He didn’t.

I rearranged my face into an appealing pout, hoping that would motivate him to say something.

The silence dragged on.

Christ, I hated it when they wouldn’t talk. I never knew what to say. Come here often? “I heard you asked for me,” I said finally, desperate to break the mounting tension. I wanted him to quit looking at me with such laser-like intensity.

“I did,” he said, and then lapsed back into silence.

I couldn’t decide if he was doing it on purpose, to set me off-kilter, or if he really didn’t have anything to say. And I couldn’t decide which of those possibilities I preferred.

“Did you follow me here?” I asked. I didn’t mean to, but it burst out of me, and as soon as I said it, I was glad that I did. I wanted to know. If he had followed me to the club after he helped me on the street yesterday, I was going to kick up a huge fuss and have Germaine call the cops, because that was creepy.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said. “You’re not that attractive.”

That stung. He’d been so nice to me the day before. I didn’t like the change. It didn’t come as a surprise, though. Yesterday, I had been a cute girl in distress; today, I was a woman who sold her body for money. Different operating procedures. “Well, it’s just weird,” I said. “That you were here last night. I’ve never seen you at the club before.”

“I’ve been here many times,” he said. “Our encounter on the sidewalk was pure coincidence. Does that reassure you?”

“I guess so,” I said. I wanted to cross my arms over my chest, hiding myself from his gaze, but I resisted the impulse. “So, um. You asked for me.”

“I did,” he said again. He watched me for a moment, and then he placed his right hand on my shoulder, and slowly slid it down my arm to curl around my elbow. “Tell me your name.”

“Sassy,” I said. “Sassy Belle.”

“That can’t be your real name,” he said, “but I won’t press the matter.” His eyes bored into me, tunneling deep into the places I preferred to keep hidden. “How much?”

“How much what?” I asked.

“Don’t play coy,” he said. “How much do I have to pay you?”

I swallowed, my throat working. “For what?”

“For everything,” he said.

I realized then, with sort of a belated, dawning awareness, that I was turned on.

If he wanted everything, well—I wanted to give it to him.

“I don’t charge an hourly rate,” I said. “If my clients choose to tip me, that’s up to them.”

“Your clients,” he repeated, and his hand tightened on my arm. “How many?”

“What, you want an exact number?” I asked. “I’m not going to tell you that.”

“Many, I take it,” he drawled. “Whores are all the same. Greedy. You’ll suck a man dry and leave him for dead.”

“I think that’s a succubus,” I said, because I had a smart mouth and never knew when to keep it shut; and because I was angry, and humiliated, and I didn’t like being referred to as a whore. I wasn’t. Or, okay: I was, but he didn’t have to say it like that.

I wished that I was in the room with the careful, decisive man from yesterday. Not this condescending jerk.

That was life, though.

“If you’re a succubus, then at least I’ll die happy,” he said. “No hourly charge, hmm? That sounds like a precarious way to do business. How do you know that your… clients… won’t simply enjoy your services and skip the gratuity?”

“If they do, I won’t entertain them again,” I said. I was starting to get annoyed with the interrogation. Did he want to fuck, or did he just want to chat about my business practices?

“A mercenary approach,” he said. “I can appreciate that.” He leaned in, until his mouth was pressed against my ear, and when he spoke, I felt his lips brushing against my earlobe. “So, Sassy Belle. Are you ready to entertain me?”

3

Most of the time, when something important happened, I only realized it in hindsight. Pivotal moments tended to go unnoticed until I had enough time and space to look back and think: Oh. That was it. That was when it happened.

But sometimes, those moments grabbed me by the collar and flashed huge neon letters that read, HERE I AM! PAY ATTENTION!

Staring up at the man in the black suit, I realized that I was right smack in the middle of one of those moments.

I could turn him down and walk away, go back to the seraglio and dance on stage as usual, maybe entertain a client or two, and keep on living my familiar, routine life.

Or I could stay in that room with him, and find out what happened next.

Deciding was impossible. There were too many factors to consider, and I was afraid of making the wrong choice. I usually was. Paralyzed by indecision in the face of major life upheavals: basically par for the course, for me.

Then he said, “I’ll take that as a yes,” and it was out of my hands.

Growing up, whenever I couldn’t make a decision, my dad told me to flip a coin, and in the instant before it landed, I would know what I really wanted. The man in the suit bent his head toward me, eyes closing, and I knew, then, that by not speaking, I had already made my choice.

I wanted him to own me.

He very lightly pressed his mouth against mine, the barest of pressures, and then lifted his head again. He looked satisfied, like we had just signed a contract. Maybe we had.

I forced myself out of my stupor. “Ground rules,” I said.

He laughed without humor. “Of course. How unsurprising. What am I allowed to touch: each leg below the knee?”

Was the reference to yesterday’s encounter meant to humiliate me? I couldn’t decipher the undercurrents of everything he said, and so I decided to ignore his subtle maybe-jabs. “You can touch whatever you want,” I said. “But I don’t touch you. That’s my main rule. Your pants stay zipped, and your clothes stay on.”

“Whore and Madonna in one,” he said. “Very well. What else?”

“If I say no, you stop.” I met his eyes, doing my best to convey exactly how much I wasn’t kidding around.

“And what else?” he asked.

“That’s all,” I said. “I’m not too high-maintenance.”