He was a rough lover. At least he tipped well.
It's not as bad as it sounds, really. I can't find work anywhere, so how else am I supposed to provide for my family? It's not exactly legal, but neither is hunting, so I guess it's just one more thing to add to the list. I don't like what I do, but there's no other way. To be perfectly blunt here, I'm a prostitute. But not the grungy, cheap, go-go dancer kind of prostitute I know about from the Capitol. I might not have enhanced breasts, or a perfectly thin and tanned body, or bottle-blonde hair, or gaudy makeup and clothes, but men know what they like. And that, plain and simple, is sex.
It pays pretty well, most days, unless they think I didn't do so well, in which case they pay the bare minimum with no tip. That alone is still a good salary, but with my mother depressed and unemployed, it's difficult to get by.
That's why I've learned to do exactly what the man of the night likes and wants, do everything I'm told, and act sexy and alluring. I've gotten pretty good at acting, since it means the customer believes and enjoys the act enough to give a good tip. The man of last night, whose house I'm sneaking out of right now, pushed and smacked me, pulled my hair, taunted me. He licked and sucked on my feet and I pretended to be turned on, but it was the single most disgusting thing I have ever watched a man do. And I've done a lot of disgusting things. How many faked orgasms last night? Three?
I wouldn't say I'm disgusted with myself for everything I've done, because I know the reason I'm doing it is to provide for my sister and mother. Every once in awhile I think about it and hate myself for what I've done, but I always end up falling into another strange man's bed, throbbing with both physical and emotional pain.
After pulling on my jeans and button down shirt, I quietly creep down the stairs with a wad of cash zipped safely away in the pocket of my coat. It's dark, but I don't really mind it, because it conceals my shame from the world. My arms slide through the sleeves of the hunting jacket and I try to burrow my face into the collar to ward off the biting chill of winter.
In the distance, metal crashes on metal and I am momentarily frightened, stopping in my tracks. Coal dust is invisible in this light, or lack thereof, but I know it billows up around my ankles. My hearts beats loudly in my chest, my mind whirring through the possibilities. Wild dog. Raccoons. Coyotes. Axe murderer. Rapist. I chuckle inside at my final speculation, wondering why I'm so worried about that. It wouldn't really be much different from what I do every night. At least I get paid when I consent.
Instead of wild night creatures or criminals, a man about my age, 25, shuffles around to the front of the building, dusting his hands off on his navy slacks. Even in the darkness, I can see his bright blonde, shimmering hair and beautiful, toned muscles. He's a little short, but still taller than me, I observe. I can't see his face but I imagine that he's handsome. That he comes towards me and sweeps me off my feet, kissing me gently and making promises of marriage and a family and life-changing romance. I sigh and stare at my feet, smacked in the face by reality. Because the fact is, no decent man would marry a whore like me.
The bell tower in the center of town sounds loudly in the distance behind me, startling him. Dong. Dong. 2 am. I'm walking, about to round the corner, when he whips around to check out the clock. He sees me and recognition crosses his face, even though I don't think I've ever seen this man before in my life. He looks confused all of a sudden, but still curious. Probably because it's 2 am and I'm a young woman walking down the street all alone. He holds up his hand in a wave, so I glance away, continue down the street, and leave him behind.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
The light leaking in through the curtains in the morning is unforgiving. "8 am already?" I grumble at the window. There's no alarm, but I can still tell. My body has its own sort of clock inside of it that tells me when it's time to wake up after falling asleep in a customer's bed, when to get up for hunting, when to go home after hunting, and when to go to bed.
The clock in the other room confirms that it's about 8 am – 7:56, actually – so I give a sleeping Prim a kiss on the forehead and head for the woods. I pray that it's not electrified like it was a couple weeks ago, but the telltale buzzing staunches my hope. I sigh audibly and head back to the homestead.
The computer I bought years ago for school zooms to life when I click a few buttons, the huge white machine whirring loudly. Prim's already up, milking Lady in the barn. I don't really care about waking my mom up. Even if they knew what I do to get money, I don't think my mom would care. Maybe Prim has guessed it already; she may be only 16, and clueless about these kinds of things, but she's smart and intuitive. Mom just doesn't care about what I do at all.
