Page 7 of The Intimacy of Skin

Originally, I’d rented the hotel room for an entire night so the beautifully wounded man I’d paid to spend time with would have somewhere to stay. Instead, I was left using it for myself.

I didn’t plan to do that, but my body decided I couldn’t go anywhere else. My feet wouldn’t cooperate with my mind, heels digging into the lush hotel carpet, holding me back. If I were truthful, I’d have to admit I would’ve run after him if I weren’t stuck.

The colorful exit he’d given me wasn’t enough to scare me off, oddly enough.

Pretty Boy had fire in his voice, despite the ice I could feel coming from his soul.

I dealt with heat daily—from a grill, a pan, a pot of boiling water, or straight from Brandt-The-Rant’s mouth.

None of it could compare to the barely contained blaze that came from him.

I felt it when I held him, could see it when he begrudgingly looked into my eyes. The worst part wasn’t that I knew it was there. No, it was infuriating how drawn to him I was. I had spent so long alone and uninterested, that this pull I felt towards him was driving me wild.

Time must have slowed down the moment we walked into the room together. Two hours had passed, feeling more like an eternity.

Usually, I’d feel a lot more relaxed after a night like tonight.

I’d start to come back into my body, the itching slowly subsiding.

I’d be basking in the comedown in a dreamy state between numb and number, finally able to hear myself think over the rushing of blood that constantly crowded my ears.

I’d leave work ready to tear my skin apart, find a gravestone to etch my name into, and find a fucked-up calm in the skin-on-skin intimacy.

Now, I lay on the bed, contemplating where I went wrong. I’d never met someone who claimed so vehemently they enjoyed something so obviously miserable.

He’ d struggled so fiercely. I could see the turmoil and questions on his face, trying so hard not to go against what he knew. I wanted to know why he struggled so much. Was it his reputation he was trying to uphold?

Fuck, the way he gave into me. How—once he let go—he let go so easily, so beautifully, slumping against me as I coaxed him through something I wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before.

I couldn’t stop thinking about him. The serene ecstasy on his face.

How his muscles felt as he relaxed further into my hold.

The sound of his voice as he begged me to continue.

Shit, I felt insane. The way he left, I knew he had no intention of ever seeing me again, and that began to crush my already battered heart.

Our city was larger than life, hundreds of street corners, bars on every block, and triple that amount of sleazy establishments he could easily hang around.

Our chances of seeing each other were worse than slim.

It took me a long time to wrap my head around everything that happened. Worse yet, I was forced to think about how it made me feel.

All too soon, I was lying on my side, fully dressed with the lights still on in that in-between phase where I wasn’t sure if it was really late or very early morning.

I tried to give myself a bit of grace, letting my thoughts wander to the most gorgeous, saddest man I’d ever met.

When I woke up, I’d force myself to forget. To let go.

I had to let go.

Or else I’d let myself hope.

I was angry. I hated being angry. Exhaustion wore me down to skin and bones, frustration worked itself through my veins, leaving sparks of fire in its wake.

I was angry at myself, at Brandt, the other staff—angry at the entire world.

I wasn’t sure why today was digging me further into the ground than usual.

At least, that’s the story I was going with.

I refused to admit the true cause, even to myself.

The combined six hours of sleep I’d gotten the last two days were doing nothing for me, and I could feel myself slowly losing it.

My next day off was so far away, I began to wonder when my resolve would finally give way.

Maybe I’d lose it on Brandt, screaming in his face like he did so often to us.

Or maybe I’d lose it on the cooks, firing them all, causing mass destruction, even though I didn’t have the power to do that.

God forbid I lost my shit on a paying customer, which I was increasingly close to doing.

Mistake after mistake ran through the kitchen, server after server bringing all sorts of meals with a new complaint each time.

All of them were somehow my fault, which I guess was fair.

I was the one trusting the kitchen staff to cook correctly and according to the menu. What a mistake on my end, obviously.

My throat was sore from how much I had to yell.

If only one station was fucking up, that’d be one thing.

I could pull the employee to the side, have a civil, quiet chat with them, and go on with the night.

