Page 38 of The Intimacy of Skin

On each opposite end of the sidewalk, I saw men with scowls on their faces.

They tapped their feet in sync, an impatient rhythm I knew all too well.

One man was wearing a sheer crop top, his body vibrating from the cold.

The other was bundled in a more appropriate winter coat, his entire body covered except for his face.

He looked like he couldn’t take the temperature any longer.

He looked exhausted. He looked closed off.

A car stopped beside the one in the coat. He immediately kicked off the wall and strode toward the passenger side window. I watched, expecting a fake smile to stretch on his face as he spoke.

The man didn’t smile. No, his scowl deepened as he bobbed and shook his head in response to whatever conversation he was having.

A hand reached out of the window, waving what looked like bills in the air towards the man.

Immediately, a toothy grin changed his face from hard-set to flirty and soft.

I was stuck watching as he opened the door and threw himself in, barely two seconds passing before the car started to drive off.

I knew everything that had to have gone through his mind. I knew that conversation from start to finish. I understood why the man was off to the side, his eye bags so deep I worried they’d permanently bruise. I knew because I’d looked the same. I’d done the same.

Sometime during the winter after I’d gained enough reputation, I’d given up on appealing to the masses. I started to wear clothes just as he had because I’d been in the game long enough to understand the fatal reality of freezing my ass off every night. That shit had, could, and would kill a man.

More cars came and went. The people who huddled together for warmth would disband every time, a flashy smile on their faces as they swayed their hips to whoever was staring at them.

They were miserable. I only knew that because I had been them for an excruciating amount of time.

A towering man walked up to one of the barely-clothed sex workers, his shoulders squared up, his chest puffed out. They talked for a moment, the man in booty shorts beginning to shift on his feet. Something was off.

The asshole lunged at him, slamming him against the wall. My feet were moving in an instant, ready to run over to help him, when an arm came across my chest, holding me back.

“What the fuck?” I seethed.

Price pointed to the other side of the road, shaking his head. “They’ve got it.”

I turned back, seeing he was right. A group of people were pulling the asshole off, hitting him in the face until he ran away. The group took the man in booty shorts into their arms, caressing his back protectively. Like they were family.

Like they cared.

I’d never had a friend on the streets. If I had, I knew I’d protect them the same way. I doubted I’d let them do it for me, though.

“Is that truly what you want your life to look like, Crew?”

My attention snapped to Price. He sounded so sad, so concerned that it almost broke my fragile, frozen heart. I stayed silent. There was nothing I could say with enough conviction for it to be good enough for either of us.

A familiar-looking car came back, the passenger side door opening to reveal the worker from earlier.

His coat was messed up, hanging halfway off his frame.

I guessed the John wanted something quick and easy, based on how quickly he came back.

I watched as he stumbled onto the sidewalk, his balance thrown considerably.

The car drove off quickly. When the man turned around, facing towards me, layer after layer of my skin began to fall from my bones. His coordination reflected mine, my legs beginning to tremble as we stared at each other. Or, at least, I was staring at him, and it looked like he was staring at me.

He was directly under the brightest light on the street.

I could tell his eyes were glazed over, emotionless, and unseeing.

On his cheek, there was a large gash that was still bleeding.

It was too dark to see what color hair he had, but I could tell it was matted with what I could only assume was blood.

He swayed slightly, and I swayed with him.

Uncomfortable, unfamiliar tears began to glaze over my vision as I watched the man in the coat.

I was on a random street in the city, completely out of place in somewhere so vast, yet I was looking straight into a mirror.

The expressionless, far-away look I’d adopted as a teenager.

We wore matching wounds, though mine were scars and his hadn’t healed yet.

My reflection turned on his heel, taking a moment to stare in that direction before stumbling away. The heavy coat he’d worn to protect himself was pushed off his shoulders, falling to the ground behind him. He didn’t stop. He didn’t look over his shoulder.

Tonight, that man would let his wounds fester for longer than medically safe simply because he’d refuse to believe they existed.

