Whereas sitting by himself in a home, of sorts, didn’t.
The security system was already on in the office, and he triggered a second one for his private quarters, then shut himself in the windowless bedroom he crashed in from time to time. The bathroom was across the way and he dumped his sable duster on the bed before going in and turning the shower on. As he moved around, bone-deep cold settled into his body, emanating from the inside out, as if he’d injected himself with Freon.
This he did dread. He hated always being cold. Shit, maybe he should have just let himself go. It wasn’t like he was going to be interacting with anyone.
Yeah, but if he got too far behind in his doses, the catch-up was a bitch.
Steam billowed free from behind the glass shower door, and he stripped naked, leaving his suit and tie and shirt on the marble counter between the two sinks. Stepping under the spray, he shivered hard, his teeth rattling.
For a moment, he collapsed back against the smooth marble walls, keeping himself in the center of the four showerheads. As hot water he couldn’t feel cascaded down his chest and abs, he tried not to think about what the following night was bringing and failed.
Oh, God…did he have it in him to do it again? Go up there and whore himself out to that bitch?
Yeah, and the alternative was…her reporting him as a symphath to the council and getting his ass deported up to that colony.
The choice was clear.
Fuck that; there was no choice. Bella didn’t know what he was, and it would kill her to find out the family lie. And she wouldn’t be the only casualty. His mother would fall apart. Xhex would be livid and get herself murdered trying to save him. Trez and iAm would do the same.
The whole house of cards would fall.
Compulsively, he grabbed a bright gold bar of soap from the ceramic holder mounted on the wall and worked a froth up between his palms. The shit he used on himself wasn’t some kind of fancy milled stuff. It was rotgut Dial, a disinfectant that was like a pavement grader over the skin.
His whores used the same. It was what he stocked in their shower rooms, at their request.
His rule was three times. Three times he went up and down his arms and his legs, his pecs and his abs, his neck and his shoulders. Three times he dipped between his thighs, soaping up his cock and sac. The ritual was stupid, but such were compulsions. He could have used up three dozen Dial bars and still felt vile.
Funny, his whores were always surprised at the way they got treated. Each time a new one came on, they expected to have to sex him up as part of their employment, and they were always prepared to be beaten. Instead, they got their own private dressing room with a shower, reliable hours, security that never, ever touched them, and this thing called respect-which meant they chose their johns, and if the fuckers who paid for the privilege of being with them messed up even a hair of theirs, all they had to do was say the word and a mountain of shit fell on the offender.
More than once, he’d had one of the women show up at his office door and ask to speak with him privately. It usually happened about a month into her tenure, and what she said was always the same and always spoken with a kind of confusion that, had he been a normal, would have broken his heart:
Thank you.
He wasn’t big on hugging, but he’d been known to pull them into his arms and hold on to them for a short breath. None of them knew that it wasn’t because he was a nice guy; it was because he was one of them. The hard reality was that life had put them all where they didn’t want to be, namely on their backs for people they didn’t want to be fucking. Yes, there were some who didn’t mind the job, but like everyone, they didn’t always want to be working. And God knew the johns always showed up.
Just like his blackmailer.
Getting out of the shower was pure, undiluted hell, and he put off the deep freeze as long as he could, huddling under the spray while he argued with himself over the evac. As the debate continued, he heard the water tinkling against the marble and chattering down the brass drain, but his numbed-out body felt nothing except a slight easing of his inner Alaska. When the hot water ran out, he knew only because his shivering got worse and the beds of his fingernails went from pale gray to deep blue.
He toweled off on the way to the bed and shot under the mink duvet as fast as he could.
Just as he was yanking the covers up to his throat, his phone beeped. Another voice mail.
Fucking Grand Central with his phone tonight.
Checking his missed calls, he found the latest was from his mother, and he sat up quickly, even though the vertical shift meant his chest went bare. Lady that she was, she never called, not wanting to “interrupt his work.”
He hit some buttons, put in his password, and got ready to delete the wrong number’s confused message which would come up first.