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I wasn’t making insane money. It was a small town. And most people, aside from the bikers, Murphys, and the Russians, no one was making bank. So tips weren’t as good as they would be in a different, more populated area.
But I could get a second job.
I could, I don’t know, sell pictures of my feet.
Or tell sub dudes they were pathetic pieces of shit not worthy of my time for a few bucks.
There was all kinds of money to be made if you were open enough to all the options to do so.
I could figure it out.
But if it was the four hundred?
Fuck.
“Nyx,” a familiar voice called, the sound shivering over my skin in a way that I knew I wasn’t supposed to like as much as I did.
“Slash,” I said, lifting my chin a bit, trying to make myself seem more confident at that moment than I was.
He looked good, damn him.
I mean, I guess dudes always did.
It was another unfair privilege their sex got to enjoy.
No periods. No unexpected pregnancy. No birth control side effects. They aged like fine wine. And they just… always looked good.
The bastards didn’t know how lucky they were.
“You good?” he asked, those familiar eyes of his roaming over me, taking me in, seeing more than I wanted him to. That was a risk you ran when you shared a fun, filthy relationship with a man for years.
We might never discuss religion or politics or hopes and dreams for the future.
But we could read each other.
Because if you were going to be fucking, you needed to be attuned to each other, to be able to read their moods.
“It’s been a week,” I told him instead of insisting that I was fine.
“I’ve had some of those,” he said, and I knew him well enough at this point to know what he was actually saying.I know what it’s like when shit sucks, and I can be an ear if you need it.
And I did.
I needed someone to listen to me more than I had ever needed it before.
The problem was three-fold, though.
First, I didn’t want the bikers involved. I didn’t want them to think they had to get in a street war over my stupid fucking decisions.
Second, I knew what happened to men who got involved in my life.
And third, I cared more than I should have what Slash thought of me. And I didn’t want him to look down on me, think I was stupid, or judge me for decisions I’d made when I was practically still a kid.
I projected a carefully cultivated version of myself to the world. And, sure, people like Delaney got to see little hints of the parts that I kept hidden away, but nobody got to see it all.
It was probably not healthy of me, but that image was important to me.
“Yeah,” I said, not knowing what else to say, busying myself by pouring him a drink.
