Nine Read online

  He looks down, exhales, and then passes the joint to me. I take it and inhale once, and normally that would be it for me, but today requires a little more medicine. I take a few more puffs. I pass it back to Bones. We do this back and forth for about five minutes, while making useless conversation about who makes the best doughnuts. I’m now feeling extremely high. I jump down from the counter and lean over the doughnut box. I pick one up and start nibbling on it. Bones comes up behind me and moves my hair to one side. He places his hands on my hips and leans into my ear.

  “All I need is five minutes with you,” he whispers against my ear. “I’d tear that ass up.”

  I drop the doughnut. I’m so high my head feels like it’s not even attached to my body.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Trig says, as he pushes Bones’ hands off me. I spin around to look at them both. Bones tosses up his hands. Trig grabs my wrist and pulls me into the bedroom. He slams the door once we both enter.

  “You’re a pothead? Is that what you are?”

  “Baby, I’ll be whatever you want me to be,” I mumble. “Just show me the money.” The old me comes out.

  “I see. You put on a little lipstick and mascara and fall right back into escort mode again, huh? Because if that’s what makeup does to you. I say take it all off.”

  “You think you know everything. Trig. You don’t know shit about me. You show up and save my life and all of a sudden, everything is supposed to be jolly. This is me. I’m an escort. It’s what I do. Makeup or no makeup. This is the girl you saved.”

  “No. The girl I saved wasn’t high, leaning over a kitchen counter, letting a guy feel her up from behind. She didn’t have this arrogant attitude. The girl I saved begged me to kill her. She begged me to take her life. She was broken and hurting. I don’t know who this is standing in front of me, but it’s not her.”

  “I’m not listening to this. You act like I owe you something. I don’t owe you shit. I’m gonna go hang out with Bones. Who knows? Maybe I’ll fuck him for free out of boredom. I did like the way his hands felt on my hips. He’s got to be a good lay.”

  Trig’s mouth tightens up. I turn for the door.

  “Who’s Fred?”

  My heart stops and my chest feels like it might concave.

  “What?” I spin around.

  “You were screaming the name Fred in your sleep.”

  I become physically sick at just the sound of his name. I grit my teeth to push back the pain.

  “You kept screaming the word ‘stop,’” Trig adds.

  I think he can see it in my face because his voice is calm. His face is different. He takes a step back like he’s giving me space.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” I turn and reach for the door. Trig jolts over and blocks me from opening it. He looks at me. There is silence between us and I know he’s waiting. I move around his body, and then I start to walk around the room. I’m nervous, but I don’t want him to see. Last night was more than enough, and I don’t need a relapse. I start to examine the items in the room just to keep my brain busy. I start touching several books and trinkets on a mantle. I stop when I come across a dusty jewelry box. I slide it toward me and open it. A pink and white ballerina on a spring pops up. My hands are shaking as my fingers find the base. I slowly wind up the box to hear what song will play. Swan Lake starts as the ballerina twirls, and I freeze. I can feel one single teardrop fall down my cheek as the box in my hand falls to the floor.

  “Nine,” Trig says, as he walks closer to me. He looks down at the box and then back up to me.

  “I’m sorry.” I fall to the floor to pick up the box. I’m scattered and fumble with it in my hands.

  Trig comes and squats in front of me. He places one hand over mine. He takes the music box from me and puts it behind him.

  “What did he do to you?” he whispers. “You can tell me.”

  I stare down at the multi-colored rug. I can’t even bear to make eye contact with him.

  Trig reaches over and pulls my chin up.

  I’m blinking away tear after tear and restraining the choking sensation in my throat. I push the feeling deep down inside my gut and wipe away the tears before I answer him.

  “It’s a long story,” I mutter in an attempt to dodge his question.

  “I got nothing but time,” Trig says. “I want to know.”

  He moves a strand of hair out of my face. I look at the wall. Trig moves his hand and slides the music box in front of him.

  “What happened?”

