Even dancers like Willow, who think they’re hot shit.

The music ends, and I hand Willow the two hundred.

She smiles and says, “Thanks, Jimmy.”

“Chris,” I say.

Willow smiles and tosses her head the way pretty women do when they know you want them. She walks away, confident my eyes are on her ass.

Thanks Jimmy, she’d said, all matter-of-fact.

Like it’s every day she gets two hundred bucks for a lap dance.

In her mind she’s got me right where she wants me.

I can’t wait to see her face when she hears about Cameron’s tip.

2.

 

“OH MY GOD, you were incredible!” Willow gushes, three hours later. “Best sex I ever had!”

I’m lying.

I mean, yeah, we had sex, and I did my part, but Willow was barely involved.

She’s lying on the bed, on her side, her back toward me. When she’s sure I’m done, she moves forward till I slide out of her. She sits up, wipes herself with the bed sheet, and turns to watch me remove the condom and set it on the nightstand.

She regards it with disgust. Then gives me the same look.

Makes sense.

She’s eighteen, I’m forty-two. It is disgusting.

From her perspective.

I prop a pillow beneath my neck and settle in to relax, but catch her looking away, and take the opportunity to suddenly lift my head and kiss her boob.

She recoils when she realizes my lips touched her skin. Now she’s glaring at me to show how she feels about the unwelcome assault.

I lean back onto the pillow and stare at her in the lamplight. This is where I’d tell her she’s beautiful, if I thought she gave a shit what I thought.

She is beautiful, though.

“Mind if I light one?” she says.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

Willow frowns. She’s not happy, but she’ll get over it. She’s two grand richer than she was ten minutes ago.

“Is this what you do?” she says.

“What?”

“Go from club to club, trolling for sex?”

“I would if I could. But my wife rarely leaves town.”

“She’s not coming home tonight, is she?”

“No. She won’t be home till noon tomorrow.”

“You don’t act like a first-timer,” she says.

“I’ve been to clubs before, but never asked anyone to follow me home.”

“I’m honored,” she says, sounding anything but.

Willow’s making small talk, waiting it out. She’s been paid a huge sum for ten minutes of talk, five minutes of sex. She figures I expect an hour for my cash, and she’ll mentally calculate it before attempting her escape.

“You got a boyfriend?” I ask.

“Yes.”

She’s telling the truth. She and Bobby Mitchell live together in an apartment on Dillingham. She doesn’t know I know this. Mitchell is a local tough guy.