Page 3 of Kneeling to Candy

It’s not like I want to avoid the crew I consider a surrogate family. I need a moment alone to collect myself, a few minutes to build up my composure before facing anyone.

With my legs crossed underneath me, I practice the meditative breathing I’ve learned from therapy. In and out, I breathe a steady rhythm, attempting to settle my frayed nerves.

Hiding in a closet isn’t exactly ideal, but it’s the only place I can be alone. I could go to my suite, but I share the space with Red—another former MC bunny in the club, and the closest person I have to a best friend. As much as I love Red, I need a place where she doesn’t look at me with pity.

Pity is the last thing I want from anyone—it makes me feel weak. Appearing weak is not an option. People like to take advantage of weak people.

Been there. Done that. Never again.

Leaving the property isn’t an option either. Lorenzo Bianchi rots away in a grave, thanks to Atlas’s mother-in-law—Mama Bear Holland—running him over with his own Lamborghini. But Lucky Luca is still unaccounted for, hiding God knows where, waiting for an opportunity to take advantage of someone.

Knowing he could be anywhere makes my anxiety skyrocket.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

As I meditate, I pick apart my emotions and what’s brought me to this point in my life.

Although I’m alone and actively seek to alienate myself from others, it doesn’t mean I enjoy being alone. The opposite is true. I hate feeling obligated to isolate myself when I become overwhelmed. Not to have someone to share my concerns with is painful on a whole other level.

There’s nothing I loathe more than watching someone else’s happily ever after take root, knowing I’ll never have that connection with anyone.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m extremely happy Atlas found his old lady to spend the rest of his days with. Jo’s a good counterbalance for his controlling ass. Same goes for Opal and Gauge. I may have seen Opal as a threat when she first entered the club, due to my warped ideology that my security within the club would be less than that of the old lady of our VP. But I have gained a friend in her.

It’s not necessarily bitterness for other’s happiness. It’s more of a deep sadness for myself—a melancholy for what I don’t have.

Not every woman gets to ride off in the sunset with the biker of her dreams. Some of us just get to wave at the happy couple as they cruise by.

That’s me. The supportive sidekick in everyone else’s story. Or more appropriately, the villain in most stories.

Thankfully, I’m no longer vile toward my MC family. I’m doing what I can to become a better person for the ones I love.

But unfortunately for me, I’m too damaged from my past to have a love story of my own. Too broken to be anyone’s other half. Nobody wants a busted toy when they can have a shiny and new one.

Damage happens when a near decade of your life is stripped away, forcing you into a life of sex work. Some of it was consensual. Most was not.

It’s not something I dwell on for long periods of time. Too much of my life has been stolen—I don’t want to give any more of myself than need be.

My one-hour therapy session a week with the MC’s unofficial psychologist—Brandon—is more than enough time to relive my past pain and face my demons. I’ve come far in a short period. Though my healing journey is nowhere near finished when I have infinite amounts of trauma to unload and sort.

Life dealt me the short end of the stick. Growing up with druggy parents didn’t give me the nurture or security I desperately needed in my early childhood. It’s not fair to ask a kid to fend for themselves in a tiny rundown trailer with empty cupboards. Nor should a child go without proper clothing, heat, or any of the other necessities any human needs to survive in this harsh life.

Neglect was my childhood norm. All I knew was struggle. Staying meant I’d continue to struggle, or worse, become a druggy like my parents.

Looking for freedom, I took my fate into my own hands, leaving my home and parents behind. It’s doubtful my parents missed me, since no one came looking for me. Not that I expect them to either.

From the age of fourteen, I’ve been on my own. Most young teens can’t legally work. The same was true for me. Instead, I turned to illegal work—turning tricks. When you have no work or life skills but still need to feed and shelter yourself, selling your body isn’t out of the question—it’s an unfair necessity.

Life on the streets was painful. I was constantly worried if I’d get jumped while working the corners, if the shelter would have room, and if the soup kitchen would have enough food to go around.

Not to mention the men who paid for my services. Most were feral monsters who took as they pleased.

But what can you do when you’re a sex worker?

No one’s going to believe a John raped you when he threw some bills your way after the deed. You agreed to sex, and to some that somehow translates to accepting all the despicable things that can result during the act. It doesn’t matter if you stated your boundaries or said, “No” when things got too aggressive. Some men take what they want, and the police don’t care if a sex worker got more than she bargained for, even one who’s legally a child.

Honestly, I’m surprised I survived those first four years alone. I needed a way out of that hell.

An opportunity presented itself while I was working my corner along East Colfax in Denver, Colorado—a shabby area in the city known for sex work. A handsome man in an expensive Italian tailored suit approached me. I assumed it was another businessman looking to get his rocks off on some bought pussy. But this businessman was interested in doing business, asking if I’d consider working for him as a high-end call girl.

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