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back, and I pull her close to me, tucking her into my side protectively. I’m responsible for the tears wetting my chest, and I hate that I made her cry. Her hair feels like silk between my fingers as I run them through the long strands, attempting to soothe her.
“We aren’t going to fuck.”
She huffs a laugh. “I thought you always do what you want.”
Her trembling bothers me. She’s not afraid. She’s hurt. All of her attempts to convince me she wasn’t interested in me were bogus. She is interested, and I treated her like a whore rather than a girl I would like to spend time with. She doesn’t understand I treat all women this way. It’s not personal.
“I do, and what I want right now is to get to know you.”
I reach for her arm as she bolts from the bed and stands up, but I miss. “Trust me. You don’t. I should leave.” She rushes to the door and turns around. “Come by the club tomorrow, and I’ll have my boss refund you. I’m sorry.”
I stand and go to her. Her hand is warm when I take it and walk her back to the bed.
“No refunds. I paid for the night with you, and I want to talk.” She remains silent and lies on the bed. I lie next to her, careful not to touch her, for fear she’ll bolt again. I don’t know for certain which nerve I hit, but I’ll try to avoid it in the future. “Tell me about Javier.”
She rolls to her side, tucking her hands under the pillow. I can tell by her expression that she’s surprised I remembered his name.
“He’s a great kid. My reason for living.”
I think about her reaction earlier and the pain in her eyes, and wonder how she is capable of sleeping with strange men for money. Without thinking, I ask, “What do you think about when you’re with those men?”
Her eyes widen. “I’m not answering that.”
“Yes, you are. I’m paying you to talk. You have to answer.”
She laughs, and I’m grateful she knows I was teasing her.
“I don’t have to do anything. Talk about something else.”
I cup her cheeks, my thumbs stroking her soft skin, wiping away the last of her tears. “I’m not judging you.”
She removes my hand and nibbles her bottom lip. “Of course you are, but I can’t blame you. I know what I am.”
I frown and lightly trail a fingertip down her arm. “I don’t think you do.”
“I’m a hooker,” she says, her voice suddenly cold. “I know that, and I know what people think of me.”
“Then why do you do it?” I ask, not to hurt her, but in an attempt to understand how she came into her profession when it so clearly bothers her.
“I need the money.” Her clipped tone isn’t a surprise. I’m intentionally pushing emotional buttons.
“For your grandfather?”
It’s an assumption on my part, but, judging by her knitted brows, I’m correct. She shifts her gaze to the wall behind me. Her voice is quiet when she speaks.
“The medical care in Tijuana is limited. I take him to a specialist in the States. It’s expensive. I go to school during the day. I tried waitressing at nights, but it didn’t cover my bills, let alone his medical care. And then there’s Javier. I can’t lose him.”
Her tears are back, welling in her eyes. Something tells me her money problems extend further than taking care of her grandfather. There is deeply-rooted pain inside this girl. I know, because I see it every time I look in the mirror.
I pull her against my chest, kiss the top of her head, and say, “You’re so much more than a hooker.”
Minutes pass in silence. I refuse to let go of her. I want to take all of her pain away, but I haven’t even dealt with my own shit. How am I supposed to help her?
“I think about my father,” she says tearfully.
I loosen my grip on her. “What?”
She peers up at me, tiny beads of tears sticking to her lashes. “When I’m with the men at the club, I think about my father.” I don’t say anything, hoping she’ll continue. “He left my mother when I was young. Then she got sick. He refused to take me, even after she died. I hate him, and when I’m with those men, I prefer to feel that hate, so I don’t have to feel shame.”
