Page 19 of Find Me

He continues to take what he feels he is owed, and I close my eyes and think about what it would be like if things were different. If all the choices I made led down a different path, rather than here: Underneath a guy, trading sex for drugs and a loan. The thought sends a shiver down my spine as the disgust I feel towards myself rises to the surface.

“See? I knew you’d like it like this,” he mutters, seemingly mistaking my shiver of disgust with desire for him. My body moves with the mechanical beat of him pumping, his hands digging into my waist and shoulder for more leverage, and he’s seemingly unaware of my lackluster participation. The rhythm picks up and I close my eyes, trying to find some semblance of pleasure in the moment, but it’s futile. My thoughts are consumed by the emptiness within me, a void that weighs heavy with the cost of my decisions.

I try to push the thoughts away, trying to focus on the physical sensations, but it’s no use. My mind wanders, and I find myself thinking about how much I hate myself for doing this. For being here, for being with him, and I stare at the white baggie on the glass table beside us.

As Rhett finishes, I lay there, feeling nothing but his damp sweat against my skin and hearing nothing but my own rapid breathing. He rolls off me, and for a moment we’re both silent. I get up, the evidence of our activities running down my legs, and reach for the baggie on the table. I dump the powder, and snort lines until I can no longer feel anything.

CHAPTER 10

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My life continues to be an endless routine of work and Rhett, and the weeks blending together. Work keeps me busy and tired, and I can’t find the energy or desire to paint, and a part of me is afraid of what I would see on the canvas staring back at me if I did pick up a paintbrush.

Rhett is always quick to question how I can possibly be so tired after just standing around for guys to stare at, not bothering to try and imagine what it might be like spending eight hours in six-inch heels, listening to a bunch of men with boners talk your ear off, hoping to get laid, while being polite enough to get good tips and assertive enough to remind them to keep their hands to themselves.

I’ve been lucky not to have been in too many sticky situations yet, and it’s thanks to Mike’s very clear standards for his business—we are not to sleep with customers. All of us know it, and all his customers do, too, though some of them try to find a loophole. The key to repeat customers and good tips, as both Alex and Red tell me, is to make the customers think that you want them. Make them feel special, like they are the only guy you have eyes for. Make them feel like, at any given moment, you could be the one going home with them, and always feign disappointment when you’re not able to take them up on their offer. That’s how you get good tips. And while I have my regulars now, most of them being genuinely nice guys, I’m still not making money as quickly as I need to pay off my debt to Rhett.

Yet somehow, in the confines of the walls enclosing the club, Poison Ivy has become a place of solitude where I can pretend life is working out for me. I’ve started looking forward to leaving my apartment, never having to guess what my shift will look like, knowing exactly what is expected of me and what my role is. I’ve slowly grown fond of this place, and unlike many of the men frequenting this establishment, it isn’t because of the naked chicks dancing on stage. The community I feel here is something I have never had before. Red, Alex, Toni… they are slowly turning into the friends I desperately need, helping me feel as though I have someone to talk to, even if it is just during our shifts together.

Despite the continued radio silence from Garrett, I couldn’t resist reaching out to him on my birthday. My fingers typed out a simple message, asking how everyone was doing and letting him know I missed him. Days went by, and a response never came, so I locked my pain in the box with everything else, trying to ignore the growing void and celebrating a belated birthday with myself and a couple of pills.

I try not to be too hard on myself; I know it could always be worse, and I’m thankful for what I have. Knowing that Rhett is the reason I’m still living in my apartment has caused an inner turmoil that I can’t quite grasp; I appreciate the loan, but I feel as though I have lost every sense of who I am with our deal, barely recognizing myself as I dip into some sort of substance almost daily and do whatever he asks afterward. Our relationship, our agreement, has been firmly in place these past few weeks, and while I initially thought he would get bored of using me as his plaything, I had been severely mistaken. While work continues to fucking exhaust me every night, Rhett continues to fuck me every morning.

Sam balked at the idea of our agreement when I first told her. It wasn’t like it was an actual rule, I tried to explain, it’s not like he expects sex all the time, I lied to myself. I felt her disapproval from the other end of the phone, as I answered question after question about my reasons for being so reckless. No matter what I said, it didn’t make a difference, and I could hear her frustration towards me start to grow as judgment laced her words. I eventually had enough of her condescending speech about how bad my life choices were that I hung up on her.

What she didn’t understand is that I had become so used to my routine with Rhett, hanging out whenever he was bored—usually doing cocaine or having sex—that I had started to look forward to seeing him, a thought that caused a mix of shame, guilt, and confusion within me. I spent most of my days riding some sort of high that made me forget how lonely life had become. The sex was alright, the drugs were better, and the rare orgasm made it a deal I had come to accept, even if I wasn’t thrilled at how my morals had slipped in the process. I lean against the kitchen counter, having just received a message from Sam inviting me out and apologizing for her ‘unintentionally harsh words.’ I stare at my phone for a few minutes and release a breath I didn’t know I had been holding as I read the small letters on my screen. Her apology and invite out feels like an olive branch after the way our last conversation ended a couple of days ago, and it feels good to hear from her.

I toy with a paintbrush sitting on my kitchen counter as I consider what Sam said, and as I run my fingers over the dry bristles, I realize I haven’t painted in weeks. I look around my room and spot a blank canvas propped up against the wall, casting a shadow on my hardwood floor as the sun starts to set outside. I text her back, letting her know I’m not in the mood for a night out, and promising we will plan something another time.

I walk towards the canvas slowly, the floors creaking underneath me, and wonder what it might be like to spend the evening painting, unsure of how I would even start and nervous about what emotions might come to the surface.

My phone startles me out of my thoughts, and I put the paintbrush down to answer it, half expecting it to be Sam attempting to convince me to spend the night with her.

But it’s Rhett’s voice that meets my ears, and it sounds as though he has been drinking.

“I’ll be over at nine, then we’re going to Heat so get ready.”

He hangs up before I can even think of a response. I stare at the canvas, my skin bristling with annoyance at Rhett’s entitlement, never bothering to ask me what I want to do. Long gone are the days when he would show up with coffee or breakfast in hand, bringing me trinkets to show his affection. I settle the frustration as it threatens to take over, turning away from the canvas and heading upstairs to get ready. Sometimes it’s easier to just do what he wants rather than find the energy to stand up against him.

A half-hour later, I’m answering the door as Rhett strolls in, a bottle in his hands and a smile on his face, ready for wherever the night is about to take us.

CHAPTER 11

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The music pumps loudly, the dance floor is packed, and Rhett is pressed firmly behind me as we move to the beat of the music. I inhale the smoky air, riding my high with him as his hands hold onto my hips. I’m way further gone than I thought I would be at 11p.m. on a Wednesday night, and I didn’t expect to go so hard on one of my few days off work. At this point, I’m just looking for an escape, and Rhett is looking for entertainment, so here we are.

Rhett’s chin dips as he leans in to whisper in my ear, and his fingers brush the hair stuck to the side of my face, damp with sweat from the past hour of dancing, my heart pumping quicker than usual.

“I have something else for you.” His voice is loud enough to be heard over the bass.

I lean back into him, feeling his smile against my cheek. I look down as his hands move from my hips, reaching into his pocket and producing a baggie of pills.

“Swallow this,” he instructs as he hands one to me.

I do as he says, barely missing a beat as I continue to dance, choosing to chase a high and have fun as I lose myself in the music.

Thirty minutes later, I feel like I am flying. My body no longer feels like my own. My limbs are heavy yet free, and everything is in slow motion, yet not. The colors are brighter, the music is louder, and I’m smiling earnestly, blissfully happy in this moment.

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