Mating Theory

by Warren, Skye

  The list of my shortcomings goes on for some time, but I take it with the certainty that I’m back where I belong. Mrs. Ness is one of the many women my father loved and left. I suppose it’s awkward, me hiring her. There are a lot of awkward moments in life when your father’s fucked half the female population. In Mrs. Ness’s case, her husband came back from his military tour, found out about the affair, and kicked her out of the house. It was a scandal when I was in middle school, considering she was the principal.

  I probably shouldn’t say anything.

  That’s what I tell myself while she runs through the list of things I should eat and drink, vitamins she’s heard are good, essential oils that would help.

  “Mrs. Ness.”

  “Your coffee! How could I forget. I assume you want it the same way—”

  “In a moment. I want to ask you something, but I might be overstepping. In fact, I’m definitely overstepping. You can tell me to mind my own business.”

  She raises her eyebrow in a way that only principals can do. She’s never lost the ability, even though she was fired shortly after the affair came out. Things like that were frowned upon twenty years ago. A woman’s personal life could keep her from a good job. “Go on.”

  “With my father. Did you love him?”

  “Oh God no. What made you think that? He was such fun though.”

  A sharp laugh escapes me. “I never saw that side of him.”

  “No, I suppose you didn’t.” She gives me a hard look. “I knew he was rough on you. Maybe I didn’t realize how rough. Or maybe I didn’t want to know, because I couldn’t have been with him, then.”

  “I’m not looking for sympathy.”

  She scoffs. “Of course not. Sutton Mayfair wouldn’t ever want sympathy. You don’t have a lot in common with your father, but you came by that pride honest.”

  “This is why I keep you on payroll, Mrs. Ness. You flatter me.”

  “You keep me around as penance. Don’t think I don’t know. I don’t mind, though. Someone has to remind you to eat. Now what made you ask about your father after all this time?”

  “I suppose I just wondered… if any of it was real.”

  “Then you’re asking the wrong question. Was it real? Of course it was. I was married to a man who let his fists do the talking, but I got to experience a passionate affair. That’s real.”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “For bringing it up. For stirring up old memories.”

  “Your father was good to me. Real good. He saved the bad for you, I think.”

  My stomach clenches, remembering the beatings and the hunger. The certainty that I would die before I got old enough to leave. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

  “Now you swallow your pride and check your email.”

  A bark of laughter. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The call comes an hour later from Blue. His security company runs, among other things, private investigations. I didn’t want to work with my assigned guy, no matter how skilled he is. This is personal, so I asked Blue to look into it.

  “I have the information you asked for.”

  I close the door of my office. “Go ahead.”

  “Ashleigh Barnes, reported missing six months ago by her father, Jebediah Barnes. Straight A student before that, family and friends insist that she’d never run away.”

  Straight A student. My stomach clenches. “Age.”

  “Seventeen.”

  My heart pounds in my ears, my chest. I can feel it pounding in my fucking eyes. Seventeen. Seventeen? I want to throw my fist into the wall. Or break down on my office floor and cry. I have to do something with this knowledge. Blue’s voice comes through the phone, sounding a million miles away. He’s saying something about the age of consent being sixteen and not being on trial for statutory charges, because he’s a smart guy—he knows why I’m asking. Jesus. I’m not worried about going to jail. Someone should put me there. Throw away the key. I don’t care what the law says. She was too young for me in every way.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ashleigh

  Ky’s not okay.

  His breathing is shallow. We’ve still got the money from Sutton, but I don’t know if I can even get him into the urgent care. He can’t walk or even move. He’s barely conscious. I can go down to the gas station and call an ambulance, but they’re not going to take the cash in my pocket. They want a credit card.

  He moans and strains his head back. Once they calm him down they’ll probably charge him for using. And maybe throw in a solicitation charge.

  “Hush,” I whisper, pressing the cool compress to his forehead. I wish I knew what the problem was. Is it the crack? He should have come down by now. I’m not sure what kind of side effects can happen. I’ve seen him come back high before; it’s never been like this.

