* * *
“My security will accompany us.” The words come from the blue-eyed stranger who steps forward, stopping beside Rick. His security? What good will that do me?
* * *
“And where would you take me?” Two years ago, one of us disappeared. Cindy Swans. Three weeks later, her body floated up somewhere around Pensacola. That’s the problem with living on an island. Give a man a boat and some concrete blocks, and you’re one wrong comment away from disappearing.
* * *
“To my suite.” His eyes meet mine, without hesitation, and if there was a pool to drown in, it’d be those murky blue depths. “The accommodations are very comfortable.”
* * *
My heart rate increases, as my mind actually considers the possibility. I can’t leave. There are a thousand reasons against it and only two reasons for it. Money is one, the ache between my legs another. This man wouldn’t take me somewhere and be content with a fifteen minute blowjob. He’ll want more. And right now, my hands trembling, body aching … so do I. I shouldn’t leave. Last year, Bethany started escorting on the side, and ended up in a trailer in Defuniak Springs, addicted to meth and some asshole named Justin. That could be me—I could be one stupid decision away from that life. And this could be my stupid decision. This could be the “just one time” that becomes a gateway to prostitution. Arrest. A pimp who feeds me drugs and invites spring breakers to try me on for size. “When would I return?”
* * *
He grins slightly. “In the morning. My driver can return you to the club.”
* * *
In the morning. A suite. A night spent away from Dibs and bills and my shitty life. I raise my chin slightly, keeping my eyes on him, and try to ignore our audience. “How much?”
* * *
His mouth twitches a little, and I can’t tell if it’s in disappointment or pleasure. “I’ll leave that up to you.”
* * *
I take a deep breath, my stomach churning with a mix of trepidation and excitement. “In that case, I’ll grab my purse.”
CHAPTER 4
My first night at Sammy’s, I believed in fairytales. I thought there was a chance of ending up like Julia Roberts, just days from a dashing, dignified Richard-Gere-type whisking me away to a lifetime of diamonds, caviar, and True Love.
* * *
Now I understand the truth. In this hellhole, my best hope for a happily ever after is the Anna Nicole Smith Dream – that an old rich man will hobble in, decide to part with half his riches so his few remaining years will be filled with bouncing breasts, bubble baths, and blow jobs to celebrate mahjong wins. I am almost happy with that scenario, happy with a slice of the good life minus the love. Love seems to be set aside for those who deserve it, for those who plan ahead, those who recycle and donate a dollar to the March of Dimes at the supermarket register. I’m a non-donater. I’m the girl who spends that spare dollar on a candy bar instead. I don’t deserve love. Ten years with a centenarian—that seems like a more attainable future.
* * *
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.