Private would mean Trent felt more comfortable; the brothel’s where I’d feel safest. “Sydenham,” I decide. Saves Trent’s staff or family from wandering in at the wrong time, too. “Next Saturday afternoon if that suits.”
Then I can get the whole thing done and go visit Mum after her nap, so she’ll stay awake for longer, chatting.
I can tell her the entire story and let her tell me off, tell me I shouldn’t get involved with clients, not like this.
Suddenly, I miss her so much that I’m tempted to cut class and head over to the home to visit with her right this minute. My arms ache to hug her, a proper hug like when I was little and ran into something and got a bump or fell and got a skinned knee. When it seemed there was nothing in the world that couldn’t be fixed with the application of her comforting arms and soothing voice. The nonsense words she’d murmur until I was relaxed enough to stop bawling my eyes out and tell her what was wrong.
“Fine by me.” He smiles, and it’s nice to smile back and not have to worry if he’s taking it the wrong way or think it promises something more than it should.
I scrawl my details onto a piece of notepaper and hand it over while he rolls his eyes at me. “What?”
“You’re writing a note for me while using your phone as the desk,” he says between chuckles. “Couldn’t you just use the same energy to send me an email?”
“Hey. Writing notes is an art form, okay?”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He peers at my handwriting, pulls another face, laughingly enunciates the entire message while typing it into his phone, then screws up the paper to throw it away.
“And now I have to ask for your number as well,” he adds. “Because otherwise something is certain to go wrong.”
“What’s yours?” I type it in and phone it immediately, rolling my eyes back at him. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic. You got any idea of what he’ll want us to do?”
One of the meeting rooms to the side of the lounge area is free and I haul him in there, nervous about being overheard. Probably the first big sign that I shouldn’t be doing what I’m doing.
“He likes things to get rough. How’d you feel about that?”
“Rough on you, rough on me, or rough on both of us?”
“Rough on me.” I pause and he waits, immediately understanding there’s more to it. The ease of that connection makes me wonder if I could ask for the whole thing. I’m not usually one to pose a question unless I’m fairly certain the answer will come back yes but I can go out on a limb more easily for someone else than I could for my own needs.
“Have you ever done rape fantasies?”
“Male on male, yeah. I had a client a few years back was into that sort of stuff.” He looks sceptical. “But that was after he’d been a client for a while. I’m not sure it would work as a one-off.”
“No, of course. Not for this time,” I babble, trying to undo the question before I even let him properly answer. “Just something to think about. In the future. If he wants to do it again.”
“Sure.” His smile grows wider. “And what’s your safe word?”
“Sugar. What’s yours?”
“Red. Why futz with a classic?”
My smile broadens. “Because people stop hearing it.”
“Not the people I hang around with.” He checks his phone again. “Thanks for the opportunity, anyway. A few more unexpected gigs and I might hit this cost-of-living crisis right in the nuts.”
“Sure.” I walk away, then turn back. “What’s the name of the client that Ceecee vetted you for?”
“God knows. I haven’t done any repeats but there’ve been a few over the last year or so. The last was three weeks ago. Big, bearded guy. She’ll know him.”
I think I know him, too. At least by sight.
“Send me whatever you want me to do, and we can go from there,” he suggests, checking his phone for the time. “I’ve got to run.”
I wave goodbye, hanging around for a few minutes longer just to kill time until my next lecture. Halfway through class, my laptop gives up the ghost and I grind my teeth to keep from swearing.
Out loud, that is. There’s plenty of it going on inside my head.
