For three-hundred dollars they can do what they want. They just can't leave any marks. If they want to go all the way, they must wear a condom. There are rules. I'm not a fucking savage.
Some of them just want to watch while they sleep. Others just want a feel. But it's three-hundred dollars, regardless.
Where we are is another hospital in another state, in a forgotten ward, with the smell that stings your nostrils and the beep and whirr of machines that monitor these people. I'm standing with one of my regulars who's name I don't know. That's one of the rules. He's a big black guy with hands the size of my face.
'The usual?' I ask.
He nods and hands me the money. I hold out the Tupperware box and he picks out a condom. Then he heads down the corridor, disappearing into room four. Her name is, Nadine Hampton. Pretty little thing. She's a big earner. Only seventeen.
'Do you ever feel guilty about this?'
It's Santos, walking towards me counting some fresh dough. He's wearing green scrubs and a purple bandana. His arms are a network of rebellious tattoos.
'It's just business, kid,' I tell him. 'You know that.'
'Sure do,' he says with a grin.
'Much you make?'
'Tonight? Six-hundred,' he says. 'That trucker guy was in again. Just plays with that old woman's tits. Then that creepy dude, the one with the leather jacket? Stands there naked while that kid sleeps. Freaks, man.'
'Pays though, right?' I say, pocketing my cash. 'My shift's over. Make sure you clean her up when he comes out. Do it before Hal comes in, got it?'
'Sure thing, boss,' Santos says, saluting me.
I leave. The hospital's silent. My feet squeak on the floor when I walk. I say goodbye to the girls on reception then step out into the blistering cold. My piece of shit car is covered in snow, and it takes me a half hour to clear it. The heating's busted, so I'm a shivering wreck trying to drive home.
The snow's relentless. My wipers try valiantly to repel this frozen onslaught, but my car is overrun, and I go skidding off the road.
That steady beep, the sound of my own heart, it's the first thing I hear. My head hurts. My arms feel heavy. My mouth is a child's sandbox. I crack open my eyes. Blinding light. The sting of disinfectant. The sheets are starchy and smell clean. A groan escapes between my swollen lips.
'Dude.'
'Santos?' I croak.
'Right here, buddy,' he says.
'What the fuck?'
'You were in an accident, bro,' Santos says. 'Been out for a couple days, man.'
Those last few words send a chill down my spine. I feel the mattress compress. His hot breath in my ear, moist and the smell of cherry cigars.
'No hard feelings, dude,' he says. 'I mean, it's just business, right?'
