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How long can it take for Trap to drive around the block? It feels like he dropped me off hours ago. I slide my phone out of my bra and take a peek at the brightly lit screen.
Two minutes.
I’ve been standing outside the train station for only two minutes.
Trap’s Hummer pulls around the corner. He slows down as he approaches the curb, lowering the window on the passenger side.
I hide my phone away and step up to the gigantic car. It’s the largest vehicle in his garage, which makes it perfect for the game we’re playing.
“Hey,” I say, leaning forward to meet his gaze. I make a point of pressing my arms close to my sides, making my breasts test the limits of my lacy black bra. “Looking for a date?”
“I was hoping to find some company tonight.” The words sound like he’s dragging them over gravel. His white pleated shirt practically glows in the dark. He leans across and opens the passenger door. “Maybe you have a room somewhere? I can drive you home.”
I shake my head. “My roommate sleeps pretty light. I don’t want to wake her up.” I pretend to think for a moment, and then I give him my biggest fake smile. “But I’ve never seen a car like this before. It looks like it has a really big engine.”
He smirks. “Let me show you what it can do.”
I step off the curb and into the car. As I close the door, I wonder about women who really do this kind of work. What sort of nerve does it take to drive off with strangers? How scary is it to leave behind the relative safety of a well-lit train station, of waiting passengers, of help just a quick shout away?
“I don’t usually do this kind of thing,” I say, getting back to the game.
“Pretty girl like you,” Trap plays along. “It could be dangerous, out late at night. You’re lucky a nice guy like me came along.”
I fiddle with the hem of my skirt, raising it an inch or two. “About time something good happened to me. I just found out my landlord raised my rent. I’m going to end up a little short this month.”
If Trap appreciates my improvisation, he keeps it to himself. “How short?”
“Two hundred bucks,” I say. “But for extras, I’ll need four.”
“Extras?” he asks, his voice dropping a few notes.
I look up at him through my eyelashes. So much for sly suggestions; it’s time for hard-core negotiation. “You know,” I say. “Like the movies. Deep throat. Doggy style. You can come on my face or my tits.”
“What if I’m looking for something a little rougher than that?”
“I don’t do rough. Not if I don’t know my date.”
“I can make it worth your while. Six hundred, and you let me use handcuffs.”
I pretend like I’m thinking. “Eight. And you keep the key where I can see it.”
He takes out his money clip and counts out eight crisp hundred-dollar bills. I try not to grab them, waiting until he’s back on his side of the car before I tuck them into my bra.
I look back at the brightly lit entrance to the train station. “This time of night, the cops come around once an hour or so. Maybe you can drive us somewhere a little quieter?”
He doesn’t say a word. Just keys the ignition and puts the car in gear.
I don’t know where I thought he’d take me. It doesn’t make sense to go back to the house—he’d never invite an actual hooker past the freeport gates. We could go to a hotel; money’s no object. But that would leave a record, a charge on his credit card or a night manager who might inconveniently remember a rare cash transaction.
We can’t do anything the police can’t confirm as they follow up their investigation. So I shouldn’t be surprised when he drives us to a shady part of town. He seems to choose an alley at random, but I bet he’s done some research. He parks in the shadow of a massive black dumpster. After the headlights switch off, it’s very dark in the car.
“You look a little cold,” he says. “Maybe I can help you warm up, if you come sit over here?”
As I unfasten my seatbelt, he reclines his seat. It’s easier than I think it will be to climb across the console. His hands steady my hips as I straddle his legs. “Mmm,” I say, like I’m getting my first taste of my favorite flavor of ice cream. “Thisisbetter.”
Thinking ahead, I slide my hands under his black braces. The space is tight, but he sits up enough to give me room to slide those suspenders from his shoulders. While I’m at it, I work the diamond studs on his shirt. The cotton falls to either side, exposing the hard muscles of his chest and abs.
I can just make out the shadow of the stitches on his left shoulder. I want to lean down. I want to kiss them. I want to make them better.
