Page 15 of Mayhem and Minnie

“So you do want me,” she murmurs, her voice dropping an octave.

“To leave me alone,” I add. Grabbing her by the arms carefully so I don’t touch her skin, I deposit her back in her seat.

She gasps, her eyes wide with shock.

I shake my head at her.

“You’re a hooker, aren’t you? I get you need to make money and whatever, but you’re doing it all wrong,” I tell her. “You can’t go out dressed like this or you’ll freeze to death, and then you won’t make any money at all. And you should probably change your stakeout area. There are all sorts of creeps on the highway, truck drivers and the like. They’re not known to be the most hygienic. But there’s also the danger of running into a serial killer and the next thing you know, you’re all chopped up and dumped somewhere,” I add seriously.

I mean, I should know. I am one. But she’s lucky she came across this particular serial killer, since I do have my standards. I’m also not a fan of chopping. I like to incinerate my victims after they’ve endured the most grotesque pain imaginable.

She gawks at me, her mouth wide open.

“W-what?” she stammers.

“I’m not judging you. Hell, in this economy, anything’s fair game. But you’re too vulnerable. You’re smaller than the average woman, and”—I pause as I peruse her—“you don’t seem to have any weapon. You should get one.”

“What are you?—”

“In fact, I’ll help you. I’m sure I can find you a workhouse or something—by that I mean a brothel—where you can continue to ply your trade sans the danger.”

I nod, satisfied.

Who knew I was so magnanimous?

My mother would be beside herself with glee if she heard about this.

Alas, I don’t plan to tell her. The moment she realizes I’ve been in the vicinity of a prostitute, she’ll start making assumptions and I’ll never hear the end of it. Just the fact that I hung out with a female once would be enough to give her something to talk about for years to come, always ending with the same question—when will I give her grandchildren.

Right about fucking never.

But I don’t tell her that. It would break her heart. Both the swearing and the fact that I have no plans of having kids. Ever. It’s better if she still has some hope that her dream will one day come true. She’s certainly become more insistent about it since I’m nearing my thirties.

“You think I’m a…hooker?” she speaks slowly, her tone implying shock.

“You don’t have to sound offended. I told you, I’m not judging you,” I say with a wave of my hand.

“But I’m not!” she cries out. “How could you even think that?” she demands, covering her chest with her arms.

“How could I not?” I ask with a raised brow.

“You… You…” She blinks rapidly as she sputters. “You’re an asshole!” she exclaims loudly, pointing a finger at me.

I smile, now entirely more comfortable with that exchange.

“Oh, thank you. I do try,” I reply drily.

She stares at me for a few moments before she releases a deep breath. She reclines back in her seat, pulling the coat around her shoulders and pressing her knees to her chest.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her to get her dirty slippers off my leather seat. But I hold it in.

Ah, yes. I’m beyond magnanimous now.

“I’m not a hooker,” she continues. She doesn’t look at me, merely staring forward. All the confidence from before is gone, leaving behind a vulnerability that makes me uncomfortable.

“All right.”

“I’m not!” she repeats.

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