The Minotaur #8
My heart skips a beat, fingers shaking while I do an internet search. I get the number I'm looking for, and a moment later, the same woman who filled out my profile and had me sign all the documents at the Monster Fulfillment Center, answers the phone.
I tell her my name, then say, "I was just calling because I noticed my payment for services with Zair was returned…"
There's quiet on the other line. A few keyboard taps. And then, "Yes, that's correct."
She doesn't say anything else. I want to ask more questions, but, as polite as she is, I suspect she won't tell me much. I open my mouth to ask why, when the sounds of running water in the bathroom grow deeper, like the tub's almost full. I thank her and hang up.
I don't know what to think. I need to ask him directly. It was a lot of money, sure, but I'd give it all if I could keep him. Would he be insulted if I asked?
My brain goes into plan mode, and I think of all the things this could mean, of ways I could ask Zair if he could stay, if we could keep doing this.
But no, I could never share him. Even now, thinking he might be out there with someone else, before getting clean clothes and returning… it makes my fingers curl to fists. He can't share what he's given me with others.
Oh god. He can though, can't he? I checked all my requests off a fucking checklist. Other people have the same desires. And he's good at fulfilling them. That's the whole fucking point.
I crawl into the bath, but it doesn't feel as relaxing as intended. Admittedly, though, I've never been so bruised and sore, and the warm water and bath salts feel good on my muscles.
But my thoughts keep cycling back.
What does it mean that he didn't keep the money? Has he been with other clients when he leaves here? Is that the errand he had to run this morning?
The thought squeezes my heart. He's spent the last few days here, even though, technically, our time together was up. I've been afraid to admit to myself that it felt like we were building something together, something strange and beautiful, but real. Am I delusional to think this is real?
He's been amazing. It's not just the sex. He's funny and charming, and often brutally honest.
I'm falling for my escort, and I'm pretty sure that's against the rules. Or just plain stupid.
I hear the front door open and Zair's surprisingly light footsteps enter the apartment.
I half expect him to join me in the bathroom, but with all the noise he's making in the kitchen, I'm too impatient to wait.
So, I drain the tub, dry off with a towel, apply arnica oil to my tender muscles, pull on an ugly, yet practical terry-cloth robe, then make my way into the kitchen.
Zair glances up, eyes raking over my form, a smirk tugging at his cheek, before he turns back to whatever he's doing. Which is making a giant mess.
"Wait, are you making pierogies?" I ask, seeing the small cookie-cutters and the bowl of cooked meat and herbs. He's been busy, apparently.
He grunts in the affirmative and keeps working his hands through the flour.
The white dust coats his thick hands and forearms, and I can't help but smile at how domestic he looks.
Closer, the ingredients look a little different from the ones I get at the Polish restaurant near my office I sometimes go to for lunch.
"Actually, they are called K'Vacas, a minotaur delicacy, but similar to pierogies. You need nourishment; these will do the trick."
I couldn't help the full-body blush at his attentive aftercare, even now, days later. Ugh, is that what this is? More aftercare?
Are we still in scene? Is any of this real?
Every time I think about how wonderful he is, I immediately remember I paid him to be here. But, I remind myself, he didn't take the money. As if sensing my train of thought, he stops working the dough and pins me with a glare.
"What is wrong, my little mouse?"
I love that nickname. And he's going to take it with him when he eventually leaves. Which should have been days ago. Every day that passes, the longer we're together, the more time I spend with him, not just fucking, but hanging out, the harder it's going to be to let him go.
No one will ever call me little mouse again.
Spiraling in panic, Zair growls, sending that magical vibration through the atmosphere, and it shivers through my body, calming me down. I have to force myself to remember that this isn't real.
I blurt out, "You didn't take the money!"
The hum continues, shooting like fireworks as he chuckles. I grip the kitchen countertop—normally so pristine, now covered in flour and green herbs and lemon juice, it's an absolute mess—he lets the deep growl continue as he casually folds the dough, as though I hadn't said a word.
My heart beats faster, palms sweaty, everything careening out of control, while he just fucking cooks. I want to demand an answer. God, I'd write him up if he were my employee.