  “Ash,” he mumbles. “Ash. Ash.”

  I clench his hand. “I’m right here. Can’t you see me?”

  He looks right through me. “I’m dying, Ashleigh.”

  “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that. You kept me alive. You know that. You found me in that alley, and I was ready to give up, and you kept me alive. Now I’m returning the favor.”

  “Can’t—”

  “You can. Now I’m going to get more ice. You wait here and rest.”

  When I’m around the corner, when he can’t see me, I stop and put my fists to my eyes. I can’t afford to cry right now. I have to figure out what to do for Ky. More ice isn’t going to help.

  There’s a doctor in the west wide. I’ve heard about him. He takes cash or trade, whatever you can afford. I have no idea how to find him, but I’ll start at the club. Maybe the bouncer will trade the information for looking at my tits again. The thought sickens me, but I’ll do anything.

  I clamber over the sill of a broken window and climb down the fire escape. When I reach the bottom rung I let my body hang loose. And let go. I fall to the ground.

  “Hello, Ashleigh.”

  With a shriek of surprise I whirl. It’s Sutton. Not the Sutton I recognize from the rumpled bed, his jaw unshaven, his hair a mess of curls. This Sutton is wearing a suit. He looks buttoned-up and proper, even more so than the night of the bachelor party.

  “You’re seventeen,” he says.

  I stare at him, shocked out of my worry for a full second. “How old did you think I am?”

  “Eighteen. At least.”

  A strange laugh fills the air. It’s mine. “I turn eighteen in a few months. Do you want me to look you up then? Because I don’t have time to do that right now.”

  “Do you think I came here to have sex with you?”

  “Why else would you find me?” I brush past him. “It doesn’t matter what you want right now. I have to do something—I have to—It doesn’t matter. I can’t talk right now.”

  He takes my arm. “Hey.” And then gentler. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Ky. He’s not—” My voice breaks. “He went to a club last night and smoked some bad shit. And it’s my fault, because he was worried about me. Now he’s not coming down, and I don’t know what to do. He’s burning up, and he’s not even fully there.”

  “Let me help you, Ashleigh. Let me see him.”

  I stare at him, uncomprehending. Why would he want to help me? Fuck me. Use me. Pay me. That’s the relationship we have. Except he asked permission to see Ky. He didn’t demand or assume he’d be allowed. He’s treating this burnt sugar factory like my actual house.

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  As soon as I take him upstairs, Sutton swears under his breath. He kneels by Ky’s side and touches his forehead gently. Ky’s still wearing his rentboy clothes, a long hoodie over a mesh tank top, and jeans that dip low. It’s a sharp contrast to Sutton’s buttoned up appearance, and it makes Ky look incredibly young. He’s so knowledgeable, so world-weary, that it was easy to forget he’s younger than me. He should be worrying about a math final or who he’s going to ask to homecoming—not sauntering over to
rolled-down windows.

  “How long has he been like this?”

  “I don’t know.” It feels like an eternity but there aren’t clocks in the factory. Not working ones, anyway. I read the time same way a farmer does—by the shades of the sky. “I found him at the club when I got back. At first he seemed like he was flying, you know? Like so high. I got him back here, and tried to sleep it off, but then he started shaking and shivering.”

  “He needs to be in a hospital. I’m thinking what he got was contaminated, but it could be anything. It’s not like there’s an FDA for crack cocaine.”

  My words come out at a whisper. “I’m surprised you know what it was.”

  “It comes through the country, mostly. People want to blame Colombia or Mexico, but it’s Americans who import it and sell it on the streets.”

  “There’s a doctor on the west side.” I pull the money I took from his wallet out from under my bed. “They say he takes cash or trade. I have to find him—”

  “Anders Sorenson. I know him.”

  “Oh thank God. Where can I find him?”

