Down and Out(45)

I pick at my dinner while wondering how much to tell her. Then I realize how hypocritical that is. I can’t filter the bad shit out and expect her to be completely honest with me. Truth is a two-way street.
Sighing, I say, “I need to fight like I need to breathe, Savannah. It’s more than making money to me. Even after ten years, I’ve still got so much ugliness inside me, it’s like . . . this is my way of detoxing.”
She snorts. “My way of detoxing never seems to work. I always end up feeling dirtier than before.”
My eyes narrow on her. “Do I want to know what way that is?”
“Probably not,” she mumbles, looking down at her plate.
I could take a wild guess, and I’d bet my left nut it’d be right. “Tell me anyway.”
When she sees my expression, she sighs in resignation. “I’ve never had sex for the right reason. It’s either for power or—” she shakes her head, laughing bitterly “—to make me feel better, which sounds ridiculous, I know. . . But it feels nice to be wanted and appreciated, even if it’s only for five minutes.” She looks away, her voice coming out soft. “It never lasts, though. As soon as it’s over, I feel worse than before.”
Jesus Christ.
I set my fork down as my appetite disappears. “Are you doing that with me?”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to try a little harder, Savannah. I don’t want to be some f*ckin’ Band-Aid for you.”
Her eyes flick up to mine as her whole face hardens. “You want to know why I left my last job after only three days? It’s because I didn’t want to be that girl anymore. I was a cocktail waitress over at the strip club on Westmoreland. They didn’t care about my work history, or that I only have a GED. All they cared about was my tight ass and my tits. When I saw how much the girls were making from . . . extracurricular activities—”
“Jesus, Savannah. . .” I scrub my hands over my face, feeling sick.
It’s no secret that most strippers hook on the side, often earning more than they make shaking their asses on stage. I just didn’t think Savannah would be the type to have a price.
“I didn’t, okay? But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted.” She shakes her head, looking off to the side. “I could’ve made more in ten minutes lying on my back than I would’ve made in one night waitressing those tables and having drunk *s grab my ass and call me ‘sweet thing.’” Her eyes meet mine. “I knew I had to get out of there before I did something there was no coming back from. So I quit. Swore off sex. That was two months ago, and I was walking the straight and narrow just fine until I walked into your gym and met you.
“You’re the first person I want just because, and that scares the hell out of me.” She fiddles with the cap of her bottled water, tapping it on the table. “Declan, if we do this—and that’s a big, fat ‘if’—then it’s purely sexual. I don’t do relationships.”
No-strings-attached sex is my specialty, but that’s with girls I don’t know or care about. Savannah’s different. I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my strings detached with her. I’ll probably wind up so tangled that she’ll eventually have to cut me loose.
The thought should scare me off, but it doesn’t. I’d rather have the scraps she’s willing to give me than nothing at all.
Hanging my head, I run my fingers through my hair.
Am I strong enough to take on her emotional baggage? I don’t know. The more important question is: do I want to find out?
I lift my head, meeting those gray eyes framed by long, sooty lashes. They’re the prettiest damn eyes I’ve ever seen, and the way she looks at me sometimes . . . man, I feel ten feet tall.
A guy could really get used to being looked at like that.
Something my pops once told me springs into my head. I’d always given him shit for being wrapped around my nana’s tiny finger, and when I did, it was always returned with a swift slap upside the back of my head—except for once.
It was right after she’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and I didn’t know if it was just out of habit, or if I was really that dumb, but I made some crack about my pops being whipped for watching that insipid celebrity dance show with my nana. I felt like an insensitive prick soon as the words left my mouth, and I flinched, waiting for the slap, but it never came.
Instead, my nana simply got up from her spot on the couch, asked, “Who wants some ice cream?” as she patted my shoulder, then bent down and kissed the top of Pops’ gray head from his spot on the barcalounger. His hand went up to his shoulder, covering her frail, aged hand as his eyes closed, like he was absorbing the memory.
When she was in the kitchen, he said, “Sit down, son.”
I took the spot closest to him on the couch, prepared to have him rip me a new one, when he took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead. He looked at me and said, “Someday, you’ll get it. Someday, you’ll meet a girl and you’ll understand why I do the shit that I do for that woman in there.” He hitched his thumb toward the kitchen, and I glanced over, watching Nana’s too-thin frame as she went about scooping ice cream into three bowls.
Shaking my head, I looked back at Pops. “I kinda doubt that.”
He put his glasses back on and sighed. “You will. You’re a good boy when you pull your head outta your ass long enough.”
I laughed and bit my lip, thinking I was screwed then, ’cause it seemed to be permanently lodged up there. “And how will I know when I’ve met this magical lady, who’ll make me want to turn in my balls and stop being a man? ’Cause I gotta be honest with you, I don’t see that happening.”