Enduring Devlin’s storm was easier than the hell I’m sinking into tonight.
A familiar sounding engine tears my gaze toward the main street. My pulse ratchets fiercely as I keep my eyes peeled for the red Porsche.
Is he—?
The rev of the engine turns faint, driving away. My heart sinks.
Two more cars drive slow down the shadowed street, pulling sex workers out of the woodwork as they sell their wares—angling their bodies, puckering their lips, and flashing a teasing peek of bare thigh to the Johns.
I’m working up the courage to talk to the girls near me when a car rolls to a stop not far from my spot. The car is nice, a gunmetal gray with bright halogen headlights. When the window rolls down, the John waves me over with two fingers. Horribly, my mind flashes with a memory of my dad doing that same move.
“Come over here,” the John calls in a gruff,
authoritative baritone.
My pulse thunders in my ears and my palms turn clammy. I force air into my lungs, ignoring that my whole body feels cold. Unlocking my trembling knees, I take an unsteady step. Terror mixed with determination wars inside me, but my survival mode kicks on to shut up the side of myself I’m betraying.
I can’t see inside the car past the tinted windows, but he’s resting an arm on the open window. The crisp dress shirt looks expensive.
Please, please, please have a lot of money and no kinky requests.
Maybe the magic of the stars I used to wish on is finally kicking in and I’ve been sent a Sugar Daddy who will only want me to sit around doing my homework in my underwear. Looking, but never touching. Yeah right.
I wonder if this is what organ failure feels like as I trip on a crack in the curb. I wobble on the heels as I take stiff steps to close the short distance between me and the car.
The John isn’t awful looking, so there’s that. He has thick dark eyebrows, a square jaw, and a natural frown. He peers at me with clear blue eyes and I jolt into action, leaning against the open window.
“Uh, hi. Hi,” I repeat, correcting my strained tone into something approaching sultry.
The John’s eyes drop to where my hands clutch his open window in a death grip. His brow twitches and I jump back.
“Sorry. What, um,” I’m totally fucking this up, but the nerves wracking my system are making it hard to think on my feet, “What do you like?”
The John stares at me for another beat, the silence stretching.
Fuck! Get it together!
Sucking in a subtle breath so I don’t puke, I flutter my lashes and peek through them, biting the corner of my lip. Hopefully no red lipstick ends up on my teeth. I trace down the column of my neck, across my minimal cleavage—thank you, single push up bra from the back of my closet—down the sheer material showing off my stomach, and tuck my fingers in the top of my leather skirt.
“Want a good time?”
A grumbling sigh sounds from the John. He gives me another once over. “What do you offer?”
Shit. I didn’t work up the courage to get a list of services from the other sex workers in the middle of my freak out.
“Ah, anything you want.” The breathy voice I use makes me roll my eyes internally. I twirl a lock of hair around my finger. “See something you like?”
He taps his fingers on his thigh. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”
Translation: my fake it til I make it bravado isn’t cutting it. I’ve got first timer written all over me.
I give him a girlish giggle, flapping my hand. “I’m here all the time. But if it’s your first time, I’ll be good for you.”
Pouring acid on my tongue would hurt less than uttering those words.
The John hums skeptically. “You look pretty young. How old are you?”
I can’t stop my eyes from widening. My nails dig into my palms. “Twenty-one,” I lie, even though I’m not underage. “Want to go for a drink first to loosen up? Then we can go somewhere private. Um, like a hotel.”