It’s smart. I wish she was this careful online. I wish she was more careful.
But there’s only so much I can do.
“Or you can stop by my office. Eight to eight, all week.” I offer my hand.
This time, she shakes with a weak grip. “Sure. Thanks.” She watches as I slide off the stool.
She watches me leave.
Then it’s my turn to wait.
Chapter Six
Eve
Original Sin
Saturday, June 6th
Three a.m.
The question is still there. Am I brave or foolish? Am I cowardly or cautious?
Am I going to call Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?
It’s like the guy walked off the set of Luther.
British accent. Tailored suit. Six-foot something frame.
Broad shoulders. Coffee eyes. The most intense stare in the history of the world.
A presence that exudes power.
That demands every ounce of my attention.
There are cute customers all the time. Famous ones even. That guy who’s rumored to star in the next Tarantino movie—
He’s a regular. Not that I see the appeal (of the actor or the director. The characters banter. They’re criminals. It’s a race to drop as many f-bombs as possible. Okay, maybe the guy I dated sophomore year ruined the whole thing for me. He still had that Pulp Fiction poster in his room when he brought his lab partner to his bed. And I… well, I wish I still had these concerns).
The point is. There are cute customers all the time.
Only there’s nothing cute about Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. No boyish charm or youthful smile.
He’s all man. Thirty-something. Designer suit. Dress shoes. Expensive watch.
Grown-up charm.
Devilish smile.
Eyes that scream I’m picturing you naked.
Only not the normal naked.
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome barely blinked when Candy tossed away her thong.
Whereas he looked at me like he was undressing my soul.
Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe I’m the one who wants to undress his soul.
But that’s silly. I don’t have time for men. Especially not strangers with strange offers.
Or is that the excuse? The fear disguised as caution?
Would it really be so bad if I returned his call?
What am I risking?
What am I risking by ignoring his offer?
It’s probably not five hundred dollars for three hours of bartending. It’s probably a soft interview for stripping at a bachelor party.
Or something more illicit.
Lots of guys offer four-figure sums for dancers to go the, ahem, extra mile.
Hell. Maybe he’s like the doctor. After my virginity.
What are the odds? Am I that popular?
I know this site gets visitors, but I’m not exactly The AVClub.
Only so many people want to hear my thoughts on The Handmaid’s Tale… again. (The Tarantino comment is probably costing me a few dozen readers).
What are the odds he’s reading right now?
It’s probably the doctor.
Or a dancer with good intentions.
Britney is sweet. She knows I’m broke. If she knows a guy who’s willing to pay for one night with a virgin…
God, I can’t even say it.
How am I supposed to call Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?
How can I resist?
What if he really is Prince Charming?
What if he really does want to erase all my problems?
As usual, I wake to the sound of Addie’s music. A violin track. By this artist who considers herself a rock star.
If you ask me, it’s still orchestra. Where are the drums and bass? Where are the screaming vocals?
I don’t get the genre, but Addie loves it.
There is something about this song. A haunting pain that wants to find my weak point. Does Addie hear it too? Is that why she loves the song? Or is just her love of strings?
I’m not as punk rock as I look.
Sure, I love thrashing guitars and telling authority figures to fuck off. Yes, I feel more myself with colorful hair and thick eyeliner.
But I’m happiest in my bed, lost in a great book. Or a particularly binge-worthy TV show. Or a new entry.
Last night flits through my head. Rude customers, naked women, Cindy leaving me a sixty-dollar tip out with a you deserve it kid. Thanks for taking care of me.
She lets guys buy her drink after drink. They don’t know her drinks are non-alcoholic. That’s where I come in.
A fun game. More or less. I have a bottle of “well vodka” just for her. Okay, I occasionally use it on particularly rude customers. Like a barista who brews decaf for assholes.
All the normal business of work.
And Ian.
His name is enough to make my pulse race. It’s too hot in here. I can’t afford to warm the room further. It’s already stuffy.
Usually, June is humid—thus the gloom—but this is August heat. Heat that demands cold showers and ice cream.
Not—
Shit, is that smoke?
I pull on a tank and shorts—it’s too hot for pajamas—and I run into the main room.
The kitchen, I guess. It’s all one room. Kitchen slash dining room slash den. Fridge, stove, counter, tiny table, TV.
Small by most people’s standards. But a good size for New York. Even if we’re practically in Long Island.