Page 25 of Trailer Trash

She glides from room to room. That curvy body drowns in those stupid scrubs — except for her round ass that nearly landed on my lap earlier. She seemed like she wanted to. I’m probably lying to myself. Look at her. Her hair is still tied back in a wild bun. No makeup. No stolen glances. She must really despise me.

“There aren’t any pictures of you on the wall,” she says.

“No. It’ll stay that way with my face like this,” I reply with a half-smile, but instantly regret it.

No joking.

Of course, she doesn’t laugh.

The lack of my pictures on the walls isn’t funny, anyway. The truth around here is never funny.

She doesn’t speak much after that, just observes as she learns the layout. It makes it difficult to figure her out, but I’ll be patient.

“This is my floor.” The elevator doors open.

She steps off slowly, gawking at my posh living space. It has everything a separate house would, and more. A luxury kitchen, living room, bedrooms, aquarium, bar, theater, gym, and even a sauna.

I hoist myself onto the kitchen counter.

“You like?”

“It’s nice,” she replies, looking a little overwhelmed.

“Good. Make yourself at home.”

No smile.

She opens the refrigerator and retrieves a bottle of water.

“Looks bare,” she says.

“I have been gone for months, but if you want any special snacks or meals, just put it on the list. Our chef fills the fridge.”

“Chef,” she whispers.

Okay. No jokes. No money-talk.

I change the subject. “What do you want to do? We can watch a movie. Play pool. Massage each other.”

Ah, fuck. I can’t help it. I like making women laugh and I’m a giant flirt. They usually love it.

Not Harlow.

She rolls her eyes.

“Show me your bedroom,” she says abruptly.

I purse my lips, keeping another joke behind my teeth.

Instead, I lead the way and flip on the light. It’s simple. King-size bed, black and grey colors with white walls and carpet. Giant television. Art all around. Mostly graffiti-style. Street art in an upscale space. The room smells faintly of my cologne and fresh laundry. It’s my style. It is the only room that fights against the mansion.

“Alright, I’ve thought of another rule,” she starts. “You may not like it, but it’s important.”

I narrow my eyes. “Go ahead.”

“I can search this floor anytime.”

My stomach drops.