My inbox has exploded with emails, the account I made on a prostitution website serving me well. I delete all 43 emails from Darius. I am never working for him again. Ever.
There are four leftover besides those ones, and I click on the most recent request. It's a formal email, with much better manners – and grammar – than most of the emails I usually receive, so I decide to confirm our rendezvous tonight. This will be the fifth night in a row this week. I puff out some air and gaze out the window. This is life. I clear the rest of the emails, but don't bother to respond to the unlucky three this guy beat out for a night with a whore. My aching and sore body crawls back into bed to get more sleep before tonight. Every muscle in my back is tense and knotted, and I hope resting will alleviate some pain.
6 pm rolls around quicker than I expected it to, so I make up an excuse again for Prim, and promise to be back in the morning before she wakes up. I dress up a little bit this time, with a tight skirt, flowing blouse, and heels, knowing full well that there is no way any man can resist a mini skirt when you have legs like mine. The trek to his house isn't long, because I take a quicker back route. I knock loudly on the back door as per his request, and the man standing in front of me is much more attractive than I imagined, with golden hair, blue eyes, and very built arms. He's a little short, but not shorter than me, and wearing khaki pants with a button-down and tie. His jaw line angles perfectly around his face, and he beams at me, baring flawless, pearly teeth. This is the man I saw at 2 am this morning. This is Peeta Mellark.
"Hello, Katniss," he says in a soft voice that reminds me of honey. I hide my shock and flash a sexy smile. "Mr. Mellark," I murmur in an attempt to seem mysterious. He chuckles a little. "When I hear that I look over my shoulder for my father. It's Peeta. Just Peeta," he says casually as he steps aside, holding the heavy mahogany door open. I brush past him when I walk in, tracing a finger across his lower abdomen where the waistband of his boxers is. In response, he stumbles back and looks away with a blush. He almost slams the door behind him, purely by accident. I take it that this is his nerves acting up, so I twirl around and gaze sensually and suggestively at him, pushing him up against the door and placing my hands on his chest. I slide them up towards his neck and loosen his tie while asking, "So what do you want to do now?"
This doesn't make sense. He's shying away, trying to pry me off of his body, and looking in the opposite direction. Finally he takes my wrists gently and forces me to back up by pushing his body into mine. He places my arms by my sides and backs away, the whole time averting his gaze from me. Several ums and uhs escape his mouth before he manages, "I thought we'd go on a date first."
Is he stupid? Or has he just never hired a prostitute before?
"What?" I ask, not even trying to hide my surprise, and put my hands on my hips.
"I want to take you out," he offers, still not meeting my gaze. Instead, his eyes are trained on the ground.
"You want to take me out. On a date," I repeat, and he nods sheepishly, finally making eye contact with me. "Look, that's sweet, but I charge by the hour," I start to explain before he cuts me off.
"Oh, of course. Here," he mumbles, digging into his pocket to reveal a large sum of money. He places it in my hands, and opens the door again. "Shall we?"
I search his face, still surprised at this. "You're not kidding," I enunciate. When he shakes his head, I blink in confusion a few times, sigh, and finally say, "Okay."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
He drives us there. In his car. I've never been in a car before. It's fascinating. He presses the pedal and we just go. In his car. I reach my hand over to stroke him through his jeans, but he extracts my hand and pulls over to the side of the road. I ask if he wants to hop in the backseat, with my intentions obvious, but he turns that down too. Is he even male?
"Look," he begins, his hands still anchored on the steering wheel, "we're just on a date. Consider yourself off the clock. For now, I just want to know Katniss. Not somebody else." I nod in response and look down into my lap, admittedly a little sheepish for what I offered after he turned me down.
He makes small talk to get to know each other, but it doesn't feel forced or awkward. He makes it feel natural because of his easy-going demeanor. It's a little strange because I never know anything more about my customers than maybe their name. Sometimes I don't even know that much. I still don't know Foot-Licker's name. But now I know that Peeta owns his family's bakery, he came in second in the whole district in the wrestling league when he was 17, beaten only by his own brother, and he likes to paint. The only girl he was ever in a relationship with was a girl named Delly Cartwright, whom he dated for two years before she left him for someone else. He was 16 when they broke up.