  He gives me a sharp look. “You’re not alone anymore, Ashleigh.”

  I swallow hard, not even sure what that would look like. “What does that mean?”

  “It means we’ll take him to the Den. They’ll have a bed we can use while we wait for Anders. God knows this heat isn’t doing him any favors. It means you can put that money away, because you won’t need it, not for this.”

  “So I’m supposed to rely on you? Don’t pretend you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart. This is going to cost me something. I’d rather know up-front.”

  The belligerence of my words only seems to soften him. “I deserve that, because I was your customer first. When I should have protected you, should have helped you. I can’t make up for that. God knows, I’ll never be able to. But I’m not your customer anymore. I’m your friend.”

  I swallow hard. It would sound strange and pathetic to say that I want him to be more than friends. I want him to help me with Ky, and then I want him to take me back to his bed, where everything feels right. “My friend?”

  “I can be a friend.”

  I’ve seen what he sacrificed for Christopher and Harper—his own happiness. He can be more than a good friend. He can be the very best friend someone could want.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ashleigh

  Anders Sorenson is a man with an exceptionally stern expression, with pale hair, high cheekbones, and wintry, pale blue eyes. He sets up a makeshift triage room in the second floor of the Den that could rival any actual hospital room. In short order, without judgment, Ky is hooked up to an IV. The diagnosis includes big words such as tachycardia, hypertension, and coronary vasospasm.

  “To put it in laymen’s terms,” he says to me. “Crack cocaine significantly increases the rate of oxygen usage in the body. There’s a possibility here of a seizure, a coronary event. Sudden death becomes more likely the higher the hyperthermia.”

  Sutton makes a growling sound. “Those aren’t laymen’s terms.”

  “He’s having a very bad trip,” Anders says.

  “What can we do for him?” I’m sitting by his side, holding his hand, which feels clammy and burning hot. His eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t seem aware of where he is.

  “Exactly what you’re doing right now. Hold his hand, talk to him. Try to keep him calm. I’ll be watching him closely, including hooking him up to an EKG so I can monitor it.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling feverish myself.

  “She needs to rest,” Sutton says, his voice curt.

  Anders gives me an impersonal, assessing look. “You’ve stayed up with him all night? It won’t do him any good to burn yourself out. I can show you to another room.”

  “I’m not leaving his side.” The thought of him waking up in a strange place is enough to make me itchy. Ky acts like nothing bothers him, but I know that would be terrifying.

  A nod. “Then you can sleep here in a chair. Or climb into bed with him. It won’t hurt him any. Might even calm him. But if he wakes up and acts aggressive, you back away immediately.”

  “He wouldn’t hurt me,” I say immediately.

  “People do crazy things while under the influence,” Anders says, sounding faintly apologetic. “I don’t think he’ll want to hurt you, but he might not be able to stop himself.”

  He leaves the room, and I’m left with only the harsh breathing of Ky and the intense presence of Sutton behind me. I don’t think he’ll want to hurt you, but he might not be able to stop himself. I think it’s more about Sutton, that statement.

  * * *

  Ashleigh

  I keep vigil over Ky while he sleeps, feeling sick that I let him worry for me. We’re supposed to stick together. He saved me. Why couldn’t I protect him?

  “It’s not your fault, you know,” comes a voice from behind me. A woman walks in wearing jeans and a Henley, her exuberant blonde curls a contradiction to her casual clothes.

  “Penny,” she says by way of introduction. “My mom named me Penelope from the Odyssey which I’ve always thought was a weighty namesake for a girl from the trailer park.”

  “Ashleigh,” I say.

  “Ash-leigh. That feels like a weighty name, too. A mom who had hopes for her child.”

  You can be anything. She never thought I’d be a prostitute. “She’d be so disappointed.”

  “Maybe.” Penny comes to sit down on the other side of Ky. “Or maybe she’d be proud of you for surviving. It’s a lot easier to give up when things get that hard.”

  “Or maybe she’d rather I died than become this.”

