Carnivale: Crimson
Crimson [[452 Words]]
Carnivale
Ben Hawkins/OMCs
set during season one.
Dubious consent, prostitution.

I'm not really sure how this happened. I really wanted to get Ben and Jones in bed together, but this came out instead.  Prequel to Amber.

The first time it happened you can’t say you were expecting it; he just sort of pushed you back, worked your jeans partway down your thighs and went at it, on his knees behind Ruthie and Gabriel’s tent. You could hear the music playing inside, and wondered briefly, crazily, whether the audience on the other side of the canvas heard you, too, whether they noticed the wet sounds his mouth made on your skin, the rustle of cloth as he slid a hand up under your shirt.

You weren’t expecting it the first time, no—but if pressed you’d still say “surprised” before “raped.” Not that you’d wanted it; you’re sure you would have protested if you hadn’t been so tired, those nights of insomnia, and it took focus enough to just keep functioning these days. And when he handed you the money afterwards, that crumpled wad of bills pressed into your fist as he hurried away, you didn’t protest then, either.

After that you’re not exactly sure how it went from the one time to a regular occurrence, but those johnnies, the ones for whom Rita Sue’s cootch tent held no attraction, it’s almost like they could smell it on you, the evidence that you could be bought, and everywhere you set up there they were, glancing nervously around and asking “how much?”

And it wasn’t like you minded, really—times were hard, and you needed the money, and if you were honest with yourself (but you never were, were you?), you almost liked it sometimes, when they were gentle, breathing “it’s gonna be okay,” “I won’t hurt you,” holding you close and calling you precious. If you were honest with yourself, after sixteen years of your mother refusing to come within fifteen feet of you, it was a welcome change to have them lining up and begging you, paying you to touch.

So you did it. You didn’t let yourself go looking for it, but when they asked (and someone almost always did), you never said no. You got to know the leather interiors of their old Model Ts, the dusty, tarp-covered beds of their trucks, sometimes just the cool metal side of one of the equipment trailers against your back. You got to know their hands, cupping your face, caressing your hips and ass, pushing aside cloth and feeling.