Page 27 of Nine

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?”

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