So, we did, and by the end of the conversation, we’d yet again come up with precisely zero long term or even short term solutions, and my stress was at a twelve. With that in mind, I shouldn’t have been surprised that I hurt all over this morning. Stress was definitely the catalyst. Not that it mattered. I felt like shit, and none of the drugs or treatment I could afford would touch it. End of story.

  Sitting back on the couch with three strategically placed icepacks, I tried to just breathe without aggravating anything. Days like this, I seriously wished the heavier meds were an option. Unfortunately, everyone was cracking down on opioids, and “chronic pain” somehow translated to “just wants drugs.” That meant those of us who didn’t have bullet holes or splintered bones visibly sticking out of our skin were shit out of luck.

  As if I could have afforded opioids anyway.

  Thank God I lived in a state where weed was fully legal and not terribly expensive, especially with a medical card. I tried not to use it often, both because I wanted to be clear-headed when my daughter was around and because I didn’t want my tolerance to get too high, so I saved it for when the pain was really bad.

  For days like today.

  Nothing else was helping, so maybe it was time to cave and smoke. Except that meant getting up, going out of the apartment and walking off the property, since we couldn’t smoke in the complex or the parking lot. Thank you, neighbors who’d insisted on lighting up 24/7 so the whole place smelled like Hempfest. Ugh.

  Swearing quietly, I sat up, which meant a cascade of twinges and spasms throughout my pissed-off body. I could do this. I’d text Rachel to let her know I’d be out of commission to drive or watch Ginny (she and Leo both understood, God bless them, and I very rarely tapped out like this). Then all I had to do was go downstairs, walk across the parking lot, and smoke. I’d be—

  My phone chirped, and I groaned. Oh, what fresh hell was this? Did I need to pick up my daughter from her playdate?

  Oh, please be able to get her, Rachel, please, please, please do me a solid.

  I gingerly picked up my phone off the end table, and my heart jumped into my throat. No, it wasn’t a text from Rachel to pick up our daughter.

  You have received a booking! Please confirm your acceptance.

  I swore into the silence of the empty apartment. Aw, fuck. I’d left myself available on the app, hadn’t I? I’d been so caught up in trying to get comfortable, I’d forgotten to log in and gray out the next couple of days. And Anita did not take kindly to me being available, but then declining clients. That, much like telling Rachel and Leo that I was lighting up and couldn’t take care of Ginny, was a card that, in the interest of staying in my boss’s good graces, I played once in the bluest moon.

  Well, maybe I’d get lucky and it would be someone who just wanted company for dinner. I could do that.

  But when I opened the booking, I was pretty sure that wasn’t what this client wanted.

  Because the client was Scott.

  “Aw, shit.” Yeah, this was someone who wanted sex. Gentle and easy sex, thank God, but I wasn’t even sure I could handle that much right now. In fact, I was almost certain I couldn’t.

  You know what else you can’t handle? Getting evicted.

  I shuddered, which didn’t help all the aches and pains that were making me hesitate to take this booking. Eviction terrified me. We’d been late on rent enough times that our landlord had made noise about kicking us out, so we lived in constant fear of being late again. We couldn’t go anywhere around here without being constantly reminded of what would happen if we lost this apartment. Tents were popping up like mushrooms all over Seattle and surrounding areas, brightly colored signs of the exploding homeless population. People were buckling under the cost of living, and they were winding up on the streets in droves.

  Seeing them always made my stomach twist. Not just because it was heartbreaking—my God, it was—but also because I was convinced we were on a knife’s edge of joining them. Rachel and I had even used last year’s tax refund to invest in some decent, sturdy, and portable camping gear just in case. That fear was very, very real.

  I looked down at my phone and the booking that was waiting for me to accept or decline.

  Fifteen hundred bucks. All I had to do was get through two hours in Scott’s bed.

  Except I couldn’t handle sex tonight. I just couldn’t. Especially since that also meant I couldn’t light up until after I’d come back from the booking. Company policy.