When we arrive, he tells me to wait in the car, and he comes around the side to open it for me. He motions for me to get out when I sit there in disbelief, and then takes my arm to escort me into the restaurant. It's a cute little place that if you didn't know it was there, you wouldn't even notice it. There are a few tables filled when we walk in, and the hostess brings us to a secluded booth in the back of the restaurant. "I like booths better than tables," he explains after we're sitting down.
We spend all of two hours there, chatting over chicken marsala. I can honestly say that I've never done this before. I've never been on a date with a man. I've never even been to a restaurant.
The bill arrives, and although I offer to pick up my portion of dinner, he declines sternly, insisting that it just wouldn't be right to take a beautiful young lady out on a date and allow her to pay. I smile brightly when he calls me that, and whisper a thank-you while turning my gaze to my lap. He just keeps smiling at me and pays the bill.
We drive part of the way in silence, but my wondering mind is relentless. He senses my curiosity and urges me to speak up. "You don't have to wait for me to say something first, you know."
I clear my throat. "I just wanted to know when… you want me to… when you want to… you know."
He smirks. "I'll let you know." To my surprise, he reaches over to my lap and takes my left hand in his right, entwining our fingers, and tugs our joined fists over to his thigh where they rest. His thumb gently and innocently rubs mine, and we remain this way until he pulls up into the driveway. Again, he opens my door and helps me out, escorting me back into his home. I haven't yet seen it, since I was only in here for a few brief moments before we left on a date. A date. The word still sounds funny in my mind's voice.
He still hasn't told me when to switch back to prostitute-mode. Instead, I sit in a cushioned chair by the fireplace while he builds a fire. His muscles ripple when he hauls in an armful of wood, and I have to admit I really like watching this. He has taken off his shirt and tie, revealing his incredible physique outlined in a white tshirt. The heat of the fire causes beads of sweat to gather on his forehead, clumping together some hair that falls across his face, as he blows on the flames to bring the fire to life.
"So, it's up to you. What would you like to do?" he asks. I take this cue, and advance toward him. I come up close to him, standing centimeters away, and am reminded of the contrast between his muscular figure and my petite structure. I lock eyes with him and my hands descend to the button on his pants. Again, he steps back and pushes my hands away.
"Jesus, Katniss," he murmurs, "I didn't mean like that. I asked what you wanted to do. Not what your typical customers want to do. Because I know that there's a difference."
I look into his eyes, and suggest the only thing I can think about wanting to do right now. "Will you paint?" He smiles and nods. After he disappears into the other room, he reappears with an easel, a canvas, paints, and paintbrushes, and I know that at least for now, I don't have to be the sexually alluring Katniss, the striptease Katniss, the I'll-do-anything-you-want Katniss, the prostitute Katniss. The Katniss I wish I didn't have to be. I just sit there and watch Peeta paint miracles over a once blank stretch of fabric.
He paints in silence for awhile, but suddenly he starts asking about me. I don't have much to tell him, because I don't do much besides working and hunting. When there's nothing left to tell about myself, he offers up more information, little tidbit facts that you would only know if you were around him all the time. He's a painter and a baker. He likes to sleep with the windows open. He never takes sugar in his tea. He always double-knots his shoelaces. Dull pencil tips bother him. His favorite color is the orange in the sunset. He thinks all flowers smell the same. He has worn the same cologne since he was 13. His favorite author is John Steinbeck. He's never ridden a bicycle. Knowing these things about him makes me feel closer to him, the way you feel about an old stuffed animal you still sleep with. You know the exact angle your teddy is going to bounce off the bed when you toss him there after straightening the blankets in the morning. You know every stitch your mother sewed in your ba-ba when you were little, because every time he ripped it was a crisis in your world. You'd recognize the scent of Cuddles anywhere, you could describe the texture of Mr. Fluffy's fur in detail, and you remember every night Lammy guarded you from the monsters as you cowered under the blanket. Peeta is… real.