  I exhale and stare down at the box.

  “I don’t know where to start. There is so much to say,” I respond. I wipe my eyes again.

  Trig remains quiet.

  “It all happened because of my parents. They were heroin addicts with no patience and no clue on how to raise a child. They freaking hated me because I was a burden. I was something they had to take care of. I was too much work and all they wanted to do was get high. I wasn’t even allowed to ask simple questions that most kids ask their parents. You know the typical ones, like, what’s for dinner, or can you help me with my homework? They would beat me so bad I couldn’t open my eyes. My entire body would be covered in marks just as it is now. I learned to be independent pretty quickly. I learned not to push their buttons or I’d pay a price.”

  I blow out a long breath of air. I don’t even know if I can tell this whole story. I drag on about my parents to avoid talking about my uncle for just a little longer.

  “I remember once I had a school project and the teacher said if we all finished it, we could go to a pizza party the next day.” I grinned. “I really wanted to go to this dumb party, so I stayed up pretty much all night to complete it. I woke up the next morning with so much excitement. I was so proud of my accomplishment, but when I walked out to the living room, I found the entire project destroyed in pieces and scattered around the floor. I was furious. My parents were passed out on the floor. All of their drugs and empty liquor bottles were on the table. I screamed at them and pushed their bodies around until they woke. My father opened his eyes, stood up, and said fuck your project. He grabbed me by my throat and started smacking me around. My mother just laid there and laughed while she yelled for him to teach me a lesson.

  I was just a little girl, maybe ten years old when that happened. The teachers at my school were already suspicious. I was absent a lot that year, and whenever I returned to class, I had fading bruises. They asked me questions in the past about them, but I would always lie. That day when I went to school, I told them all about the abuse and how long it had been going on. I was extremely hurt. It wasn’t even the physical pain. I was used to that. It was that damn project that tore me up. Child Protective Services came the next day and took me away. I was sent to go live with the closest family member.” I stopped and paced myself. “My uncle, Fred. He was worse than my parents were. He was a goddamn pedophile. He would wait until I went to sleep and then he’d come in my room at night. I’d feel him touching my legs and then my thighs. I would wake up and try to kick him off. He’d grab me by my throat and say that good little girls listened, and that if I kept moving he would drown me in the bathtub and bury me in his backyard next to the last girl who was there.”

  Trig’s face-hardened up as I continued to talk. “As he ran his hands up and down my legs, I would lay there in fear, pouring sweat. He would smile, as if it made him happy to see me cower beneath his touch. He did this for weeks, and every time he came in, I could hear the Swan Lake song playing from his speakers in another room. The last night I was there at his house was the worst. He came in to my room and unzipped his pants and pulled his dick out.”

  Trig shook his head and looked away. “He told me to stay still as he ran one hand all the way up my leg. He started masturbating as he molested me with his fingers. I cried in pain but he just yelled for me to shut up, so he could come. He forced me to watch him, said he’d cut my eyes out if I didn’t, and then when he was done he told me what a
good girl I was. I never cried so hard in my life. He just laughed and said that he would really give me something to cry about the next time he came in, and that I’d like it. I was fucking sick to my stomach. I knew I had to get out. I ran away and went back to my parents. I told them everything, but they were so high they didn’t believe me. They called me a liar and a whore, and said if I didn’t stop making things up that they would call CPS to take me back to him. CPS did come get me a few times due to abuse, and I would stay in foster homes off and on, but I would always end up back at my parents, because the foster families were just as bad. I lived in that demented home of theirs until I was sixteen. Eventually, one day they threw me out and that was that. I had nowhere to go but the streets.”

  “Is that where you started prostituting?”

  “No. I wasn’t a boulevard teen hooker, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  My voice begins to crack. I can feel another freak out coming on. My chest starts to tighten up, and my breathing becomes shallow. I’m about two seconds away from having an anxiety attack. My heart is now banging against my chest.