  Fuck. I really couldn’t do this. Not tonight.

  But we had bills due.

  But we had a kid to feed.

  But…

  I closed my eyes and exhaled. Just thinking about trying to perform had muscles knotting up and joints aching with preemptive fatigue. Oh, and Scott was a top. Would a popper even be enough to relax me?

  Maybe not, but if there was one thing that could motivate me, it was those tents scattered along medians, under offramps, and on sidewalks. If my body couldn’t handle two hours of gentle sex, then it sure as hell couldn’t handle sleeping on pavement, and my conscience couldn’t cope with my baby sleeping out there with us. We wouldn’t even be able to send her to live with her grandparents because they were in California, Minnesota, and Florida, and they couldn’t afford a plane ticket any more than we could. We were on our own and broke as fuck.

  I took a deep breath.

  Two hours. Fifteen hundred dollars.

  It would be miserable, but I would do it. Before I left, I’d take a hot bath and swallow as many OTC pain relievers as I knew I could handle. I’d bring along a popper. The whole time, I’d remind myself that this would be worth it when some bills were paid. I’d even put a joint in my pocket so I could smoke as soon as I left. In fact, I’d cough up the forty bucks or whatever to take an Uber so I could smoke at the end of Scott’s driveway before letting someone else drive me home.

  I cautiously rolled my shoulders and twisted a crick out of my back. I could do this. For fifteen hundred bucks—maybe two grand if he tipped me again—I could suck it up, grit my teeth, and get through a couple of hours of sex.

  At least this meant my daughter would have a roof over her head for another month.

  In a haze of pain and with a mantra repeating in my head like a throbbing backbeat—I can get through this, I can get through this—I rang Scott’s doorbell. For the fiftieth time since I’d left my apartment, I checked that there was a popper in one pocket and a joint and lighter in the other. That I hadn’t dropped them in the Uber or just imagined that I’d brought them. All good—they were still securely where I’d put them, and in just a couple of hours, I’d be able to suck some sweet, sweet relief out of that joint.

  First things first, though…

  I steeled myself as Scott’s footsteps came down the hall. The pain was intense, and the car ride hadn’t helped (could the driver have stomped the gas and brake any harder?), but… I can get through this. I can get through this.

  I took a deep breath.

  Then the door opened.

  And for a second, I almost forgot about the pain.

  Scott was as gorgeous as he’d been last time, but he looked exhausted, and not just in a physical way. It was more like he hadn’t slept, or like he’d been mentally shit-whipped, since he didn’t seem sick or sore. Though to be fair, I could sometimes pass for being okay—it was a skill people with chronic pain learned really quick after being accused one too many times of being a malingerer or a melodramatic downer—so maybe he was hurting. He was an athlete, after all.

  He gestured for me to come inside, and—calling on that chronic pain cloaking skill—I stepped into the house without so much as a limp or a hitch in my gait. Scott closed the door behind us, and he didn’t quite look in my eyes. “I hope it’s okay. That I booked you a second time.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I shrugged tightly, almost grunting with surprise at the sudden bolt of pain in my shoulder. Smiling through it, I added, “If you were happy with me last time and want to book me again, that means I did my job.”

  This time he did meet my eyes, and he halfheartedly returned the smile. “You did. Yeah. Definitely.” He paused. “Um. Should we go upstairs?”

  Oh, thank God. He wanted to cut right to the chase. The sooner we started, the sooner I’d satisfy him and then get out of his house with a joint in my mouth. I felt guilty about that, wanting to hurry up and leave, but I was in way too much pain to worry too much about it.

  Without any fanfare, we went upstairs to Scott’s bedroom. There, we both started stripping off our clothes. It was almost comically businesslike and mechanical, but I didn’t care as long as we got this over with. Once we got into the swing of things, I’d muster up the enthusiasm—fake it till you make it and all that—but I could already tell it was going to take some work.

