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“What can I do for you?” he muttered, wiping a glass with a rather dirty rag as I slid my elbows onto the countertop.
“I’m looking for a pink Bugatti.”
He didn’t even look up from his polishing.
“Elevators behind me and to the left. Thirtieth floor, Door C. Knock three times.”
“Thank—”
But he’d turned around before I could finish. Whatever, I thought with exasperation. Guys like him had seen everything, and were determined to let you know as much. A girl going to sell her virginity was just a normal Friday night. Hell, a dull one, at that.
I left him a dollar bill in appreciation. Coming from the service industry, I knew that even the smallest piece of assistance ought to be rewarded with some payment. If it weren’t for tips, I’d be practically on the street.
After pushing back from the bar, I followed his instructions with care: Elevator. Thirtieth floor. Door C. Knock three times.
Soon enough, I was standing in an unassuming empty hallway, my closed fist wrapping on a door. I took a step back, waiting for someone to open it, and tried not to bite my fingernails. What if the bartender had given me the wrong instructions? This certainly didn’t look like an entertainment spot for the rich and famous.
And then a door opened.
“Kiki?”
It was the man I’d talked to on the phone. Though his voice was bland, I recognized it immediately. Maybe my adrenaline had imprinted his sound on my brain.
“Yes.”
“Come on in.”
He flung open the door and I walked inside.
It was a backroom, not unlike a coat closet. There was a mirror, a few errant beauty supplies — cotton pads, a hairbrush — just touchup materials. A hanger, presumably for my jacket. A bottle of tequila, definitely for my nerves. On the opposite side of the room, no more than ten feet away, was a door.
“I’ll leave you to get ready,” he said. “You’ll hear me over the speakerphone when we want you to make your entrance.”
I nodded. “How do I enter?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You move those two nice legs of yours and walk inside. Don’t slump. Not complicated.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“Oh, and you’ll be behind glass, so nobody’s gonna come prod you or nothing.”
“Great,” I said, though up until then the possibility that the guys would want to touch me hadn’t even crossed my mind.
“Good luck.”
He walked out the door, slamming it behind him and leaving me alone in the room.
I stepped further inside, taking a deep breath.
“Relax,” I instructed myself. “You’re ready for this.”
I was too cold to take off my coat, so I just traveled to the mirror to inspect my face, hoping that would kill however much time needed to elapse before the sale could begin.
As I was leaning down to examine myself, I caught a decorative feature of the room I hadn’t noticed upon walking in.
Above the mirror, stuck into the tiny gap between the glass and the wall, were a series of Polaroids.
I saddled up closer to the mirror to get a good look at the pictures.
They were a series of young women — certainly younger than me — in lingerie. All the photos were taken in this backroom — I recognized the mirror. The girls were making a whole array of expressions — some were smiling and posing, others had their arms across their chest and wore blank looks. None appeared frightened, but rather, nervous.
I recognized that they were the girls who had sold before me. Without thinking, my fingers went up to their pictures and skimmed across the white edges. I was joining a secret society of women I would never get to meet. What an unusual feeling.
As my eyes scoured their faces, I realized that besides being younger than me, they were all prettier than me, too. My heart, which had been soaring on the RES casino floor, suddenly sank. Had I gotten too cocky for my own good? And what would these men think, when after so many Amazonian vixens, they got little old me, with my big mouth and boring life?
Feelings of inadequacy descended upon me. What if I didn’t sell at all? That would be humiliating. Or would it be worse to sell, but for a low price? Ugh, even after a week of fretting, none of this had even crossed my mind. The closer I looked, the more complicated and nuanced the situation became.
Then a truly unwelcome thought flickered across my brain.
If I weren’t doing this, I could’ve hooked up with Tate the other night.
Sure, I’d given a litany of other excuses, and all of them were accurate enough, but the ultimate truth was that I hadn’t taken it further with him in the knowledge that I wouldn’t be able to keep my pants on. Hell, if I’d turned down this sale, I could be cozied up with him right then, sitting in front of a fire and eating my favorite Ritz crackers.
