Page 1 of Tips and Trysts

One

CORA

“I didn’t know youlived here.”

I inhale so sharply that it’s a miracle the rest of the bar’s patrons don’t pass out from oxygen deprivation. Seriously. I’m probably hoarding every molecule of oxygen in the dive, and my lungs sting until I exhale over the next few seconds—long enough for a galaxy of goosebumps to shimmer on my skin under the green LED lights.

Once the initial alarm wears off, I’m over this encounter before it starts. I didn’t think it was possible to die from annoyance, but I may make history tonight.

Even though the voice came from behind, I don’t turn around yet. Priming myself, I throw back the shot of reposado I’ve been holding, letting the tequila rest on my tongue before I swallow. The liquor isn’t top shelf, but neither are my tastes.

“I’m your biggest fan,” the stranger continues, closer this time. His voice is low and hollow with a tinge of a wheeze, and I’ve heard it before, I think, but I’m not positive.

Still taking my time, I pick up the lime wedge resting on the napkin next to my empty shot glass. I bite into it, and my tongue prickles around my piercing while my tastebuds acclimate to the hit of acidity. My eyes water, but I enjoy it. Nothing is ever too sour for me.

When I finally turn around, I’ve kept this guy waiting for at least forty-five seconds and I’m not sorry in the slightest. Being approached in public is hit or miss for a camgirl. Making him wait—and gauging his reaction—is an easy way to figure out what I’m working with.

The man in front of me is equal parts sweatshirt and human even though it’s late March, on the muggy side of spring. His frayed cotton hood covers dark hair curling around the edges of the fabric, which has faded to a deep gray brown. The printed design on the front is cracked like a dry lakebed.

Needless to say, it’s not what I wear when I hit a bar to get laid, but different strokes and all.

“Oh, so you did know I was here,” he remarks, canting his head now that we’re facing each other. The motion illuminates his face with a touch of neon green from the sign behind the bar, and he vaguely resembles a drunk koala or a sober sloth. “Did you hear me? I said I was your biggest fan.”

What little patience I had leaves my body faster than a situationship dissolving at the end of a tropical vacation. I typically don’t mind when customers approach me in public, but this night has been a bust. I’m already drinking by myself in Dupont Circle’s only dive bar, dressed like I’m out for girls’ night—except my girls aren’t here.

I’m lonely, bored, and the entitled jackass who approached me is the whipped cream and cherry on this bullshit sundae.

Sighing, I let my shoulders slump and make no effort to hide my reaction to his whole…thing. Responding would be polite, ifnot borderline expected, but let’s be real: I’m neither polite nor predictable.

I pick up my second shot of reposado and shift the glass from one hand to the other, still keeping my expression flat. Hoodie Man watches my motions too closely, tracking the path of the tequila before vacillating between my tits and my mouth. Eventually, he settles on my tits, and the corners of his lips rise.

Without a word, I throw the tequila back right as he says, “No response? You could at least answer a guy who tips you every week.”

The tequila catches in my throat, and the swell of reactions arising in me is tsunami-level.

The first of my many reactions is irritation. I never choke on shots—ever. Choking on liquor is for bitches, and I (in the negative sense of the term) amnota bitch. Yes, in the fun sense (i.e.,Cora Flores is the baddest bitch in the bar tonight) I am, in fact, a total bitch. But in the way of drinking? Absolutely not.

The second of my many reactions is anger. I don’t tolerate entitlement from men.

But the most notable of my reactions is curiosity.Who is this guy, how much has he tipped me, and where did he find so much audacity under short notice?

“Did you stalk me here?” I ask outright, keeping my tone neutral.

His brows smoosh together when he frowns. “I told you: I didn’t know you lived around here.”

He’s lying.

“I follow you on all your socials,” he goes on, taking a step closer. “Did you get my tip last week?”

“I got a lot of tips last week.”

And when he takes another step, I can only hope whatever comes out of his mouth next isn’t—

“I’m Tyler.”

Motherfucker. He’s one of my regulars.

“Of course you are,” I murmur, exhaling while taking a step back.

---