Orange

Eighteen

By Monday, I still felt pretty rough. I hadn't been in that much physical pain since my first week at the warehouse, in which I ended up getting back-to-back buyers with too much excitement (it wasn't often we got new flesh there, so I wasn't really surprised that I was being selected so suddenly). I got up like normal. I made my oatmeal. Orion was waiting for me when I finished my shower. Just as I headed towards the door, however, he stopped me.

"Hey," he muttered. "I was thinking. About the whole getting a job thing?"

"Uh huh..." I looked behind me. His expression was unreadable, and he sat with his arms crossed around his chest.

"Well... What if... I went to work at the warehouse?"

Silence. A piercingly loud silence slammed onto our shoulders. I physically couldn't move; the shock was too much. Orion. At the warehouse. As a comfort boy?!

"No," I shook my head, regaining my composure. "Keep thinking."

"You say it pays well. And since I'm, well, a Rutherford, I'll probably sell for a higher price. We'll make good money, I'm sure of it—"

"Not a good idea."

"Why not? It's a great idea."

I sighed, shaking my head.

"Orion, I don't have time to argue with you right now. We'll talk more about this later, alright?"

He slumped a bit. At least he seemed to relax as he offered me a weak smile.

"...Okay."

I climbed onto the bus, sliding in my bus pass and slipping into the seats. This time, I happened to sit next to a woman who kept looking at me. She would glance at my legs, which were still covered in traces of love-marks, and then back up to my face with a smirk.

"You're a lucky one," she nudged my shoulder. "Young love is so beautiful to me."

I sighed, deciding to get this conversation over with.

"Oh, no, I'm actually a Blank."

She scowled, scrunching up her nose at me before turning away.

"Oh."

I'm sure she knew immediately what I did for a living. It didn't matter. I was used to this, after all.

Fourteen minutes (and not a second more) later, I reached the warehouse. I walked in through the side door, pressing in my password to allow me entry. My core cried at the thought of working, but I ignored it. I was about halfway to my booth when I accidentally bumped into Sandra. She looked down at me, seemingly shocked to see me in such a state. It wasn't often that I was, well, looking the way I did. I had much older, gentler and more mature clientele.

"Whoa," she looked me up and down. What was with that expression on her face? Was it genuine worry? I frowned at that. No. More like pity. "Rough week?"

"It's nothing," I shook my head. I tried to walk past her, but she gently grabbed my forearm. "Hey, I said it's nothing. Don't worry about it."

"You're limping. That's not good."

"What do you care?"

Whoops. Slipped out. Sandra paused for a moment, as if thinking of the question herself.