"You don't? Ever?"
"Nope, not really."
"Why?"
"Don't like it. I'd rather wait until I can hook up with someone."
"So, if you live in the Club place and can’t ever leave, how does hooking up work?"
"It's more than a nightclub,” I answer. “There's an exclusive members-only area. A brothel, sort of. But the girls work for themselves—they rent the room from the Club. We—the club, meaning The Boss--charge a flat monthly fee which generally works out to roughly five percent of their monthly income. We Arrows, provide security for them, and the club provides medical as well as free meals and drinks."
"And you avail yourself of their services."
I nod. "Occasionally." I glance at her. "How do you feel about that?"
"You care?"
I nod. "I do. Wouldn’t ask if I didn't."
"They're treated well?"
I nod. "We make sure of it. The girls are all there of their own volition. They've chosen sex work for their own personal reasons. They rent the room from the club, which means they don't have to work out of cheap motels. They don't work for a pimp. The only requirement is that they're drug-free and clean. If they have or develop a drug problem, we get them help. We make sure the johns are respectful, and we don't hesitate to make a messy fuckin' example of men who aren't. So yeah. And obviously, I pay them their rate, and usually more."
She shrugs one shoulder. "Then I've got no problem with it. A man's got needs. You treat them well, don't expect freebies because you protect them, they're not trapped or kept hooked on drugs…I almost went into sex work, so obviously I don't, like, look down on it." When I don't press, she shakes her head. "You're really committed to not asking."
"I am."
"Why?"
"In this moment, because you said nothing deep."
"And in general?"
"That's the stuff that really, truly matters. It's yours to share or not."
"But you do want to know? You're not, like, not asking because you're afraid of getting close to me?"
"No. It's not that. There is a certain intimacy that comes from knowing a person's reasons for being fucked up, but I'm not afraid of that. Not with you, at least."
She nods. Looks out the window. After several minutes of silence, she speaks. Her voice is quiet, but pain is woven through each syllable. "Mom died when I was five. Told you that. It was an aneurysm. She was in the kitchen, making dinner. Chicken and biscuits…my favorite. Dad wasn't home from work yet. Mom was supposed to work that night—she was a hotel maid at a fancy place uptown. Midnights, because Dad worked during the day and I wasn't old enough for school yet. She just…dropped dead right in front of me. Bent over the counter, clutching her head. She puked everywhere, and then just fucking fell to the floor. She survived for a few weeks after, but she was in a coma. The doctors told my dad there was zero chance of recovery, so he pulled the plug."
"Fucking hell, Terra. I’m sorry."
"Thanks.” A long pause. A wave of her hand. “So, my dad is a walking stereotype. Boston Irish frame carpenter. Real tough guy. Alcoholic son of an alcoholic. Loves the Red Sox and the Celtics and Jameson Irish Whiskey, in that order. Well, things weren't great up to that point. I remember them fighting. Dad yelling, Mom screaming. Dad hitting her. He didn't, like, kick the shit outta her, he'd just smack her when he got pissed off and she'd smack him back, throw plates, mugs. Real shitshow, both ways. Whatever Dad's damage was, Mom more or less balanced it out. They loved each other, just in a fucked-up way."
A long silence. "And then she died. And Dad just…I guess he died, too. He left for work at like six every morning, and came home at seven or eight, drank whiskey till he passed out in his chair in front of whatever game was on. I was more or less on my own from then on. He'd bring home food, but it was…fuckin…Cheetos, mac ‘n cheese, Coke, booze, and hot dogs. He'd throw clothes in the washer on Sundays, but he was drunk all weekend so a lot of the time he'd forget and I’d have to put on wet, moldy clothes for school. Sucked in the winter."
"Jesus."
"Oh, just you wait, buddy boy. It hasn't even gotten interesting yet." She blows out a breath. "The company he worked for got bought out and everyone got laid off. So, he found work at a different company, and that's when shit really went south. See, he made new friends, and these friends would come over and party with Dad every weekend. We had a nice backyard, a real back porch, a Weber grill, and a big garage with a project car. They'd get hammered and work on the car all weekend. At first, I thought it was good for him to have friends and a social life. People to talk to. But they…"
She swallows. "Fuck. Haven't talked about this in years." I stay silent, look at her, reach out a hand—she takes mine and squeezes. "I was eleven, the first time. They'd been drinking all weekend. Dad was passed out, and so were Gary and Danny. I woke up to someone opening my door. Dad's friend Sean came in and tried to touch me. I kicked him and screamed, and he left. I locked my door at night from then on. Well, Sean didn't like that. So the next weekend, he came in again. It was a shitty lock, you know? The kind you only need a paperclip to unlock.”
A long, long silence.
“He put my hand over my mouth, pinned me to the bed, and raped me. I told Dad, and he just acted like I was making it up. When Sean came over that next weekend, Dad saw how scared I was of him, and confronted him about it. They fought, Dad won, and Sean never came back. Win! Right? Well, no. I was already developing by then. I got my period that year, and my boobs and ass started ballooning. His friends were always making comments disguised as jokes, and Dad would laugh it off."
"Are you fucking kidding?"