He’d wear that same blank, horrified expression until he passed out from sleep deprivation.

In a week or two, he’d be back on the streets with a new coat and a scowl on his face.

I’d bet money on it because I’d lived it time and time again.

I knew my answer to Price’s question. He hadn’t said a word as I watched the man. We were wading in silence as the control I’d gained back tonight slowly began to slip from my fingers once more.

Punishment and discipline go hand in hand. My discipline was continuing to go back to the clients that paid for me. My punishment was suffering at their hands.

Tugging my arm backward, Price made me face him. “Did you do it for the same reason you cut yourself?”

I was too terrified to look into his eyes. If I did, I’d see compassion I didn’t deserve and gentleness I wasn’t worthy of. That was the kind of man Price was.

He grabbed my hand, weaving our fingers together as we walked silently back to his car.

The window became my best friend once again, my head bumping and skidding to the rhythm of traffic.

Unlike our ride here, I wasn’t eager for answers.

Every shallow breath I took was a struggle.

My lungs were stuck, crushed against the inner wall of my chest, and whatever black, heavy evil had made itself home there.

I was being haunted by the man in the winter coat.

When I closed my eyes, I could see his face with my hair color, his cheekbones riddled with bruises and cuts from men double my age and size.

I wondered if he made it home safely.

I wondered if he had a home.

I wondered if he had a Willow waiting for him on their busted couch, worried sick over the idea of him coming home broken again, knowing she couldn’t do a damn thing to fix him.

Guilt churned in my gut as I thought about my best friend. She’d been there through almost every phase of my life, no matter how questionable, no matter how difficult, and she’d still loved me through it all.

We pulled up in front of the house, the dead of night our eerie background as we walked in. Earlier, I had wanted nothing more than for Price to leave. To get out of the way of my self-destruction.

Now, I was secretly hoping he’d stay. I was afraid of being alone, which didn’t make any sense.

All I’d been, all I’d ever wanted to be, was alone for years.

I couldn’t infect anyone if they didn’t get close to me.

The only exception had been my mom and Willow because they were rotting on the inside, too.

Something deep and fucked up inside of me craved to be in Price’s arms, wrapped in his safety.

If he was holding me, the monsters couldn’t get me. Not even the monster I knew as myself.

Our pathetic excuse for a couch groaned as I sat on it, positioning myself sideways with my knees to my chest. My thighs burned with the movement, but I refused to pay any mind to it.

When Price sat, facing me, the traitorous piece of junk didn’t make a single noise.

I kept my attention on his lap. I was afraid that if I looked into the land of warmth in his eyes, I’d never want to leave.

He could easily keep me captive with a single glance.

There was nothing to hold my secrets back if he looked at me the same way he usually did.

The fire that lived under his skin would melt me into a puddle, and every word I’d been holding in would spill out. All it would take was a simple smile, a caring gleam in his eye, and an invitation to hold me .

My eyes followed his hands as he slowly gripped the hem of his hoodie, pulling it over his head. He dropped it to the floor beside us, raising his head to look at me straight on. I diverted my attention to the side of his cheek.

He tilted forward a bit, making our shins brush against each other. “Are you not gonna look at me?”

“Nope.” No point in lying.

I could hear the exhaustion in his sigh. “All right. You scared me tonight, Crew.”

Rubbing a palm over my thigh, I barely contained a hiss of pain. It grounded me, if only slightly. “I’m sorry. I really am. I never imagined you’d see that.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry that you feel like you have to do that. Sure, it was horrifying to walk in on, but you’re the one suffering enough to do it.”

It caught me off guard, how understanding he was being. I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything.

“Can I show you something?”

At my hesitant expression, he placed a hand on my knee. He squeezed it gently. “You let me help you when you were extremely vulnerable. I know you’re probably super uncomfortable about that.”

Price held out both of his arms, suspending them with his inner arms pointed toward the ceiling. Gorgeous black and gray ink covered them, some cohesive, some entirely random.

“Look closer, Crew.” He repeated the words he’d said earlier on the sidewalk.