Page 9 of The Intimacy of Skin

Willow and I were stuck in a loop. No matter how much time passed, she was still as wary as the first time she found out I was doing sex work. She worried over me, completely unaware that the damage I’d do to myself would be far worse if I couldn’t do it.

I didn’t know how to explain it to her in a way that would ease her concern. There wasn’t a magical string of words I could use to somehow make her stop worrying or try to change my mind.

If I told her the truth, she’d look at me with a million different emotions I wasn’t ready for.

One of them being pity. I didn’t want pity.

I chose my path with full awareness of what I was getting into.

Though I was a dumb teenager yearning for something familiar, I knew the lasting effects it would have on me.

Willow has asked me a million times if I’d have done anything different back then and my answer remains the same each time. Looking back, the only thing I’d change would be the amount I charged my first few Johns.

I didn’t start selling my body out of any real necessity. Some kids were homeless and had nowhere else to turn to. I knew boys and girls whose parents sold them out against their will.

My choice was my own, and Willow didn’t seem to get that. I understood its significance when I hooked up with a stranger the first time. Once I started, I knew I’d never stop. I’d be a whore until the day I died—a decision I probably shouldn’t have made so young.

I wasn’t made for love and tender moments shared between intimate whispers. That wasn’t what I needed.

It all started soon after I got home from Tiger Claw Camp that last summer. I created a routine, following it to a T. My urgent need for destruction ruled my life .

I’d slice my skin on a Monday to rid the disease and sin I’d collected the previous six days.

I’d finish my homework every night before eight, or else I’d punish myself with an all-nighter.

I’d sneak out to see Willow when mom brought out a new bottle of Smirnoff, a cigarette ready in her hand. That always meant a new man was coming over to either replace the ghost of my absent father or leave a gaping hole in her chest. It was usually the latter.

My entire life depended on destruction and punishment. Willow had no idea how important it was or what happened when I stopped seeking them out.

She watched me spiral when I came home from Tiger Claw Camp. She stood by me at my coldest and most reckless, choosing to stay despite the seemingly abrupt change. I could do nothing but be grateful for her ability to love such a fucked-up person like me.

The argument was always the same. I needed to find a real job because one day, I’d get seriously hurt.

Willow worried herself sick over me and my lifestyle.

I’d argue that I knew myself and was the only person who could decide what happened to my body.

She’d beg me to think about a career change, and I’d tell her I would, but never follow through.

For some reason, she wouldn’t let this one go. Price had some goddamn nerve to come up to our table like he had. He sweet-talked Willow so easily, it borderline disgusted me.

We’d gone out to eat to celebrate a big deal she’d closed, and I was blissfully unaware that I’d meet the exact man I’d been trying to forget for days. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have gone. Willow was none the wiser to our recognition of each other, thanks to her obsession with his looks.

His amber eyes had haunted me for days, annoyingly storming my dreams like they deserved to be there. I wish I could tell her he wasn’t interested in her. That I knew just how soft his hands were and how deep his voice went when he pushed me over the edge, guiding me into orgasmic insanity.

Selfishly, I wanted to tell her he was definitely a sadist. Not in the physical sense, but in the way he’d screwed with my mind. Willow wasn’t into pain, emotional or otherwise. Just wasn’t her thing.

I kept my anger beneath the surface as we hashed out the details. Price was meant to be a one-time thing—I wasn’t supposed to see him again. I was banking on that, too afraid of what might happen. He’d made me feel something. A dangerous feeling.

Yet here I was, desperately trying to convince Willow I couldn’t meet my kryptonite for an interview as some sort of assistant to him.

Rolling my eyes, I huffed an impatient breath. “I can’t even cook for myself; how would I be any help to him?”

“You wouldn’t be cooking, dude.” Willow scowled. “You’d help him with back-of-house shit. Like cleaning or organizing. I don’t know, you’re good at math, so maybe you can help with inventory or shipments.”

“Did he tell you that, or are you pulling shit from your ass?”

“Inadvertently.”

“You’re inadvertently pulling shit from your ass?”