  He looks at me. “Just like you’re trying to understand me, I’m trying to understand you, Nine.”

  “Well, now that you know about my molestation, does that give you insight? Do you feel more at ease? Can you sleep better? Because I can’t.”

  “I’m sorry he hurt you.” Trig looks at me with sad eyes.

  I’m angry. I’ve never told anyone that story, not even Jenny. I look past Trig and spot a bottle of liquor in the corner on a table. That’s exactly what I need to numb out. I stand up and walk over. I pick up the bottle and see Brandy splashed across the label. I’m reminded of that pimp Victor, and the bottle drops from my hands and crashes to the floor. I place both hands over my eyes to cover my face. I hear footsteps in my direction.

  “Nine, give me your hand,” Trig says gently.

  I let my hands slide down my face as I look up at him. He’s standing in front of me.

  “You need some fresh air.”

  I slowly extend my shaky hand out to him. He grabs it and guides me over the broken glass. He then pulls me behind him through the living room and out the front door. We’re now standing on the porch. He stops and swings around to look at me.

  “Breathe,” he demands.

  I am. If I breathe any more air in I’ll pass out.

  “Slowly. At the rate you’re going, you’ll hyperventilate. Look at me. I want you to sync your breathing with mine.”

  He places my hand in the middle of his chest. I target my eyes in as his lungs slowly fill up with air and then he calmly releases it. I match my oxygen intake and release with his rhythm and now we’re synced up. He positions his hand over my heart. I can feel my entire body starting to ease up. My chest no longer feels like an elephant is sitting on it. I stare at his arms, his chest, his tattoos, his mouth, and then his jaw line.

  “Better now?” he asks.

  I nod as he grabs my hand and leads me down the front steps and over to a steep brick pathway. I find it hard to walk in these heels with the downgrade, but with Trig pulling me the way he is I have no option but to keep up. I stop and take my heels off. It’s easier to just carry them and walk barefoot. Hopefully nothing down on the ground out here will get my toes. The clean air outside hits my lungs and the sounds of nature invade my ears. My head starts to clear as I look around. The flowers, trees, and water make me forget about everything. His fingers are wrapped around mine and the walk is long, but eventually we make it down to some old well. I walk over and peek inside. It’s completely dried up, and plenty of pennies are stuck to the bottom.

  “The first thing my brother would do when we came here every summer was make a wish and throw a penny inside. It was his tradition. He thought this well held magic.”

  “Maybe it does,” I say, as I spin around to look at Trig. I brush my feet off and slide into my heels.

  Trig grins and walks forward. My heart jumps and I don’t know why. He pulls two pennies out of his pocket and hands them to me. I reach out to grab them and he closes his hand around my fingers. I swallow the lump in my throat and glance up at him. He reopens his hand, which allows me to snatch the pennies from his palm. I ball up my fist and shake the warm coins around. Trig stands there with his arms crossed, looking at me. The way he stares at me with those eyes makes me question my outlook on men. It’s not the same way my clients look at me. He reaches into my soul with each glance and I can’t function when he does it. My focus drops from his eyes to the curve of his full lips. I want to taste them, which is strange. This yearning for a man is a foreign feeling. Maybe it’s because he heals me. Maybe it’s because every time I show an internal cut, he stitches it up before I can feel the damage leaking out from within me. Goddamn it. What is he doing to me? I don’t know what to do or say, so I turn toward the well. I close my eyes, make a wish, and toss a penny inside.

  “Do you believe in magic, Nine?” he says from behind me.

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  I turn around and lean against the well. He shrugs.

  “I guess it can be fun to think about the possibility. Although we all know magic is just an illusion.”

  “That’s the best part. People know it’s an illusion and yet they still sit down and enjoy the show,” I say.

  “Maybe it’s because people take interest in things they can’t quite figure out.”

  At this point, I don’t even think we’re talking about magic anymore. I get the impression he means me. I see those dark eyes pulling me in, and my brain turns off.