  I had to grit my teeth through the simple motions of taking off my shirt and socks. Ugh, this was going to suck, wasn’t it? Well, good thing I came prepared. Before dropping trou, I put the popper on the nightstand, and Scott’s eyes flicked right to it. With an unwelcome flash of embarrassment, I gestured at it. “Just… um…. Helps me relax. When I’m bottoming.”

  “Oh.” His brow pinched. “You didn’t need it last time, though, did you?” Then his expression changed to one of horror. “Wait, did I hurt you last—”

  “No, no, you didn’t!” I shook my head. “Just, uh… I mean, you know how it is. Everyone needs a little help relaxing sometimes.”

  He studied me, his expression filled with confusion. Hell, maybe he didn’t know how it was. He was, after all, exclusively a top. For all I knew, he’d never bottomed and none of the guys before me had ever needed chemical help.

  “It’s fine,” I insisted, and shucked off my pants and underwear. “Trust me—I was fine last time, and I will be tonight too.”

  He glanced at the popper again, but then he continued undressing.

  As I climbed naked into his bed, I must have moved in some way that infuriated some volatile soft tissue, because a sharp spasm just below my neck made my breath hitch. Of course, I tried to ignore it.

  Tried.

  Settling into bed beside him, I almost grunted with pain. As subtly as possible, I tilted my head forward to stretch out the spasm, masking the motion by leaning down to kiss Scott’s neck. It helped a little, but ignited some fresh fuckery between my shoulders.

  Goddammit. It’s going to be one of those nights, isn’t it?

  Well, whatever. I’d push through like I had in the past.

  It’s just two hours, not eight hours behind a desk or a counter.

  “Hey. Look at me.” When I did, Scott’s brow furrowed. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.” I laughed nervously. “I’m fine.”

  He didn’t look at all convinced, and he curved a hand over my forearm. “I’m a professional athlete. I work with other professional athletes, including some who are retired from active play.” He inclined his head. “You don’t think I can tell when someone’s trying to pretend they’re not in pain?”

  I broke eye contact. This was not a conversation I needed to have with a client. And I barely knew Scott—not like I knew some of the semi-regulars I’d had over time—so I had no idea how he’d handle it. Especially given his reputation among the Gentlemen. He’d been good to me last time, but I didn’t want to push my luck with him.

  “I’m fine,” I whispered. “Yes, I have some old injuries, but I know my limits.” I smiled, hoping like hell my eyes backed me up. “I can handle this.”

  Scott didn’t look convinced. “One of my teammates handled playing hockey on a stress fracture. Just because you can tolerate it doesn’t mean it’s fun for you.”

  “Well, neither is eviction, so…” I winced. That was professional. I hadn’t even meant to let it slip, but I couldn’t take it back now. Sighing, I let my aching shoulders sink. “I’m sorry. But I… Honestly, I’m fine. Yeah, a few things hurt, but I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t handle it.”

  His brow furrowed. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m fine.” With a grin that I prayed was convincing, I added, “Lie back so I can go down on you.”

  He still seemed dubious, but he nodded and relaxed back against the pillows.

  I kissed his shoulder, then continued downward, hoping he was too distracted by my lips on his skin to notice the way I was struggling to fucking breathe. This position was awful—holding myself up on my arms sent the pain between my shoulders from bright red to blinding. I didn’t know what that muscle was or what the hell I’d done to piss it off, but it wasn’t going to let me forget that it was in a mood tonight.

  As I trailed soft, lingering kisses down Scott’s carved abs, I tried shifting onto my right arm, which ended up making it worse, on the cusp of making my eyes water.

  I could do it. I’d been in this much pain and worse with clients, and I’d made it through.

  Fifteen hundred bucks, I reminded myself. Next month’s rent.

  Just blow him for a few minutes. Get him good and turned on. Use the popper so I could bottom. Get him off. Then leave and light up that joint while Emerald City processed my payment.

  Fifteen hundred bucks.

  I kissed along his hipbone even as fresh pain threatened to split my spine in two.

  Next month’s rent.

  I inched toward his fully hard cock. My neck was killing me too, but at least I’d be sleeping in my bed tonight, not in a sleeping bag under an overpass.

