Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 59930 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59930 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
“I’m actually working. They were short-staffed, so I agreed to cover a four-to-midnight shift. What are you doing?”
I almost said I was working too, but I caught myself in time and told him, “I have a date.”
“Is he someone you’ve been out with before?”
“No. Someone new.” I hated it when he started asking questions. The last thing I ever wanted to do was lie to him, but I really didn’t feel I had a choice.
“What’s he like?”
Damn it, more questions. “I don’t know. We’ve only exchanged a few messages. We’re meeting for dinner so we can get to know each other a bit.” As always, I tried to answer as truthfully as I could.
I wondered if there’d ever come a time, maybe years from now, where I’d be able to have an open and honest discussion with Eden about these few months. There was a lot I wanted him to understand, including the fact that it wasn’t just about the money. This job made me feel desirable, for the first time in my life. It also taught me so much about my sexuality, my insecurities, and my limits.
But he’d never understand that. How could he? Eden really believed in the law and had dedicated his career to upholding it. If something was illegal, it was wrong. That was all there was to it.
I remembered a few years ago when Casey had bought some pot, before it was legal in any state. Eden had been livid, even though he freely admitted he didn’t think there was anything harmful about it. His only objection had been that Casey was breaking the law, and he’d absolutely refused to participate. My brother had ended up throwing it out, because he decided it wasn’t worth the friction it created between him and his best friend. If a tiny bag of weed could cause that much conflict, I could only imagine Eden’s response to finding out I was a prostitute.
When we got home, we found Casey sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee and a paperback. “Hey,” I said. “How’s the hangover?”
“I’ll live.”
Eden asked, “Did George get home yet?”
Casey looked amused. “Yeah, about half an hour ago. His new girlfriend’s driver brought him home in a town car. George went to take a nap, because he said he didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Eden grimaced at that, and I repeated, “Her driver?”
“Yup. It sounds like George found himself a sugar mama. Apparently she has a ‘swanky pad’ in Pacific Heights—George’s words, not mine. He’s going back to her place for dinner tonight,” Casey said.
“Well, I’m absolutely thrilled for him,” I said. Eden just looked concerned.
Several hours later, I found myself in an extremely upscale restaurant, dressed in my new suit. I didn’t even like wine, but I was pouring glass after glass of it down my throat just to make this “date” more bearable.
My dinner companion was one of the most arrogant human beings I’d ever had the misfortune of meeting. He just had to tell me all about himself, his successful business, the famous people he knew—it went on and on.
So did the meal. It was some sort of multiple-course tasting menu, which meant small portions of fancy shit were being presented at a glacier’s pace. The last plate had consisted of a single slice of radish, sitting on top of a ping pong ball of savory panna cotta like a sombrero.
The dish was sprinkled with “micro greens,” which made zero sense to me. It was like someone said, “You know, I’d really love a salad, but what if it was fucking tiny?” And then all these pretentious chefs got on the tiny salad bandwagon and made it a thing.
Even worse, this weird little edible experiment was topped off with a foam that looked alarmingly like someone had spit on the plate. I had to fight my gag reflex, just from looking at it.
But since I was actually getting paid to be here, all I could do was pretend to be interested in both the ridiculous food and the self-centered monologue. I couldn’t wait for it to be over, so I could get as far away from this place and this man as possible. Maybe I’d treat myself to a pizza, since I knew I’d be leaving here hungry.
And I definitely wasn’t going home with this guy. I’d decided that within ninety seconds of meeting him. He hadn’t even gotten around to telling me about his kinks yet, but it didn’t matter. No amount of money would entice me to spend the night with him. He was just an awful human being, and since I didn’t hate myself, there was no way I’d actually allow him to touch me.
What course were we on, three? I started to think I wasn’t going to make it through this meal. The idea of handing this man’s money back to him, getting up, and walking out was sounding better and better. He really seemed like someone who’d make a scene, though. This pretentious restaurant was crowded, and the thought of all these rich people turning to stare at me kept me in my seat.