Oh, fuck. Is he technically? My stomach churns that my brain even went there. I am a bitch. Everyone at the office is right.
No, he gave the money back. Everything is fine. This is fine.
Goddammit, say something! But he's unbothered. A soft look on his face. That hum shaking out of his chest, into me. My fingers claw into the countertop. I bounce on my toes.
I grit my teeth to keep from blurting out something wholly stupid. Why do I care anyway? It's not like this is going to last, even if it is real. Why does this even matter?
Because you like him, Calista. A lot.
The humming continues. I can feel it now, inside me, slowing my heart rate. My fingernails dislodge from the counter and I take deep, measured breaths.
Zair finally finishes folding the dough pockets, aligns them on a rack, then rinses his hands in the sink.
His claws suds up, and it reminds me of our first shower together.
There've been many in only a few days. But that first one…
my first time with a monster… it changed everything for me.
Not just any monster, no. No one else would do. Just him. Just Zair.
This can't go anywhere. We're so different. I think of all the ways he'll end this, of reasons I should. But then he walks around the counter, coming to stand directly in front of me.
"Do you know why I do what I do?" he asks softly, tilting his head, brown eyes warm and focused.
"What?"
"Sex work. Do you know why I do it? Have you wondered?"
Okay, so we're having this conversation now. That's what I wanted, right? Might as well rip off the Band-Aid. This is why we're here, because I hired him to be. Because I'm too pathetic to get out of my own way in real life. Because none of this is real.
"Of-of course," I stutter, unable to look at him. His humming intensifies, now a low growl, and I feel it rattle my rib cage. The silverware and bowls on the counter shake against the granite.
Zair dips a claw-tipped finger beneath my chin, forcing me to raise my eyes to meet his. It's so odd. I've grown so used to looking at him, to pecking his furred cheek, to receiving licks, that it no longer seems strange to yearn for this… monster.
"There are not many jobs for a minotaur in the city. We are strong. Not as strong as the orc or the trolls and the giant-descendants, but compared to humans and some of the other monster-folk, we are built for labor."
"You enjoy sex," I say, to make this whole uncomfortable conversation easier, to get it done faster. To let him know it's okay to let me down easy.
"Yes, I enjoy sex. It's easy money, it's fun. And since there aren't a lot of manual labor jobs here in the city that require a minotaur's strength, this work has been preferable. But it isn't everything."
Zair sighs, twisting the gold metal ring in his nose, something he does when he's deep in thought. I love that I know that about him. He continues, "I could make a living between your sweet thighs. But I'd rather you give yourself to me freely."
"What-what do you mean?"
"Mouse, there is a time for games. This isn't it.
You know what I'm saying. I gave the money back because I like you.
Very much." He takes a step closer, my back hitting the countertop.
"I can smell your cunt, how much she yearns for me.
And I can hear your pulse quicken when I tell you I like you very much.
So let's be honest with each other. I want to see where this goes.
I don't need the money, certainly not your money.
I'm taking a break from the Center so we can explore this thing between us. "
My heart races. Right here on a platter is everything I've ever wanted. But I've thought that before, haven't I? This is everything I've ever wanted, and I wasn't happy then.
What if he gets to know the real me, the one that is currently so focused on this conversation, on my heart, on the look in his eyes, but is also thinking about the mess on the countertop.
About what Marty could be fucking up at the office.
About how I have no idea how to fit a minotaur into my life.
I shake my head, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "People won't approve."
He barks a sharp laugh, throwing his head back.
"You do not care what people think. You may tell yourself you do, but you don't. You tell me about the office gossip, how everyone sees you.
You could try to be their best friend, make your personality more pleasant for them, invite them out for drinks after work, to buy their affections. You do not, because you do not care."
"I don't care what they think—"
He waves a hand around my apartment. "And all these other people in your life, then, whose opinions you hold so dear?"
"You're being a dick. I get it, I'm all alone. There are no other people. You don't need to rub it in my face. I'm just saying—" God, what am I saying? I huff, tugging the tie of my robe tighter. "I'm just saying, people will talk, and I don't need…"