Page 34 of The Way You Hurt Me

"Well, duh. I don't know about you, but personally, I really need this job. You open your mouth now, I get called in as a witness, and trust me, Brown: I'll say I saw nothing. I like you, but I need to feed my son."

I could break something. I couldscream.

Instead, I shut up and return to work.

The thing is, this my first job, and the first time anything like that happened to me. But it's hardly the first time I’ve heard about it, is it?

I can't say how many times I laid down after Morgan thought I was asleep, and listened to her rant to Erica or Lola about this or that client getting handsy at the strip club where she waited tables.

Those stories were a lot worse that what Lloyd just did. People cornering her, slipping their hands under her skirt, grabbing her tits. Silks wasn't a respectable IT firm; it was a strip club to start with, so the clientele felt entitled to anyone and anything in there, believing them all to be for sale.

But she stayed.

Whenever one of her two besties said she should quit, leave, find another job, she'd say, “and then, who would feed Willow? Who'd get her meds?”

I lock myself in the bathroom, sit, and sob, hugging my knees.

I have type 1 diabetes. We found out after a hospital visit when I passed out at school, age nine, and I don't think my parents even attempted to get me insulin, happy to let me die if treating me cost them their drinking money—survival of the fittest and all. It was Morgan who filled out all the paperwork for grants and worked to supplement what we needed to pay.

I don't often allow myself to think about what my sister went through to raise me. It's in the past. I've been good for close to six years. Great, in fact. I have a continuous glucose monitor, an automated insulin pump, doctor appointments as needed. Money hasn't been an issue for me in forever. But I don't think I'll ever stop being that scared little girl, wondering how long I'll survive on borrowed time. Looking for someone to tell me everything will be fine. To take care of me.

I make myself breathe, head between my legs. I don't need anyone. I have plenty of cash in the bank. So much I said no to two thousand bucks last weekend. Ten-year-old Willow can't even imagine refusing a fiver, let alone two grand. But I'll make as much cash tonight, and I'll have fun doing it, with two hot dudes that I paid for the privilege.

I am in control.

16

DIMITRI

Iglance at my phone again, more and more frustrated as time passes on Friday.

The line of text is on the short side.

Me: You forgot your envelope.

Willow: I know. Keep it. It was my pleasure. Say hi to Wolfie for me!

That was from Tuesday. Nothing since on her end or mine.

Two years ago, my phone would have been full of texts even if I didn't reply. Now, she's completely silent. She found another way to get eyes on her.

The shoot isn't scheduled for over two hours, but my cinema room is already set up, hooked onto her page, ready. Fuck, I'm such a pervert where she's concerned.

I used to tell myself I wouldn't watch her videos, look at her pictures, read every word in her filthy little updates. For a few weeks, it would work. Then I'd always end up caving on a bad day.

I've given up pretending now. I'm her highest follower, and I'm there whenever she's live.

She refused my two thousand bucks for pet sitting, so I know it's not about the money for her. She just likes being watched.

There are better ways to satisfy that specific kink, but she chose this path, and so far, she's been doing it safely enough, sticking to solo performances, hiding her actual face under makeup, fake hair, masks sometimes. I was stressed out when she announced partners at first, but I just tightened her security.

It's her move. Everything she does right now is completely up to her. That has always been essential to me: leaving her her complete freedom. Otherwise, what even is the point of staying away?

I knew the first time Willow kissed me that there was a very good chance that we'd work out, she and I. That, if—when—we took the plunge, we'd be an us. I'm not the kind of man who thinks in terms of forever or happily ever after. But I suspected there was a high chance we'd be more than a casual screw.

She's not the prettiest woman I know, she's not the most talented, not even the smartest, although I know her IQ is insanely high according to the thick file I keep in my drawer. But she's the first, last, and only to just see me. Nothing else.

It's down to the gum she gave me all those years ago.

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