  “No. Never. No mother would want her child to die. Because that’s the end. This way, there’s more. It doesn’t always feel like it, but there’s more.”

  Ky seems so fragile on the bed. “More for him.”

  “So much more. A lifetime of hope and yearning and loving.”

  I glance at her. “I know who you are. Penny Scott. You own this place.”

  “With my husband, yes. The Den is our safe space. You’ll find your own.”

  Something about the implication in her voice makes me look at her sharply. “It won’t be with Sutton. We aren’t… We aren’t like that.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m serious. He pays me for…” Tears spill over my cheeks. “He pays me for sex.”

  She doesn’t look shocked. “He’s downstairs right now. Been there for a few hours now. How much is he paying you for this time?”

  I turn away. He’s only downstairs out of guilt right now. He only found me tonight out of guilt. You’re seventeen. How old did you think I am? Eighteen. At least. “You don’t understand.”

  Her footfalls cross the carpet. She places a hand on the crown of my head, soft and absolving. “No, I don’t understand. I don’t think many women do, but they’ll judge you anyway, won’t they? They’ll think they know better, because it’s easier than acknowledging the truth—that we’re all vulnerable, that we’re all one second away from a life of desperation. It isn’t something you brought on yourself. It’s something you’re surviving, and you’re doing it with more grace and more strength than those people could dream about.”

  Tears are falling freely now. “I don’t know what to do about Ky. He’s so young and so reckless. Sometimes I think he wants to die.”

  “If that’s what he wants, you can’t stop him.”

  “Can’t I?” I turn pleading eyes to her, this woman who’s a stranger, this person who’s shown me more compassion than I could have imagined.

  “No,” she offers gently, “But you can sit with him. That’s what you’re doing, and it’s a beautiful thing. Would you like to take a break? You can have something to eat? I’ll wait with him.”

  “No, thank you,” I say on a damp sigh.

  Her expression is soft. “I’ll have a tray sent up, then.”

  She’s been gone a few minutes wh
en Ky stirs on the bed. I’m at his side, offering a drink of water to his parched lips before he can speak. “What did I do?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

  “You didn’t do anything,” I say, unable to stem the flow of tears. It’s like a faucet that’s been turned on—and the handle broke off. There’s no way to make them stop now. “It was me. I was gone, and you were worried about me.”

  Even in this state the concern comes into his dark eyes. “Where were you?”

  “There’s this guy.”

  “Only sad stories start like that.”

  My heart squeezes. “I know.”

  “Don’t get attached, Ash. You know that.”

  “I messed up,” I whisper.

  His eyelids droop heavy, and I know he’s about to sleep again. I hold his hand so he’ll know he’s not alone. Even if he can’t hear me, he’ll know that much. “Not your fault,” he mumbles, and I don’t know whether he’s talking about his bad trip or getting attached to Sutton. Maybe both.

  * * *

  Sutton

  I’m nursing the same glass of bourbon. It doesn’t taste like anything. Hugo’s here with me. If I had to guess, Damon Scott called him. He loves to pull our strings like we’re puppets. He has a glass of water, because as soon as he’s done, he has to drive home to his wife and baby.

  “Get the hell out of here,” I say, clenching my hands around the glass.

  “There’s no need to get hostile, mon ami. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Sometimes Hugo really is a bastard. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “Oui. Bon. I’m not going to nurse you.”

  I swear he gets more French the more he wants to annoy me. “I’m not having some kind of weird rebound relationship because Harper and Christopher got married. I just got to know her, and I care about her as a friend, so I’m making sure she’s okay.”

  There. That all sounded very reasonable.

  Too bad it’s a bunch of shit.

  Hugo gives a French sigh and takes a sip of water.

  The Den is pretty empty. It’s a Tuesday night, but even so this is sparse. It’s more than a bar. It’s the playground of the rich and licentious. It’s also a modern-day salon for free thinkers. “Where the hell is everyone?”