Page 36 of Mating Theory
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?”
