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"What do you do?" he asks again.
"I'm a librarian." He's not impressed. "A shot girl? A florist?" He doesn't say anything and my humor fades. Against my better judgment, I decide to get real with him. "Do you want me to say prostitute, James? Because that's what I am. But you already know that."
He doesn't even flinch. "I want the truth."
I frown. "Why? What does it matter? Is this a test or something? Are you going to report me?"
He doesn't say anything, just sits there waiting patiently.
"I'm in college."
"Which one?"
"One in the five boroughs. Take your pick. There’re tons. I'm just your typical struggling college student, only I was raised with very little means. I have to work myself to the bone for everything I have, and now I'm trying to support the only family I have left. Selling my body makes me more money in one week than I would make in six months at a respectable job, and since I've always liked sex, mainly one-night stands, I’m making my peace with this line of work."
"You have commitment issues," he states, curiosity in his voice.
I look him dead in the eye and tell him how I really feel. "No, I don't. I've just never found anyone I actually want to give myself to long enough, someone who can handle me with my odd sense of humor and realist views and not be offended easily. I'm also young and I don't care to be locked down just yet, to be honest. Not to mention I have family to support, so my free time is limited anyway."
"So then the idea of being trapped worries you," he says, and I notice that he's twirling his wedding ring as he speaks.
My chest tightens. "Yes, it does, but I don't know why. Seriously, what man is going to want me anyway after he learns I've been around the block more than a few times, and in more than a few ways? He’s going to have to be willing to look past all my imperfections. I'll be lucky if I ever find him."
"But what if the right one comes along and gives you all you ask for?"
I shake my head and grimace at him. "It won't happen. I don't go out much, and I'm not going to meet someone like that in my line of work, that's for sure."
"Understandable you feel that way, but say you meet someone in a coffee shop and they're able to give you that?"
"Then I'd say it’s happenstance, but I don't believe in that."
He seems amused. "Of course you don't. You know, subs are seen as an equal."
"That's great," I snap sarcastically. "I'm not looking to be dominated by any man, but name your price and I just might." I wink then get serious. "You don't see me as an equal, and you never will."
His forehead creases. James seems hurt by my comment but I don't let it bother me.
"Why do you say that?"
"You're paying me for a good time and nothing more. What man is ever going to see a hooker as their equal? I'm below you."
He shakes his head, then takes a sip of his drink. "You don't get it, do you, Valentina? I don't give a shit how many partners you or anyone else I’m with have had. I see you as an equal because you do what you have to in order to get by. Same as me. It doesn’t matter what job title you have. The world is
going to judge you regardless of that. We're not so different like you think. There's not a single person in this world who's honest in their business. Not even a fucking priest walks the straight and narrow line, they're fucking little boys in the confessional. You want to go toe-to-toe all night? I'm game, sweetheart. Name your price and I'm all yours." He smirks. "I win all my cases."
That gets a rise out of me, but I'm not angry. He's feeding my words back to me, but playfully, and I'm okay with that.
"Cocky, much?" I say.
He shrugs shamelessly. "I won't apologize for who I am."
I exhale a breath through my nose and decide to change the topic. James was probably born with a silver spoon in his mouth and grew up in a penthouse with a private entrance and butlers. He probably never wanted for anything. He'll never understand my struggles in life.
"Tell me what your tattoos mean."
If he wants to play, then I'll play my way.
James unbuttons his shirt and pulls the material from his pants, letting it hang at his sides. I despise myself for admitting that he looks sexy like this, but damn, he does. He's got abs, but they're not pronounced like the washboard kind are. His remind me of the ones you get from actual hard, back-breaking labor. It takes everything in me not to marvel over his toned, ink-covered body and run my hands over him. But the best part is he doesn't have much chest hair. I love that. I can clearly see each stroke of the ink pen, the beautiful colors and shades of the rainbow. It's mesmerizing. One of his arms is completely inked, along with his chest and one side of his neck. He tells me he's leaving his right arm for something special that hasn't happened yet, but that he'll know when it does.