I tell him horror stories about other clients – the men who hit me and pull my hair and bite me hard, the men who want to hear me scream out, whether in pleasure or pain. I even tell him about Foot-Licker guy, how he made me call him Master. For some reason, it's easy to tell Peeta about this, but it strikes a nerve in him. My dark grey eyes follow his blue ones as he comes closer. He sits in front of me on the ottoman, and takes my hands.
It's 10:30 at night and he still hasn't told me when to switch back to prostitute mode.
"You deserve so much more than how all those men treat you," he murmurs.
"I'm the whore," I whisper, averting my gaze to the floor. "They have every right to treat me like that."
"No," he says, his voice louder. "Katniss, you're not a whore," he declares, reaching over to tuck a rogue strand of hair behind my ear. The soft touch feels safe and sensitive. "Don't make yourself out to be anything less than what you are."
My eyes are blearing, and it's difficult to see him clearly when I look up at him again. "What am I?" I ask in a small voice.
His eyes dart back and forth across my face. "You are," he starts, "the most beautiful, independent woman I have ever met. You're smart, and funny, and incredibly strong." He places both hands on the sides of my face and pulls me in to plant a small kiss on my forehead. I've never been kissed there. When he shifts back, his hands are still on me, and his thumbs graze over my cheeks to wipe the tears.
"Can I please lay down?" I ask, my voice weak. In response, he carries my body to the couch and sits down, placing my head on a pillow in his lap. I curl up tight to his body, my face buried in his stomach, and cry. His warm hands, although at what I would assume is an awkward angle, rub the tense muscles in my back, deeply pressing into my muscles in firm circles. My eyes drift closed, accepting the massage with soft moans that I don't even need to fake; they're completely real.
XXXXXXXXXX
I wake up alone on his bed at what I can guess is about 7:30 am. The sheets and blankets are messed up, and it feels like there's something I'm forgetting about last night, because I don't recall any sex or touching or even kissing. Then I realize that that's because none of it happened. I smile widely.
But where's Peeta?
"Pancakes?" his familiar voice asks. Startled, I whip my head around to him and fall off the bed. He chuckles softly. "Sorry," he mumbles, down on a knee in front of me with a plate of steaming hot pancakes and syrup. "Pancakes?" he repeats.
I eat ravenously until the plate is bare. "Those were the best pancakes I've ever had," I breathe, walking into the kitchen.
He turns his head away from the soapy sink and smiles. "Baker," is his terse response.
"Peeta."
"Mhhm."
"You're an amazing man."
"This sounds like a cliché breakup line."
"No, of course not. I really mean it. You paid for my… services… for an entire night, and we didn't do a single thing." All he does is smile, and I advance towards him, turning off the water faucet he's focused his attention on while scrubbing syrupy plates. "I need to make this up to you."
He turns and wipes his hands on his shirt. "Okay," he agrees, sliding his hands low around my hips. "How about you let me drive you back home and open up your car door for you and walk you up to your doorstep?" he asks.
"How is that paying you back? It's not exactly equivalent to…"
"But it is. To me at least."
I pause before whispering, "It's a deal."
XXXXXXXX
He does exactly what he told me he would – he drives me home, and opens up the car door for me, and walks me to the doorstep. He doesn't make any advances towards me or curse at me or try to hurt me. Instead, he tells me what a great time he had last night, and that waking up next to me was the best thing that ever happened to him. He calls me beautiful, and for the first time, I believe it. He kisses me sweetly, and his mouth tastes like cinnamon and sugar. His lips are soft and tender, moving slowly with mine. His right hand rubs the exposed skin on my left hip, and he pulls me close to him. My hands roam to his chest, and we remain exactly like this for several moments. When he breaks away, he does it the way you would coax a child into being away from his mother for the first time. Gently, slowly, tenderly, firmly. He smiles down at me, and says goodbye in a whisper.
I linger at the doorstep for a moment, taking this all in, remembering the day I became a person instead of a cheap whore.