Chapter 2
Almost forty minutes later, I walk into the bedroom half certain that Jonathan is going to be there waiting but to my surprise he is still in the living room, watching TV on mute. “Sorry I took so long. Why didn't you turn the sound on?”
“I prefer it that way. Less noise,” he says and my heart flutters in my chest because more often than not I mute the TV as well. “Ready for your massage?”
“If you're not too tired. I know it’s getting late.”
He stands from the couch, extends a hand to me and I interlace my fingers with his. Once there he releases my hand and goes to dim the lights. Meanwhile, I wrap the towel tighter around my chest and lie in the middle of my king-size bed atop the disheveled sheets and comforter.
He climbs next to me as I turn from my side onto my stomach, my shoulders and legs exposed to his gaze.
“Do you have any lotions or oils I can use?”
I point towards my side table and he reaches for a bottle, placing a few dollops in the palm of his hand before rubbing them together to warm the lotion. Once his hands touch me, my breath quickens and my heart flutters inside my chest. His hands rub the tension away, but after a while, the towel rises, exposing part of my buttocks and I can instantly feel his lingering gaze as he takes in the damage.
I am so used to bruises, scratches, and welts that his persistent glare only highlights my flaws, making me look like the person I am under all the fancy clothes and expensive makeup.
A prostitute.
He sighs deeply as his hand glides over my skin and he does his best not to touch the belt welts that Luca left on me this morning.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “They look worse than they feel.”
“What do you use to make them heal?”
“I usually put some aloe vera cream on before bed. It’s in the refrigerator door.”
“I'll be right back. Don’t move.”
He’s quick in returning and he warns me of the cold before applying the cooling cream to my bruised flesh.
A moan slips past my lips at the delicious sensation of his hands and the diminishing sting.
His fingers trail up my back, then across my shoulder blades and on the sides of my neck and I feel his imminent question even before he utters the words.
“They have been pretty rough with you,” he states and I can't do anything to hide the truth from him. He needs to see this battered, broken woman I am today.
“Yes,” I whisper, in hopes he will not push further.
His hands stop caressing me and I can sense his rising anger.
“I want you to stop doing this, M. This life is no way to live. I’m worried for your safety. At a minimum, when was the last time you got tested?”
I turn around and sit up, my eyes locked with his. “You weren’t too concerned about this the last time I slept with you. Why now, Jonathan? By the way, I’m clean. I am not some random street whore. This is my job, my profession, remember?”
He lets out a sigh of discontent before speaking again. “I can’t do this unless you leave your job, Miranda. I want you to live with me. Stay with me.” His voice has turned serious, showing me a side of himself I rarely see.
“Did you think you’d just barge back into my life after all this time and claim me back? That it’d be that easy? Did you not hear a word I said before?”
“Yes, I did. I heard everything you said. I still want to be with you. But not like this. If we are going to give our relationship a shot, I need you to stop what you are doing.”
“And replace it with what, exactly? I have no qualifications or degrees, Jonathan. I’ve been a sex worker all my adult life. That is all I know how to do.” I hate that my voice has grown so cold and bitter but if we are ever going to have a chance together, this has to be dealt with as soon as possible. “I’m thirty-four years old, baby. I don’t have many more years to make top dollar in my profession. I will not give those years up unless I know you are absolutely serious.”
“You don’t have to work if you don’t want to, honey. I’ll find a job to sustain us both,” he says matter-of-factly like it’s the easiest thing in the world for a priest and a sex worker to switch jobs.
“You’ve never worked anywhere, J,” I spit back, getting more frustrated as this conversation progresses.
“Now you’re just being stubborn. You know I can handle myself and I’m pretty sure you can too.”
“I’m really tired, Jonathan. Could we please talk about this another time? In the morning, maybe, over breakfast?”
“Sure thing, M,” he mumbles but the frustration is more than evident in his tone.
His warmth leaves me when he climbs out of bed and goes back into the living room while I close my eyes and try to wrap my head around what just happened.