  “Have you ever made wishes here?” I throw my thumb over my shoulder.

  Trig nods. “Tons.”

  “Any of them ever came true?” I ask.

  “A few. Most likely due to coincidence, not magic.”

  “Do you want to know what I wished for?” I bravely ask.

  This is a bad road to travel down, but I’m already headed for it. Nothing good can come from this. My mind is throwing up caution signs, but my body is knocking them down.

  “They say it’s bad to tell someone your wishes.”

  He smirks as he steps closer to me.

  “Why is it bad?”

  “Because it may not come true,” he adds.

  “Then it won’t matter if I tell you. I mean it’s only a stupid wish, just a magical illusion, right?” I pause. He tilts his head to the side. “As twisted as this may be, I wished you’d kiss me. I know this is crazy, and after my little panic episodes and erection killing confessions, you must really think I’m mental, but…”

  Trig steps a little closer. I’m nervous, almost like how a virgin must feel on her first night. I don’t kiss men, not even my clients, but Trig is no client. I watch as he approaches me. He plants his hands on my waist.

  “It’s just that you make me feel…”

  “Feel what?” he says.

  He takes a strand of my hair and brushes it away from my eyes.

  Safe. I can’t say it. It’s one word. Just tell him.

  “I’m a mess,” I whisper.

  “We all are.”

  He stares at my lips.

  “I’ve been thinking about what your lips might taste like.” Trig keeps his eyes targeted on my mouth. “Are you sure you want this?”

  I nod and tilt my head back as he moves in closer. His hands wrap around my back and tighten as he pulls me into him. He moves his hand up into my hair and gently fists a handful before locking his lips on mine. I moan into his mouth as my hands explore his chest. I’m aching for him. I want him. There are parts of my body longing to be touched by him and I’ve never felt this deep craving. It’s a long, sensual kiss and I’m breaking apart in his arms, because it’s the first time I’ve ever kissed someone. I push my hands against his chest and pull away. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  Trig cocks his head back. “Are you okay?” He studies me.

  “Yeah, I’ve just never done that.”
I gather myself.

  He looks confused. “Done what?”

  “I’ve never kissed anyone,” I say, almost embarrassed.

  It’s funny to hear it come out of my mouth. I’ve done a lot of dirty sexual things as an escort, but kissing was never one of them. Trig steps back and holds up one finger.

  “You’ve never kissed anyone, ever? That’s impossible. Look at you.”

  I shake my head.

  “I don’t kiss. It’s a rule of mine.”

  “Didn’t you have boyfriends before you were an escort?” I shake my head. He exhales. “You’ve really never had a boyfriend?” I shake my head again. “What about your virginity?”

  “I was eighteen and it was with a client,” I say, and look away.

  “Your first time was with a client?” he shouts.

  “Every time was with a client. You can’t have relationships in this field.”

  “Wow, Nine.” He spins around in a circle.

  Now that this topic is out and open, it sounds ridiculous.

  “So, you’ve never kissed anyone and you’ve never had a boyfriend. That means you’ve never made love, then.”

  “My clients–”

  “You’re clients pay to fuck you, not make love to you. Don’t get it confused,” Trig says, cutting me off. “Do you enjoy sex? Do you even get off or is it just a job for you?”

  “I enjoy it, sometimes,” I lie.

  What I really mean to say is that I enjoy all the money that comes after the sex.

  He laughs. “Sure you do. Some jerk-off is pumping away at you while you lay there and wait for it to be over.”

  My face heats up. “Why are you mad at me?”

  He stops moving and looks at me. “There is this beautiful woman standing in front of me telling me she’s never experienced a kiss. And that she’s never had a boyfriend, which means she’s never been in love and she’s never even made love. You’re first sexual experience was with a client, a fucking client. You’re breaking my heart here. What other on-the-job rules do you have, Nine? I must know.”

  “Just one more.” I pause. He arches one eyebrow. “No cuddling,” I say.