Unfortunately, it was everyone. All of them were messing up where they usually had a handle on it.

Overall, it was turning out to be a horrible day.

Outside of work, I refused to yell or fight to be heard.

I never raised my voice, and I sure as fuck never raised my palm.

I had been stuck in a fight for respect for eight years, and I was sick and tired of demanding attention where I didn’t need to.

The person they saw at work was and always had been a facade, perfectly crafted from a lifetime of fighting a fight I was never meant to win.

I had accepted I would always be last place in the race to find peace. I looked at other options, of course, but they always turned out the same way.

My experience was too limited for something more, too broad for anything less, and I wasn’t good enough, educated enough, or trained enough to do what I really wanted to. Cooking was my only concrete sense of self. I’d rather be eternally locked in a room with Brandt than give up my one true love.

Working here reminded me far too much of my childhood.

The stressful, chaotic environment with two bosses who refused to listen to me.

If I ever got to open my own place like I wanted to, I’d do everything within my power to ensure nobody felt like I did.

But I’d never make it anywhere else in the world, so why try?

Sleep tugged at my eyes, forcing my eyelids to droop and my vision to blur. I was close to collapsing on my feet when a plate got thrown my way, a hurried mumbling about pink chicken being the only explanation I got.

The grief and repeated restless nights mixed into a dangerous concoction, building up in my head until I thought it might explode. I forced my eyes closed for a moment, shutting the noise out from around me.

It was all too fucking loud, and I couldn’t stand it.

The shouting, the clank of pans, the whoosh of fire, the sizzle of the grill.

I hated it all, and I couldn’t escape it.

I was trapped. Stuck in my head, letting my soul roam aimlessly around until the beautiful and scarred man from the other night came to mind.

Images of him falling into my touch danced in front of my closed eyelids, bringing a sweet, melancholy feeling with them. I thought about how he’d admitted my gentle ministrations were better, directly juxtaposing the life he apparently enjoyed living.

Deep down, I knew I was in no position to judge or dictate how someone lived their life. I saw the anguish on his face, though. I saw the way it melted away the moment he realized I had no intention of hurting him.

Then, I remembered how he’d stormed out.

Ice cascaded down his skin, forming a cage around him as his face pinched together in anger.

I both regretted and was grateful I hadn’t gone after him.

On one hand, I wanted to know what had scared him so badly.

On the other hand, I knew if I’d gotten closer to him and asked, he would’ve freaked even more.

Too many things all at once. Tobias’s grill erupted into flames, sizzling and flashing dangerously right as Callum yelled something across the room, and Jackson dropped the metal pan he was cleaning. The pan hit the ground, banging loudly and echoing across the room.

Broken, arctic blue eyes stared at me in my mind. The man’s yell matched the pitch of the fallen pan, rattling through my chest just as much.

My arm began to tingle, an itch forming just below the ditch. The feeling rose with the chaos in the kitchen. I needed it all to stop, but I didn’t want to yell. I didn’t want to hear my voice echo off the walls. I didn’t want to hear my father in my tone.

I turned on my heel, facing everyone’s station. There was so much I wanted to say. So many things I needed to correct. Words ran their course in my mind, far too fast for me to reach up and catch them.

The itching got worse as I stood, my fingers begging to scratch it.

A tightness began in my chest, constricting more and more until the person I hated the most came through my voice, and none of the kinder words I’d thought of made it out.

“Keep fucking up and you’re all fired!” I cringed immediately, but I couldn’t stop.

“I am this close”—I put my pointer finger and thumb together, leaving no space between them—“to losing my shit on all of you. I need a moment to get my head on straight. I hope I can trust you all to do your job well enough to not get disqualified for unemployment while I’m gone. ”

Not waiting for a response, I set my towel down on a random counter and stormed out.

My lungs were caving in on themselves, slowly wrinkling with ignored cries for fresh air.

I was determined as I marched through the hall, my breaths heaving and sweat dripping from my forehead straight into my eyes.

They burned, watering from the dirty salt, yet I made no move to wipe them.