Page 24 of Jersey

He wasn't yesterday, but my eyes land right on him tonight.

He's sitting in the exact same spot, with a glass of amber liquor in his hand, as if I'm reliving the exact same moments I've seen him the times before.

The familiarity of it calms me as others wander around my body, their fingers feeling like needles on my skin. I get the distinct feeling that him being here is the only reason I'm not freaking out completely.

I had to be pulled down before the time was up last night, and I know it had everything to do with his absence.

Instead of keeping my eyes closed like I normally do, I spent the first ten minutes on the cross with my gaze darting all over the place to find him. The anxiety of him not being here sent me into a panic. I could hardly breathe by the time I was begging the attendant to get me down.

I know being here could possibly jeopardize my work with Eli, but this is my time. This is my personal life that I'm trying to work through, and I came to the conclusion earlier in the week that I have the right to heal as much as the next person.

Seeing Jersey here started before I knew he was connected to the little boy. Since neither Jericho nor Mr. Hart has said anything about it, I figure there's no issue with what I've been doing despite feeling a pang of guilt for muddying the space between personal and professional.

"The way this skin would look with whip marks…" the man who is circling says.

He's the same creepy guy who mentioned my unmarked skin before, and as much as I try to ignore him and keep my eyes on Jersey, I'm finding it harder and harder.

My stomach turns with his touch, and there's just something about him that is sending up all kinds of red flags. However, the purpose of this exercise is that I don't get to pick and choose who touches me.

I lift my chin a little higher when he disappears out of my line of sight, jerking slightly when his touch runs down my left flank.

"This spot right here is very tender," he says. I hate the sound of his raspy voice, as if he's having a hard time keeping himself under control. "This very spot would look great with just a hint of a trickle of blood."

I'm in no position to yuck someone else's yum, but what the actual fuck? I whimper when the tip of his fingernail cuts into my skin. It's not enough to make me bleed, but I know it's going to leave a scratch.

I pull my eyes from Jersey and dart them toward Roxie, who reads me like an open book. She takes two steps forward.

"Mr. Dozer, please give others a turn."

I have no idea what the look on his face is because I keep my eyes trained on her, but she raises an eyebrow in challenge. It only takes a second before the air thins out again, telling me that he has walked away.

"You okay?" she asks.

I swallow, contemplating telling her to pull me down, but I know how that goes. I'll go to him at his table, and he won't say a word to me. If I stay, although I'll have to endure more people touching me, I know when it's nearly over, he'll stand, approach, and light my skin on fire in a way I've never felt before until that first night I saw him.

I dip my head, letting her know I'd like to continue. She takes a few steps back before returning to her spot ten or so feet away.

The people who frequent the club enough know that there are attendants for every scene taking place. It's as if they're a silent warning that the rules will not be allowed to be broken. But I know there's always an off chance someone will risk their membership to fulfill a desire they can't seem to fight, and it terrifies me that my rules may be broken at any given moment.

Then again, I guess that could also happen in an uncontrolled situation. It's better for me to be able to deal with it when it comes than to freak out, which could lead to further injury or victimization.

My mind races with thoughts and fears, but then I find his eyes again and then silence.

It should be terrifying the way just the sight of him calms down certain fears inside of me.

I keep repeating that your body knows when someone is there to hurt it or help it. Those sixth senses are pertinent for survival, although many people have lost them over time.

I see the second his eyes cast down to his watch as if he's been timing my session on the cross, and my skin tingles when he drains his glass before setting it on the side table and standing.

The guy sitting beside him, a man who was introduced to me as Lark at the cabin they all share, just now notices me. I watch his mouth form the wordmotherfucker, before he reaches out in an attempt to grab Jersey's arm as if to try and deter his approach.

My stomach flips as the man pauses before looking down at his friend.

The stare-off is weird to watch, but Lark eventually lets go of Jersey's arm and sits back on the sofa, a frown on his face.

My insides feel like they're getting ready to rebel against their restraints and come pouring out of me as he approaches. I have no idea what the conversations about me have entailed. No one back at the cabin has mentioned my time here, but I doubt they've stayed silent about my attendance.

I lick at my dry lips as he closes the distance between the two of us, but it provides no relief as my breathing grows raspier.

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