Picking up golf.” Did she know who she was talking to?

Oh, right. No, she didn’t. “You need some stress relief. I could help you out, you know.” Her hand landed on my shoulder, crossing the line of uncomfortable completely.

“This place stresses me out, too. I’m sure we could have some fun.

” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “If you know what I mean.”

Yeah, I was glad I missed that the first time around. I let her hand linger only long enough for me to calmly set my knife down onto the counter. “Did you really just ask me to hook up, Layla?”

The natural blush of her cheeks paled. “Um.”

“When have I ever given you any indication that was what I wanted, hm?” I used the tone I usually saved for Brandt, forcing confidence and disgust into my voice.

“I haven’t, by the way. Never once. Do you really think it’s such a good idea to proposition the person willingly helping you with your work? ”

She took a step back, her eyes widening. “I?—”