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"Fuck," I mutter, blowing the smoke out, knowing the coughing is about to start. I hand it back to Natalie and she takes a rip. "I forgot what it's like to hit a blunt." The pens are so smooth.
And…I start coughing, which only makes the high hit quicker. After what feels like the longest coughing fit of my life, I look at Natalie. She bursts out laughing.
"What?" I ask, my eyes feeling heavy.
"Your eyes are bloodshot. Let's eat, then I'm going to get you drunk and you're going to confess your love for me."
After a couple of hours, the pizza is almost gone and we're both on another level of stupid, giggling nonstop about nothing. It reminds me of when we met and when the friendship first started. I miss this with her. Not necessarily the high and drunkenness, but just hanging out with my bestie without anything hanging between us. I'm feeling extremely vulnerable right now and I'm tempted to feel her out about the dirty secret I'm hiding, but I'm not sure I can.
"You wanna talk about Grammy?"
I shake my head, a little sad. "Not really. I think I'll just get emotional about it and I don't wanna cry."
"Daniel?"
"He's coming over tomorrow. Netflix and chill."
"Good to know, I'll be gone. I have a job, so it's perfect timing. Just make sure you put a sheet down on the couch and don't get cum on it."
"I'll never understand how someone as pretty and sincere as you can have the most vulgar mouth."
"It's always the ones you never suspect who have the filthiest minds."
I giggle. "It's true. You're ratchet."
Her face lights up like I just gave her the biggest compliment of her life and we both fall over cackling.
"There is something seriously wrong with you," I say.
She lights up the blunt again. Lifting her eyes to me, she takes a hard pull, the embers a crimson red.
"You're just realizing that now? I sell my body for a living and I don't give two fucks about it. You'd think I have daddy issues, but I don't," she says through the smoke.
James.
And there goes my reserve. I feel a little crack in my chest thinking about him. Drinking alcohol on a torn heart is a recipe for a hot mess. It makes seeing things for what they are and what they'll never be. It’s such a fucking lonely feeling.
"Question. Have you ever had a client you felt yourself growing attached to? Like you liked what you guys did together and how he made you feel?"
She nods, and a shadow casts across her eyes.
"Yeah, once."
My brows shoot up. "Really?" I wish she had told me this before. "When?"
"When I first started out. He became a regular client of mine, which was the worst thing we could've done. He was younger than most men at Sanctuary and in great shape. His body was to die for."
"What happened?"
"Eventually I told Christine he couldn’t be my client anymore."
"No way."
She nods. "I had to. He was married, but we fell for each other. We started meeting more often, and not through Christine either. It was hard to fight what he made me feel, the way he touched me, like I was a real lover to him. We let that feeling consume us." She pauses. "I wish we never had," she says softly.
Slack-jawed, I sit here stunned as I listen to her speak.
"Do you ever think about him?"
