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"Well," she said, now looking nervous. Perhaps she wasn't used to compliments; maybe it was someone else. "My mother is Italian. My father was born and bred in the USA."
I nod. "Pick you up at 9?"
"Sounds good. The bar's shutting early tonight. The big boss needs the place to himself."
I don't ask any questions. Around here, just like the rest of my life, I follow the don't ask, don't tell policy.
When I return at 9, she's waiting for me, all dolled up. I try to keep my eyes on hers because I know I'd get lost in the curves if I don't.
She's wearing a shimmery black top with thin straps, loose around her figure but low-cut, tucked into a short, very short, tight black leather skirt.
"You really ought to cover up," I say.
"I'm with you, aren't I?" she dares me, her eyes glistening with rebellion. "Would anyone harm me if I'm with you?"
"No one would dare," I retort.
Something tells me she's done her research on who I am. After all, I did tell her my name earlier today.
As we get in my car, she instructs me to drive her somewhere quiet. "I'm tired of bars and restaurants. For me, that's just a reminder of work."
"Do you want to go to my place?" I ask cautiously. I don't want her to think I'm too eager.
"Yes, please," she mutters.
We reach my house. I wait for her to react as the magnificent mansion comes into view.
But she sits content through it all. From the moment we entered through the wrought iron gates, drove down the winding driveway, and crossed the Olympic size pool with the fountains - she could have cared less.
Every single woman I brought home in the past gave a fuck. Some pretended to hide it, and some asked me all about it. She looks like this is her local seven-eleven.
And I feel slightly worried. Should I be concerned?
But then I observe her face, and she looks lost in thought, her eyes glazed over as she stares out of the window.
"We're here," I say, putting the car into its slot. I open the door for her, and she steps out slowly.
"Is something on your mind?" I ask.
Her eyes dart at me like a deer caught in the headlights. "No. Just some news from home."
"Good or bad?" I ask.
She shrugs her shoulders non-committedly. "I don't want to talk about it," she says.
"Where are you from?" I ask her.
"Chicago," she lies. After all, her accent tells otherwise. But I don't probe. Everyone's entitled to a secret or two in our world.
"How old are you?" I inquire as we head inside.
"Nineteen."
"Ah... young."
"You?" she looks at me.
"Guess?"
