I sense her studying me a second before she says, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Can’t stop you.” I can, however, opt not to answer. Or opt to stretch the truth a bit more. I haven’t outright lied to her. It’s more that she assumed. And that I haven’t put her right.
This issogonna come back to bite me in the arse.
“You said you’d been to your ex’s wedding earlier. I suppose I’ve been wondering if she minded what you do for a living.”
“I have a rule.” I have a motto. Why not a rule? I scuff the soles of my shoes against the sidewalk for a step or two, stalling as I try to formulate said rule. “I don’t talk about my private life. Not when I’m with a date.” I sound like such a wanker. What woman would be interested in that level of bullshit?
“I could argue we’re not on a date.”
“And I would contend that, right now, you need me to be someone other than myself. So my private life remains just that.”
“But if I met you in Starbucks tomorrow, say?”
“Then someone hit me on the head and dragged me in there. Starbucks is all that’s wrong in the world.”
“It’s just coffee.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“It’s a hypothetical.”
We fall quiet, though she turns her head, anticipating more, as I inhale.
“I will say we parted on good terms.” Not a lie, because I thought we did.
“That must be nice. Not wanting to murder the person you used to love.”
I make a noncommittal noise in lieu of an answer. I can’t say I ever loved her, but I liked her enough to go to her wedding.Liked,past tense.
“You’re a nice guy. For doing this, I mean. But I’ve still got to pay you.”
I glance sharply her way.
“You just said this is a date, which I guess is a euphemism for abooking,” she says, lowering her voice as a group of twentysomethings passes the other way.
“Are you saying you’d like to make a booking?” My tone is low and suggestive as the devil takes hold of my tongue.
“Yeah. Yes. I mean, not likethat.” Her cheeks turn so adorably pink. “I want to pay you, but not for—”
“Fringe benefits?” The horror on her face as I draw out that first sound. How I manage not to crack up with laughter, I have no feckin’ idea.
“Exactly. Those. That.” Her pitch climbs adorably with each word, making her sound Southern for some reason. “What I mean is, I should pay you for your time.”
“Thanks, but this one’s on me.”I wish,I think absurdly. “On the house.”Instead of my fingers, my cock, and my face.
“That’s not right. I make good money. I paid Cuddle Carl—I can afford to pay you.”
“Except I’m not the kind of man you can hire for a couple hours.”
“Oh. Yeah. Right.” She nods, embarrassed. And that makes me feel a little bit shit. “So how long is your—”
Wanna suck it and see?Thankfully, the ’80s porn star voice and stupidity stay in my head.
“—usual appointment time?” she asks, oblivious to where my imagination has taken this. Taken us.
“That all depends on the circumstances. Not that it matters on this occasion.”
