Imperfect Affections
“Just to confirm what I already knew. No hard feelings, darling. She looks expensive. How much do you pay her per hour?”
“Violet,” he growls.
“A thousand?” I say with a chuckle, grabbing a ridiculously high number from the sky.
His silence isn’t the answer I expected or wanted to hear. The gin and tonic isn’t strong enough to lessen the hurt or prepare me for the truth. It’s going to kill me, but I insist. “How much?”
His voice holds a warning, the kind that implies I’m not going to like what I hear. “Let it go.”
“How much, Leon?”
“Three thousand,” he grits out.
My laugh is harsh. “You have expensive taste in dates. Not so much in wives.”
“Wife, as in singular. I only have one, and I’m keeping it like that. And it wasn’t a date.”
“Whatever you call your sex transactions, you better get your money’s worth. It’ll be such a waste otherwise. Just don’t come home before you’ve showered. Better yet, don’t come home at all.”
I end the call and dump my phone on the counter, my hands shaking with humiliation and anger. Why the hell does it even affect me? Why can’t I simply not care?
Downing the last of my drink, I slam my glass on the counter.
“Another?” the barman asks. “Looks like you need it.”
“What’s the strongest drink with the quickest effect you have?”
He looks me up and down. “A tequila slammer will go straight to your head, but you’ll feel worse for it in the morning.”
“Bring it on.”
He shrugs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
If he knew the man I’m married to, he’d bring me ten.
When he puts the glass in front of me, I seal the top with my palm and bang the glass hard on the coaster. I’ve never drunk a tequila slammer, but I’ve seen how it’s done. The drink fizzles, boiling up to the top of the glass and coating my palm.
It’s a wild and messy drink. If I had to paint it, I’d color it white like the foam of crashing waves. Before the bubbling drink has lost its chaos, I chuck it down in one go. The mixture of tequila and lemonade tastes sweet and sparkly but leaves a bitter aftertaste that reminds me of turpentine. It’s disgusting.
A man sits down on the barstool next to me, not bothering to hide his grin. I turn on my seat to take him in. He has thick, blond hair and a day-old stubble. His suit is well-cut, and his shoes are polished to a shine.
Taking out his wallet, he pulls out a couple of bills and pinches them between a forefinger and thumb. “Can I buy you another one?”
I look between the money and his face. He’s neither young, nor old. If I do have another slammer, I may even see him as handsome.
Lifting my left hand, I wiggle my ring finger. Our marriage isn’t real, but I may as well use the rings on my finger for a purpose, even if their only purpose is chasing away unwelcome attention.
“Two slammers,” the guy says to the barman.
The barman shoots me a look, but he pours the shots.
“No thanks,” I say when the blond guy pushes one of the glasses toward me.
“You heard the barman. You look like you need it.”
What does he see when he looks at me? A traitor? An enemy? A quick lay? Someone to degrade and punish? A hundred bucks or a thousand? Can I pull off three thousand? How much am I worth? I know what Leon’s answer will be.
Laughing softly, I cup the glass between my palms. “Why did you buy me a drink?”
The guy frowns. “What?”
“You didn’t do it out of the goodness of your heart. Are you hoping for a quick hump against the wall outside? Or are you thinking for the price of a drink I’ll go home with you?”
He raises a brow. “You’re very direct.”
“How much will you pay me per hour?”