  Fifteen hundred—

  “Hunter.”

  I looked up at Scott, heart pounding from pain and now worry that he saw through the façade.

  “Come here,” he said softly.

  Aw, fuck.

  The client was always right, though, so I carefully pushed myself up, and when he patted the pillow beside him, I eased down onto it. Lying on my side hurt too much, so I turned onto my back, and that… That was better. Not great, but better.

  He lay on his side, his expression full of concern. “You’re in a lot of pain, aren’t you?”

  I closed my eyes as embarrassment heated my face and resignation knotted in my stomach. What was the use trying to hide it? I could tolerate some seriously hardcore pain, but I had my limits.

  Though it killed me to admit it—especially since my family needed the money I’d come here to make—I’d reached that limit tonight. I’d passed that limit.

  “I’m sorry.” My voice was thick, and it was a struggle not to cry from the pain, the frustration, and the humiliation. “I really thought I could just…” Was there even any point in explaining it? Because it was quite clear that I couldn’t just power through enough to earn my pay. And goddamn, now he wasn’t under any obligation to pay me. Definitely not in full, and sure as shit not with a tip. I pleaded with my body to find a second wind, if only out of necessity because my family needed that money.

  Scott shifted beside me, and his hand was warm on my arm. “I don’t want you to push through if it hurts this much.”

  I avoided his gaze. The shame, embarrassment, and defeat were unbearable enough without actually seeing the pity in his eyes.

  “Do you have anything you can take?” he asked.

  “Not while I’m working, no.”

  “That wasn’t my question.”

  I chanced a look at him, and his expression was soft and full of sincerity.

  “If you’ve got something that can help,” he said, “then take it. Don’t just try to grit through it.”

  I so wanted to tell him that I could handle it. God knew I needed to because my bills weren’t going to pay themselves. Reality was what it was, though. The mind was willing and the body was weak, and all that bullshit.

  Voice full of resignation, I said, “I have some weed.” I deflated, wiping a hand over my face. “I was going to smoke it after I left, because I knew I’d need it.”

  “You have it with you?”

  I cringed. “I, um…” Oh, wouldn’t Anita love that—an email from a client that I’d brought marijuana into his home. It may have been legal, but some people still regarded it the way they did heroin or crack, and I didn’t know Scott well enough to even guess how he’d feel about it. Especially since he was probably subject to some serious consequences with the hockey league if someone found out there was even pot in his house, state laws be damned. If I smoked here tonight, I’d feel a lot better, but I’d also quite possibly be jeopardizing both of our jobs.

  To my surprise, he motioned toward the bedroom door. “Some of my friends smoke in the backyard. There’s ashtrays on the patio and everything.”

  I chewed my lip. Oh, man. The thought of lighting up right now had me salivating. With as much as everything hurt, it was relief I wasn’t going to find anywhere else. “Are you sure? Because once I smoke, I’m, uh… I’m done for the night. Company policy.”

  “It’s okay,” he said softly. “We can pick up where we left off another night. But you’re not going to be in pain like this on my watch if I can help it. If smoking will help, then…” He gestured at the door again.

  I considered it, but what was there to debate? I wasn’t going to be able to finish with him. That was a given. Even if Emerald City didn’t absolutely forbid us to get physical with clients when we were intoxicated, I was far enough down the pain rabbit hole tonight that the weed was only going to take the edge off. Like it or not, I was in no condition to screw.

  So as long as I wasn’t going to get paid, I might as well take him up on the offer to smoke now instead of waiting until I went to meet my Uber.

  “Okay,” I whispered. “I guess we should get dressed.”

  Chapter 7

  Scott

  After visiting my family, I’d desperately needed to fall into bed with a man and remind myself that there was no shame in wanting him. As Hunter walked down the stairs ahead of me, though, his pain was excruciatingly obvious. Had he been hiding it really well when he’d first arrived? Or had I been so caught up in my own bullshit that I hadn’t noticed?