Scratch the Surface

Excusing myself, I got up and left the hospital room, walking down the corridor to a small, but thankfully empty, waiting room. I got him on the third ring.

“Hey,” he answered, and he sounded exhausted, which was odd since it was only a bit after nine.

“I’m sorry, are you working?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then did I wake you?”

No answer.

I cleared my throat, realizing I’d made a mistake. “Hey, I’ll let you go. I’ll call back in the morning.” I tried hard to sound upbeat, even though I felt utterly dejected. My heart hurt, and it was stupid. I didn’t expect him to be happy to hear from me every time I called. That wasn’t what I––

The FaceTime call interrupted me second-guessing myself. I answered and saw a man who looked like hell. I was surprised at my own reaction, my stomach knotting tight, the catch of my breath and the twinge in my heart.

“I’m so glad you called. I wanted to talk to you,” he told me, “but I’m kinda scared you’re gonna tell me to get lost after what I have to say, or even in the middle of it, because you’re going to realize I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

And suddenly I could breathe again. “No, sir. I knew you were going to be trouble the moment I laid eyes on you, and that didn’t deter me in the least.”

“That’s ’cause ya wanted to get laid” came the matter-of-fact reply.

“True,” I agreed, smiling at him. “But guess what? I seem to be just as interested in you as I am in your cock.”

His snort of laughter made me gasp over the words that had tumbled out of my mouth. God, who was I?

“Well, that is really good news,” he assured me, still chuckling. “Because I definitely wanna be more than just a guy you enjoy fucking.”

“Yes, but see, it was more to me than just fucking.”

“No, I know,” he rasped, taking a strained breath. “Same here.”

“Really?” I almost gasped.

“Yes, really. You think I can’t feel the same way, why? Because I’m a whore?”

“You’re not a whore; stop pretending you are.”

“Listen, I––”

“The Bowens told us yesterday at Kingman’s that your mother left you when you were fourteen.”

His groan was long and pained. “That’s just fuckin’ great.”

“I think it’s amazing you took care of yourself all alone.”

“Yeah, but I had to sell my body to eat, Cameron, and you know it because that’s what I was doing when I met you.”

“Not true. When I met you, you were helping a very drunk and unconscious stranger get safely to his room. What brought you to the hotel in the first place was nothing more than a means to an end. It’s not who you are.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I beg to differ.”

“You can say whatever you want; it doesn’t make it true.”

“Except I know you.”

“You can’t.” He exhaled, sounding terribly dejected.

I shrugged.

“As people, we’re defined by what we do.”

“That’s deep.”

His glare was fast. “Don’t patronize me. I’ve whored myself, and that defines me.”

“I disagree.”

“You can disagree all you want, but that doesn’t change the reality of it.”

“I don’t care.”

“That’s bullshit. You care.”

“Only insomuch as I wish you didn’t have to anymore.”

“I don’t,” he muttered angrily. “I mean, it’s been—God, I don’t know when the last time was before the other night.”

I pounced on his words. It happened before I was even aware I was speaking. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, this guy I know from class, Shawn, he called and said he needed my help. He asked if I could please take his place on a date his scheduler set up for him, and if I did it, he’d give me the money.”

The weight that lifted, all at once, was overwhelming. I knew I was smiling like an idiot from his scowl.

“What the hell?”

“When I asked you if you were a hustler, you lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” he argued. “I used to––”

“Used to,” I repeated, staring at his beautiful eyes. “You used to sell your body, but you don’t anymore. Or not for some time, yes?”

“Don’t act like that changes––”

“Let’s not have the same argument again. Tell me, yes or no; it has been some time since you found yourself hustling.”

“I thought you didn’t care,” he reminded me.

“I don’t care what you did before I invited you into my room. That has nothing to do with me. But after I invited you in, that I care about. You have options now.”

“Oh? And what options are those?”

“Don’t bait me,” I warned him. “I know what you’re doing. You want me to say you can come and live with me, and then you’ll counter with ‘How is being a kept man any different than being a hustler?’ but we can stop this now, because us getting off track isn’t what either one of us wants.”

“Is that right?”