Page 15 of King of the Bronx

I pulled my coffee mug up to my mouth and took a sip. The hot liquid warmed my throat as I continued to watch her pour sugar into her mug. She grabbed a spoon and stirred her coffee.

“So how does someone like you come to own a brothel?” I asked, coming straight out with the question that’s been on my mind since the moment I found out.

“How did you come to own an underground gambling spot?” She cocked an eyebrow, taking a drink of her caffeinated syrup.

“You first.”

She took another sip of her coffee. I couldn’t help noticing the way her plump lips balanced on the side of the coffee cup. I wondered how they’d feel against my cock. She swallowed and set the cup down on the table.

“I worked a lot of…odd jobs and saved up enough money to buy the brothel from someone who I thought was a friend of mine. The rest is kind of history,” she said, picking the cup back up.

“But why would a girl like you want to own a brothel?”

“What do you mean a girl like me?” she asked, her face twisted up like she was actually confused by the question.

“There’s a story in there somewhere,” I pushed.

She shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe the brothel just brings in money that I desperately needed at the time. It’s a very profitable business. Men pay ridiculous amounts of money just to get their dick sucked by a woman that could care less if they walked outside and got hit by a car. It’s kind of sad, actually. Most of the men don’t even take off their wedding rings when they come in.”

I took a moment to let her words sink in. Most people would feel sad for the women in that situation, thinking they are being taken advantage of, but instead, she felt sorry for the men and the men’s wives. Maybe she had a skewered view of men. She wouldn’t be entirely wrong.

“Your turn. How did you come to own an underground gambling place?” she asked.

“I guess you could say I was born into the business. I have my hands in a little bit of everything: real estate, gambling, guns, drugs…actually, I think the only thing I don’t have in my portfolio is prostitution.”

She smirked. “It’s good business to be in. So, with all this going on, when do you sleep?”

I laughed. “I don’t, really.”

The look on her face wasn’t one of admiration or shock but, instead, a look of sadness, like she pitied me. It was the same look on my mother’s face when she told me that I worked too hard. I hated that look.

I cleared my throat and shifted uncomfortably in the booth. I brought the coffee cup to my lips and drank the last of it, allowing the liquid to burn my throat as it went down.

I wasn’t usually a coffee drinker, but I was discovering I’d follow this woman anywhere. I wanted to spend more time with her, even it was just to sit across from her and marvel at her beauty.

“You’re staring again,” she said.

I smiled. “Am I?”

“You do that a lot.”

I shrugged. “Maybe I like what I see.”

Her cheeks turned a rosy color, and she grabbed her cup of coffee to try to hide her discomfort. I loved the way her cheeks reddened like that. I still couldn’t picture her running a brothel surrounded by dirty men who had to pay to get their dick wet.

She finished her coffee and set the empty mug down on the table. I grabbed my wallet and left a twenty on the table.

“Work?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

We stood up from the stool and walked out to my car.

*****

The brothel looked like any other building on the street. It blended in nicely with the neighborhood. I reached for the door handle to get out.

“Uh, what are you doing?” she asked.

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