Chapter Twenty-Eight

Loncey

The applause is deafening and when a handful of people stand up and start cheering, I join them.

She nailed it. She absolutely fucking nailed it. When I wasn't watching Maeve stand in front of a crowded conference room that held easily close to three hundred people – standing tall with her shoulders pulled back, her hair golden and wavy down her back, her green eyes sparkling – I was looking around me at her audience. All eyes were on Maeve. Sure, a certain percentage of that will have been because Maeve looks… like Maeve, and she picked the most perfect outfit of tight black jeans, red stilettos and an oversized black blazer over an olive-green silk blouse, open in a V at her neck, and the rich color of it made her eyes pop even from where I was sitting a few rows from the back.

But even if eyes had only landed on her because of her looks, they stayed on her because of what she was saying. It was almost exactly what we practiced yesterday, a little personal and very informed and informative. And witty. Maeve cracked jokes left, right and center, and they weren't the same jokes she had for me last night when we practiced. And so I was laughing with the rest of the crowd, and when I wasn't laughing or learning something new about Maeve's life as an asexual woman, I was watching her and smiling.

Smiling so hard my cheeks started to hurt.

I can still feel the ache in my face as I stand and continue clapping.

With the many bodies standing in front of me, I can no longer see Maeve and so the first thing I do when they all start to sit down again is look for her. I want to rush up and congratulate her. I want to high-five her, to fist-bump her or maybe, maybe hug her.

My body hasn't come close to forgetting how it felt to hug her last night.

But I can't see her. There's a thrum of people and activity now where she was standing and while I can see flashes of golden blonde hair and black material, I can't be sure it's her. I'm about to step forward and make my way over there to congratulate her but I feel a firm hand on my shoulder and I turn back.

"Hey," Miko says. I pull my head back in surprise at seeing him, but then blink in shock when I see Harley standing behind him.

"Hey! Hey, both of you," I say, smiling at them. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to be out of our hotel room," Miko says. "Sorry, your hotel room."

"Yeah, I'm really sorry about that," Harley says and she leans on Miko's arm, his hand firmly gripped by hers.

"Don't sweat it."

"But we kicked you out of your room. For like, two nights. All because I was having a mental breakdown."

"For good reason." I reach my hand out and stroke her arm. It's good to see her smiling. "How are you?"

She shrugs. "I'm okay. I mean, I'm still scared to death by what… by what they said. And that photo," she shudders. "But that's what they want, isn't it?" She pulls in a deep breath and straightens her spine. "They want me to be terrified into not living my life, which is why I'm here."

"We figured there wasn't a safer place we could be right now than surrounded by hundreds of other sex workers, many of whom have probably had exactly the same kind of messages land in their inboxes time and time again," Miko explains.

Above Miko and Harley's heads, I look around the room and see a lot of… flesh. A lot of barely dressed people with their stomachs, their legs, their arms, their chests and even a few asses on display. I see tattoos and piercings and curves and rolls and bones pushing up against taut skin. I see a wheelchair, a guide dog, and Casey-Rose, a wickedly sexy pansexual woman with dwarfism who I worked with last year. I see all kinds of bodies, and all colors of bodies.

"We are a safe place," I say, feeling a warm rush of love for our community.

"This is also hopefully a money-making space." Miko bobs his eyebrows. He pulls a folded piece of paper out of the back of his jeans pocket and waves it between us. "We made a list of all the brands we want to talk to today. You going to come with us?"

I turn and look again at the front of the room. Still no sign of Maeve, even though the rush of people who were up there a moment ago has dispersed.

"Sure," I say, and I dig my hands in my pockets and follow Miko and Harley out of the room.

*****

"And that's why we're the first self-lubricating pleasure toy for penis owners," a man says to me as I stare at the tube device in my hand. Not that I'm really looking, or listening. This is possibly the hundredth sex toy I've had thrust into my hand today and I'm struggling to muster enthusiasm.

I mean, is it really that difficult to slap some lube on your cock before fucking a plastic tunnel?

"I know what you're thinking," the guy says with an assuming grin. "Is it that hard to apply to lube to one's… member?"

So it would seem I have officially run out of energy to hide my real thoughts. Also, wow, a sex toy manufacturer who struggles to say the word dick. I've seen it all today.

"But think about those who are less… able-bodied than us," he continues. "Think about how much this could help them enjoy more… pleasure."

"That's a very good point," I say. "Have you been working with some disabled creators then?"

The man's face falls. "Well, no, not exactly. Not yet. Do you know of any?"

Jesus.

I make absolutely no effort to hide my eye-roll. I should check my astrology apps because my Aries moon is feeling very loud today.

"Look around. There are several here today. Please make sure you approach them, and pay them appropriately for their time and work," I say with a slow sigh. I'm quite enjoying being too tired to have a filter.

"But you're not interested yourself? I know you are a big advocate for using toys."

I don't know if he knows that from following my content or if it's a lucky guess, but he's not wrong, and normally, I'd love to showcase a product that is all about accessibility, but I can't bring myself to even fake interest anymore after spending the last four or so hours on my feet talking to people just like this guy.

"I am, but I'm also a big advocate for brands choosing marginalized creators as often as they can."

"Well, if you change your mind…" He slips a card into my hand before I even realize it. "Here are my details."

I put his card in the back pocket of my jeans and my fingers brush up against many other cards I've deposited in there. Cards I doubt I'll look at again before I put them in the trash later.

