We haven’t had a rich old guy in quite some time. Coco came close to nabbing one, had a pasty white ancient who was all about her ethnic curves. But he died, mid-fuck, a heart attack yanking his life away as she rode up and down his scrawny body. His family was less than accommodating, kicking her out of his mansion with no ride home, and no invitation to the funeral.
This guy is too young to be my love story, too handsome, too perfect to have any part in the rest of my life. His type marries blue blood heiresses who keep their cardigans clean and their sex cleaner. This invitation to leave with him is not the start of a love story. It’s just sex, in a location less public than our VIP couch. Sex for money, the amount seemingly up for discussion. With this man, I am willing to break my No Sex Rule, my body desperate for his touch – my bank account in bad need of a cash infusion. He'd paid a thousand dollars for a blow job. How much will he pay for an evening?
Our back room reeks of lotion and perfume. I open my locker and grab the worn Michael Kors bag—one purchased on a girl’s trip to New York sophomore year, back when a new student loan replenished any shortage of funds, and credit card limits increased every time I asked. I check my phone, and grab a peppermint, twisting the plastic ties and popping the mint into my mouth.
“You going somewhere?” A South Carolina drawl coats the syllables, the accent one that can only belong to one person—Nikki.
I yank a bright blue minidress off a hanger and turn to the petite redhead, who grips an open SlimFast can and a half-eaten Milky Way bar.
“Leaving early.” I work my arms into the dress and pull it over my head.
“With that guy?” Jealousy is never pretty, but on Nikki, it comes dipped in kerosene, with a blowtorch in hand. I won't be surprised, if the moment I turn my back, she dials the cops and turns me in for prostitution.
“He’s an ex-boyfriend,” I lie, and it’s a moment of pure brilliance, her features falling in disappointment before her glittery lips slide back into a smile.
“Oh.” She straightens. “He broke up with you?”
I sling my bag over one shoulder and slam the locker. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.”
I push past her before she can argue the lie.
My hand tightens on the strap of my purse as I come to a stop. The man turns away from the group and lifts a chin to me, his eyes flitting down my dress and then back to my face.
“You ready?”
“I’d like to take a photo of your driver’s license.” I practiced the words in my mind before I spoke, yet they still come out stiff and unsure, as if I am asking for something that is negotiable.
Even in the dim light, I can see the flicker in his eyes, the tightening of his chin, a subtle shift of his shoulders.
“That’s not really—” The words, spoken by a beefy suit to our left, are cut off by just a glance from the stranger.
His eyes return to me, and a knot of tension in my chest relaxes a little when he reaches into his back pocket. “Smart girl,” he says quietly.
Smart girl? I haven’t been a smart girl for a very, very long time. A smart girl would run away from his delicious mouth and intoxicating scent. A smart girl wouldn’t be trading cash for her safety and respectability. Still, a part of me preens at the empty compliment. It’s been so long since a man has admired anything but my looks.
I reach out and take the driver’s license he offers, examining it briefly before digging into my purse for my phone.
Nathan Dumont. An unsmiling photo that matches his handsome face. Born eight years before me, which puts him at 35 years old. An address in Nashville. A Tennessee man in our little beach town? Random.
I take a photo of the license, and text it to Jez, briefly depressed by the fact that my life has degraded to the point where my only friends are strippers. I add a quick message. In case I die, call the cops on this asshole. Sending the message, I pass the card back to the stranger, one now with a name—Nathan—and a location. I tuck my phone back in my purse. Smart girl. Maybe I am. Maybe somewhere, underneath the glitter and the desperation, there was still a little of the person I used to be.
CHAPTER 5
As a teen, I always pictured limos and strippers paired together—like peanut butter and jelly. Now, I step onto the parking lot in five-inch heels and try not to gawk at the stretch limo that idles, the door smoothly opened by his security detail. I stumble at the door’s opening, trying to figure out the most ladylike way to get in while wearing a minidress. I end up doing some sort of dippy crawl that is a disaster, my face flushing as I right myself on the leather seat. The door closes and I have a moment of silence.
It’s sad that I feel at home. The mirrored ceiling, with twinkling stars set into the headliner, is straight out of the low ceilings of Sammy’s. The black leather seats, ice chest of beer and wine, a velvet pillow lying against the front seat – it’s all Stripperville, USA. And for me, it’s all incredible. High-class, fancy living, incredible. I am in a limo, with a wealthy stranger, pulling away from Sammy’s. If I squint hard enough, this is just like Pretty Woman’s final scene. Maybe I can be Julia Roberts. Maybe I can have a fairytale ending, despite my poor planning.
I shut down my fantasy when the other door opens, his tall body making an easy transition into the car, nothing like the fumbling giraffe I had been. I fix my mouth into an easy smile, crossing my legs and leaning forward, assuming the pose that makes my breasts appear biggest and causes my cellulite to disappear. “Where are we going?”
He ignores my question, unzipping his pants and leaning back in the seat. “Come here.”
For such a smart girl, I’m an idiot. My fantasies scamper away, and I remind myself of my reality—one where I should count my blessings if I manage to survive the night. I keep my smile, and hope the disappointment doesn’t shine through my eyes. I slide closer along the seat, and he nods toward the floor. “On your knees.”
I almost say please, almost demand that he treat me with an ounce of respect. But I don’t, and my first limo ride ends in the way that most stripper rides do. My head between his thighs, automotive carpet rough against my knees, his hand on my hair, pushing my head onto his cock. The car drives, I suck, and any excitement I have for the evening ends in his finish.
After his orgasm, there is only silence, an uncomfortable ten minutes where I look out the window and consider pulling out my phone. Would it be rude to fit in a level or two of Candy Crush?