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“I don’t think anything of Emerson,” I say angrily—because I really don’t.
“Just enough to quote him while you’re drunk, which is quite impressive,” she adds.
“Do you have a thing for guys that quote Emerson while they’re drunk? Because if you do, I have a whole catalogue up here,” I pause and raise an eyebrow, tapping my head, “just waiting.”
She shakes her head and looks as if she wants to laugh, but she doesn’t. “I don’t.”
“Surely you have better places to be than arguing about literature with a drunk.”
“I just—” she falters, as if she’s trying to frame her words carefully, “wanted to make sure you were okay.” She holds a bejeweled clutch under her arm and pulls the jacket closer around her shoulders. I don’t feel the chilly air. I don’t feel anything, but I can see goosebumps pebble against her skin. I would offer her my jacket, but it’s covered in whatever the fuck is on the ground, so I don’t bother.
“Hopefully Tony didn’t hurt you,” she adds, looking at my eye which has finally started to throb.
“I probably deserved it,” I admit, shrugging.
“Probably? You were pretty obnoxious.”
“I have no doubt. I just wish I had more time to do so. I could have quoted Hemingway for you,” I tease, lifting a conspiratorial eyebrow.
“You’re an obnoxious, charming sort of drunk, aren’t you?”
“Well, I suppose if one had to be a drunk, a charming drunk is the best kind,” I agree.
“I wouldn’t agree that’s something worthy of achieving,” she says in a smart aleck tone that I find very sexy—even if it’s meant to be an insult.
“You should call yourself a cab.” Her voice is laced with concern but not pity, even though I probably deserve it.
I’ve just been thrown out of a bar and I should go home. I should call a cab, but then I remember… “I don’t have a phone.”
“You don’t have a phone?” she laughs.
“I threw it in the garbage.”
“Well, that was a stupid thing to do.”
“I do a lot of stupid things,” I say, which is the truth.
“I can see that.” She chews on her lip as if she’s working something out in that pretty little mind of hers. “Just get home safe,” she says, and when she starts to walk away, the prospect of never seeing her again dawns on me. “How much?”
I realize my assumption is coming from a place of privilege and general assholery but I say it anyway, because the only thing better then drinking yourself into oblivion is fucking yourself into one.
She slowly turns around, piercing me with those pale blue eyes, and God, I can feel them burn right through me. My heart starts to speed up as if each beat has a name, pressing into me with such assured force. It could be the coke from earlier or the many, many glasses of whiskey I had tonight, but I don’t think so.
“Excuse me?” She tilts her head, the wheat-colored locks falling over her one shoulder, and I want to reach out and feel the silky strands between my fingers in the same way I want to run my hand up her leg and under her dress. “You think I’m a prostitute?”
“Look at me.” I motion to my dirty jeans, and what I now realize is a tear in my shirt. “I’m not a cop.” I manage to give her a charming smile in hopes it gives me a better chance. She hesitates for a moment while assessing me. If she’s looking for some redeeming feature, some nobility like my father, she’s not going to find it.
“I’m drunk and harmless.” I give her a lopsided smile. Only a true self-respecting degenerate son of a senator would know an escort when he sees one. A very good one at that. So no, she’s not a prostitute, but she does fuck for money. I know that much for sure.
She closes the few feet between us, and I think she’s going to kick me in the balls. I move to block her, but she just looks me up and down in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
“You don’t look like you could afford me.” She tucks the little sequined purse further under her arm as if challenging me to either prove her wrong or give her a reason to stay. The sad look in her eyes gives me the feeling she doesn’t really want to be alone either.
I pull out my wallet and show her my black card, along with a wad of cash.
She lifts an eyebrow and then looks around the alley as if we’re going to be jumped any minute. I think that she’s going to tell me to fuck off, which I would deserve, but instead she asks, “Do you have a room?”
“Yes,” I reply, “but I need to stop somewhere first.”