Which begs the question, why am I here? What did I hope to achieve if not this – getting the contact details of brands that I could potentially work with? Where is the usual energy and hope and focus I feel for this work that has enabled me to achieve nearly every single thing I ever wanted: financial independence, security for my family, freedom to work when I want, how I want?

This big, big question fills my mind but I have no time to answer it as I feel my phone start to vibrate in my other back pocket.

Pulling my phone out, I hold my breath when I see the Caller ID.

"Momma?" I say upon answering it.

"Lawrence," she says. "Now, I don't want you to get worried—"

"Mom?" I say again, and there's a new edge in my tone.

"–but I'm at City Hospital with Jessica," she finishes.

"Jesus, what happened?"

"She was struggling this morning," Mom says and I try to comfort myself with how calm and clear she sounds but it actually just irritates me. "And it wasn't getting better. Worse actually. We weren't able to do physio or get her out of bed so—"

"Why didn't you call me?" I demand.

"You're busy. You're working."

"Work isn't important. Jessica is."

"Of course, honey, but listen, I've got this under control."

"But wait… don't you have to work? Isn't there… aren't you on call?" My words are as scrambled as my mind and I put my finger in my other ear so I can hear my mother better over the noise in the background.

"Not today. I'm allowed a day off here and there too, you know?" Mom says with a teasing lift in her voice. How is she so calm? How is she so okay with what's happening?

"Where's Jessica now?"

"Asleep. She's hooked up to an IV and they just did a good twenty minutes of the vest so it's already a lot better."

But she's still unwell enough to be in hospital. She's still sick and I'm not there.

"I can be there in thirty minutes," I say, which is possibly optimistic with rush hour traffic imminent, but where there's a will there's a way.

"You're not listening to me, my child," Mom says, aggravatingly slowly. "I'm only calling to let you know. We don't need you here. We want you there."

I look around me and see an endless row of makeshift cubicles with all sorts of devices and products on display. Each booth is occupied by at least a few people in various stages of undress. There is flesh as far as my eyes can see and it suddenly does absolutely nothing for me. No, that's not the truth. It appalls me in a way I'm not proud of. I'm so blinded by the sharp contrast between the work I do and what Jessica is currently experiencing that I feel dizzy, off-kilter.

"I should be there," I say, more to myself than my mother.

"Better you're there tomorrow when Jessica is resting at home and you've not had to cut short your work commitments."

I snort at her description of what I'm doing, standing in what is little more than a crowded, undercover parking lot, having just manhandled a self-lubricating sex toy.

"Lawrence, did you hear me?"

"Yeah, Mom. I'm sorry, just worried about Jess. I thought she was having a good run. She seemed so much better with Taylor and Prince. Shit, I was hoping it would mean less hospital visits and—"

"Oh, baby, I know but we also know what we're dealing with here. Some things are just unavoidable."

I know what she's saying. Jessica will never be normal. Jessica will always be sick. Jessica will always be coming and going from hospitals. Overall, Jessica is not going to get better, only worse.

And I fucking hate it.

I take my hand away from my ear and ball my fist at my side.

"Just promise to call me if she gets worse. Or if you need any help at all."

"I promise," Mom says. "I'll let you know when we're home, honey."

"Please," I say and then I say goodbye.

I stare at my phone for a long moment after the call disconnects. I still feel torn. I still feel like I'm in the wrong place. I still feel like I'm supposed to be somewhere else, and maybe not even with Jessica. Maybe I'm supposed to be someone else. Maybe this life I've built for myself is not what I really want.

Or maybe I'm just tired and hungry.

And in desperate need of a workout and an orgasm. Although I doubt either is going to be feasible for a while, even though all I have to do is close my eyes and recall what happened last night and I'm instantly half-hard.

Yes, I've been thinking about the noises Maeve made in the dark last night as she touched herself, but more than that, so much more than that I've been thinking about how she felt in my arms as we hugged afterward. Warm, and slight but also so strong. She didn't feel fragile, she felt alive and real and made up of the most formidable kind of stardust.

"Hey! There you are!" A warm voice floods my ears. I look up and see Maeve's beaming smile and her golden blonde hair framing her face.

"Hey," I say, and I think I'm smiling. I'm trying at least.

But her face falls and her grin melts away. "What's wrong?" she asks, inching closer. "You look like shite."

I laugh at that. I have to.

"Yeah, I just got a phone call from my mom. My sister's in the hospital."

"Shit." Maeve reaches out a hand and wraps her fingers around my forearm. "Is she okay?"

"Not really," I say. Is Jess ever really okay? I ask myself, and it feels like she can read my mind when Maeve's face falls even more. "No, I mean, she's in the right place. They've started antibiotics and they're working on clearing her lungs. She should be fine."

"But?"

"But she's still really sick, you know. She's always going to be really sick. And she's still going through shit I wish she didn't have to."

Maeve nods and pulls her lips into her mouth. "Let's go to her. Let's go see her."

I shake my head. "Nah, my mom just told me to stay away. She says she's got it all under control."

"I'm sure she does, but I can imagine you'd rather be there than here." Maeve looks around us.

"Honestly, I'd rather be anywhere than here," I say.

"Then let's at least go somewhere else." Maeve slides her hand down to lace her fingers with mine. It's a simple touch, and yet I find myself squeezing her palm against mine. She smiles as I do and then I happily follow as she turns and leads me away.