Her perfectly plucked eyebrows pulled together, forming an irritated V. “You know what I meant.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Please just try, C.” The couch beneath us creaked and groaned as she crossed her legs, facing me fully.

“I’m afraid for you. You know I always have been, but it’s only gotten worse, and I’m terrified of how badly you’re being hurt.

” I heard every tremble in her voice loud and clear, despite how soft her tone was.

Our couch was old and raggedy. Pieces of it bunched together, falling apart in clumps we’d sweep into a dustpan daily.

It was our first piece of furniture, aside from the beds we’d bought.

We knew we should replace it, if only to put it out of its misery, but there were a million memories embedded into the fabric. Ones we didn’t want to get rid of yet.

I was sitting on a slit in the cushion we pretended didn’t exist. The back was caving in, causing an odd, warped look. No amount of air freshener could get the old, musty smell out of the material.

We’d both shed tears on this couch, face down to hide our shame from each other. Pieces of our DNA were embedded into it. It was a part of our home, no matter how worn down.

Willow and I shared hundreds of hours of memories.

We’d washed away each other’s blood, sweat, and tears.

I knew all her secrets, her past, and all her regrets.

She knew most of mine, though not all. Only one of us had moved on to better things than our past, though.

I knew exactly what this conversation was.

Her eyes were flooded with exhaustion and unshed tears.

I saw desperation in them. Desperation for me to move forward and find my best self as she had.

I could see her progress from a careless teen who made stupid decisions to a respected, corporate working woman with aspirations, goals and a long life of success in her future.

When she looked at me, she saw nothing like that. I had stayed the same, becoming progressively more destructive. She wanted what was best for me, but she couldn’t possibly understand how much I didn’t care. Hell, I was surprised I was even still alive.

I wasn’t sure what to say to her. My heart broke little by little following every tear that fell down her cheeks. “I need the pain,” I whispered, trying to find something, anything to say.

“Why, though? Why did you start? I could sorta get the appeal when we were kids. You were always so wild, and it coulda been you experimenting, but we’re twenty-three now.”

With a shake of my head, I dismissed her gently. “I wasn’t experimenting. My sex work is something I need.”

Willow wiped her cheek, leaving a shiny trail across her skin. “You know you can tell me anything, right? I love you. I only wanna see you thrive.”

“I know. And I know you want answers, but I can’t give you any.”

A sigh caught in her throat, coming out as a choked sob.

“Okay. All right, fine. I know you’re about to clam up on me, so how about this?

Talk to Mr. Iverson and discuss a trial period.

Most internships last anywhere from three to six months.

Maybe you can compromise with him, offering an internship period of sorts, and then evaluating if you wanna stay after that time is up. ”

Her persistence was admirable. Willow was always logical, always coming up with a plan.

She was breaking my resolve. I’d never stayed at a job she’d gotten me or convinced me to apply for more than a month, tops.

Even so, I nodded. “Fine, I’ll talk to him.

Ask him when I should come for an interview. ”

The corners of her lips turned up, an elated grin shining through the tear tracks down her cheeks. When I saw her eyes light up with something so close to hope, I knew I couldn’t deny her this. Willow was the only person I had left who’d given anything close to a shit.

If an awkward trial period was what it took to appease her, I’d do it. Maybe when I fucked this one up, she’d finally understand how hopeless I was.

Calling him Mr. Iverson was far too pretentious for the likes of Price. Much to Willow’s dismay, I refused to refer to him as such. He’d decided our interview had to be at the ass-crack of dawn before any of the other staff had arrived for their shift.

However foreboding that was, I continued like the dutiful best friend I was and held onto my promise.

I’d dismissed the idea of letting Willow take me to The Arch, opting for an Uber instead.

That was the kinda thing I didn’t miss about our hometown.

In the city, I could find rides and get food delivered with a click of a button.

I was instructed to wait at the back entrance. There was a camera above the door with a blinking red light, almost an ominous premonition for what was ahead of me.

Price didn’t say I needed to dress a specific way, or that I needed to bring anything besides my ID and social security card, so I came almost empty-handed, except for a can of mace just in case. Other than that, I brought me, myself, and I.