“Ugh,” Ceecee says, wandering in from her room. “Want to swap client lists? My three o’clock just called to cancel.”
“You’re kidding? It’s nearly four.” I pull out an extra mug and spoon in the coffee and three sugars for her. “You need to institute a cancellation fee.”
“I’m sure that’d go over a hit.” She pulls an extra chair close to the one she’s sitting on to put her feet up. “You done for the day?”
I nod, settling into a chair opposite and gulping at my coffee.
“Did Rina tell you the new fees?”
I groan, tilting my head back until I’m staring at the ceiling. “Please, no. I’m barely skating by as it is.”
With a dozen regulars—some weekly, some fortnightly—filling out my eight appointments a week, I already work four half-days.
From that, once I deduct the rent and utilities for this place, the subsidised rent for my flat andthoseshared utilities, then set aside the weekly provision for my quarterly student fees, then deduct incidentals like textbooks or materials, I’m left with about forty bucks a week to my name.
Not even enough for a daily coffee and muffin from the student café.
“The insurance adjustor decided we’re a moral hazard and bumped the rates.”
“How much?”
When she supplies the new figure, I wince, instantly recalibrating my income against expenses and forecasting for the rest of the year.
“You could sublease,” Ceecee reassures me as my expression tells her exactly where my calculations landed. “There’s a girl at the prossie collective who’s looking for a new spot but can’t afford a full room. A few hours here and there will cover it.”
“Nah, you’re good. I’ll sort something out.”
I don’t mind the share arrangement we have; God knows I could never afford a place on my own and there’s no way I want to work from my flat. But there’s a world of difference between renting a room in a shared house and sharing an actual bed.
With another appointment, maybe two, per week, I’ll be fine. The problem is finding a regular who fits into my available timetable and passes my screening. The mental energy required for my subs means I’m already at my limit there, and I’m on the pricey end for straight sex, which makes it harder to find repeat business.
“Let me know if you change your mind.”
My thoughts are so taken up with the increase, I lose track of time while stripping the bed and putting the sheets in the wash. There’s another set ready in the dryer and I use those rather than folding them and taking from the top of the stack in the linen cupboard.
When I check the time on my phone, it’s gone past four-thirty. I come back to earth with a start, racing from the door, making my bus with seconds to spare.
The owner-operated brothel is in Sydenham and my flat is all the way over in Papanui, a twenty-minute drive that takes me a change of bus at the exchange and a spare hour ten since I rely on public transport.
It doesn’t help that I need to collect my laptop from a tiny repair shop in the central city. By the time I make it to the counter, the assistant pointedly frowns at the clock.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
The bespectacled boy gives a grunt and holds out his hand. I stare at it for a moment before my brain clicks into gear, reminding me there was a claim stub.
Thankfully, it’s in the third place I look.
He brings the battered computer to the front desk, opening it to display the replaced screen.
“Beautiful. How much?”
“There was a lot of spyware on the hard drive I had to clear.”
“Mm-hm.” I school my features so the impatience doesn’t leak onto my face. Given I’m the one keeping him past closing, it wouldn’t be appreciated. “Must be all those porn sites I visit.”
He cracks a smile that makes him look about twelve, then his face resumes its blankness. “Not that sort… There was stuff tracking keystrokes and a program to take over the webcam.”
My stomach gives a nasty jolt. “The camera? Like… remotely?”
