A/N: As told from the POV of Elle, a redheaded country girl turned high-end prostitute.
~
I hadn't noticed him at first. He was so quiet, sitting there at the back of the room, that I just sort of forgot he existed. It never occurred to me that the lanky, sunburnt, wide-eyed kid was the most important person in the room. He had a forgettable kind of face, forlorn and empty. His eyes were even worse, underscored by dark bags of exhaustion and rimmed with red like he'd been crying. I focused on the more important looking guys in the room, the ones with three-piece suits and glasses of whiskey in their hands, the type who looked and talked like they could rule the world if only their overpoweringly rich parents would allow them more access to the family money. These were the guys I could squeeze the most cash from.
It wasn't hard working the room. I knew their type too well to let even one of them pass by without piquing their interest. These guys were into girls who were smart, but not too smart to intimidate their masculinity; outgoing, but not friendly enough to make them think them desperate; funny, but not Amy Schumer-type funny, more like quietly clever. I could be those things. I excelled at being those things. At that particular gala, I was so classy, so disarming that no one would realize I was a prostitute until I got them alone and presented my prices. By then, they'd be hooked on me, hard as a rock or wet as rain, and ready to pay any price.
Preparation is key. I'm short and always wear high heels that are just high enough to make my legs look long and graceful. I'm thin without much shape, so push-up bras and ass-hugging skirts are essential. I wear my makeup light but bold, my shoulder-length red hair curled and full. Even the way I walk is prepared. Long, lithe strides that make my hips move up and down so dramatically that it gives the illusion of a bigger booty. Got to get that jiggle just right.
There had been enough booze going around that the mass of potential johns was getting less polite and more handsy. If I woke up in the morning without a few handprints on my asscheek, I'd be surprised. It was the perfect moment to choose the john I most liked and make a move. Chances were, he'd be just buzzed enough, I'd be just flirty enough, and a night of raw fucking would be exchanged for that thing I live for.
Cash.
I picked him instantly. He was a big guy, the quarterback type. You know... Big, bronze, ballsy. He was the loudest of the group he was in, spitting out crude jokes between puffs on a cigar as thick as my wrist. In his early forties, he had thinning black hair that was greying around the temples, a subtle touch of nobility. I sauntered over to his side, studying his sharp jawline, imaging how it'd feel to plant dozens of kisses along it.
He had just finished up a particularly rude joke involving a blonde, two dogs, and a banana peel. Around him, his pals burst into uncontrollable laughter that had some of them almost spitting out their drinks. I joined in, laughing just loudly enough to let him know I had found him hilarious, but not too loud to be obnoxious. Naturally, my hand fell to his forearm. Instantly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a middle-aged woman move forward, stealthy as a cat, and grab at his wrist.
"There's someone I want you to meet, John." She trilled lightly, eying me darkly before leading her tipsy husband away.
I had noticed the wedding ring on his finger, but most of these guys had wives. Almost none of them brought them to these shindigs. I sighed and went to get another drink.
The bar was experiencing a lull, surprisingly enough. I ordered a gin and tonic.
"I'll have the same." The mopey voice drew my attention to that lanky kid I had forgotten about the second I had laid eyes on him.
He looked older up close. Sadder, too. He was closer to my age, early twenties. Along his jaw, a beard was struggling to grow, as sandy and light as the loose curls on his head. He had sharp features and hands that were oddly strong looking when compared to the rest of his skinny self. It was embarrassing, but he caught me looking at him. All he did was smile in passing and go back to tapping the countertop of the bar.
"Long night?" I initiated the conversation out of habit.
"And it's only just started."
