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I decide to stop walking in the middle of the block and hike my skirt up enough to show off my thigh tattoo. My knee-high boots always make my legs look longer when my skirt is higher up, but I really wear them to cover the tears in my fishnet stockings. I proceed to rummage around in my small clutch for a cigarette, not that I have any, but perhaps he’s just waiting for an opportunity in which I’m not being so blatant about selling my cunt and then he’ll finally approach me. If he doesn’t, I’ll just leave this block and go chat with Honey. She likes me, so there’s always a good chance that if she hooks a John tonight, she’ll let me tag along and I’ll earn some money. We’ve done that before, the two of us. She sets a price for her and charges an extra hundred bucks to ‘bring along a friend.’ She gives me the hundred, tells me that I’m far too pretty to be on the street, and that I’ll go back to my “junkie ways if I don’t find a hobby soon.”
She may be right, but I haven’t touched that shit in almost six months and I still can’t think of anything better to do with my time. I wonder if I’ll ever get myself off the streets before I wind up just another dead whore in a dark alleyway. Some days, even that doesn’t sound so bad.
The sound of a car door opening then closing makes me smile. I guess he’s one of the shy ones that needs me to be distracted before he has the balls to approach me. That’s just fine with me. The shy ones are usually nicer, and I can usually set a higher price because this isn’t something they do very often. They just get lonely and need someone to talk to for the most part—that or a quick handjob and they’re on their way.
I keep my eyes inside of my almost empty clutch and wait to glance up until he stops right in front of me. I smile at him as seductively as I can in this biting cold weather, and I am honestly surprised when my fingers brush against a lone, half smoked cigarette at the bottom of my bag.
“Got a light?” I ask him, placing the stub between my teeth and giving him the once over.
He’s not bad looking. Big black-framed glasses rest on a kind face, and he’s got that James Dean bad boy thing going on with his hair. He’s dressed warmly and much more appropriately than I am for the night. As I reach forward to run a hand down the interior of his black bomber jacket, he smiles slightly.
“Sorry. I don’t smoke,” he murmurs, running a hand back through his hair.
“I guess I don’t either then,” I say as I flick the stub into the street. I close my clutch quickly and pull my skirt back down. Now that I have his attention I don’t need to show him anymore than he’s willing to pay for.
His eyes wander down to my hand and he chuckles softly. “What’s your name?”
“Burgundy,” I reply.
“Because of your lipstick, right? No. I want your real name,” he responds, his tone changing slightly.
“I don’t tell my real name,” I reply, rolling my eyes.
“Then I guess I’ll move down the block,” he states with a nod, turning on his heel to head back to his car.
I bite my lip for a second as I watch Mr. Fancy Jacket stuff his hands into his pockets and walk away. If he can afford a coat like that, then he definitely has more than five dollars to burn.
“Wait!” I call out, quickly following him into the street.
He turns and raises an eyebrow. He’s reached his car by now, and he leans patiently against the hood while waiting for me to catch up to him.
“Why?” I ask curiously.
“I just like to know who I’m dealing with,” he replies with a simple shrug. One of his hands reappears to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, before he again places it in his pocket.
I sigh and stick my clutch under my arm. I don’t like telling anyone my real name because that makes business too personal. Even Honey Bee doesn’t know it. I don’t know hers either, now that I think about it, but that’s because we both know where to draw the line on shit like this.
“What’s yours?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Lowell,” he replies with a bright smile spreading across his face. It figures—a nerdy name for a somewhat hot, nerdy guy.
“Cessi,” I concede quietly.
“Was that really so hard?” he asks as his smile transforms into a wide, sexy grin.
I shrug and glance into his car. It’s clean and neat, much like his appearance, and I bet it’s warmer in there than it is out here.
“What are you looking for tonight?” I ask, turning my attention back to his big, brown, soul catching eyes.
“Lowell,” he finishes.
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“What?” I ask in confusion.
“’What are you looking for tonight, Lowell.’ It’s quite alright with me if you call me by my name and for now, I’ll call you ‘Burgundy’, until you feel it’s alright for me to address you otherwise,” he says warmly.
“Okay,” I reply indifferently. At this point, I could give two shits if he has money. He seems to be playing games and that’s making me rethink this entire thing.
