Page 7 of Plum

She reminded me of that ten-year-old boy whose dad had disappeared. The kid whose mom told him, if he didn’t want a whore for a mother, he had one job. Eric Wade.

I haven’t remembered that kid in a long, long time.

To be honest, I thought I’d totally sold him out.

CHAPTER 2

PLUM

Fuck. Clark Kent is back.

My belly flips, and my hand flutters to the little pooch above the elastic of my thong. My skin’s clammy from sweating in this freezing joint, and now I’ve got shivers. It’s weird. Clark’s hot as shit, but I don’t normally look at the customers that way. Especially the guys in suits.

Businessmen from Pyle are universally assholes. They tip for shit, and they smell like new car. In a bad way.

Clark scans the main floor, and then he strides over to a back booth like he owns the joint. He’s got to really squeeze to get himself between the bench and the table. Dude’s over six foot easy, and he’s broad in the shoulders and chest. Besides the body, he’s got the Superman square jaw, chin dimple, and wavy black hair. Picture the guy fromMan of Steelwith the master-of-the-universe smirk of the guy who played him in the eighties.

Oh, and of course Clark’s got the glasses, the thin wire kind that cost a thousand dollars and look like they’ll break if you touch ’em. Dude has money. No doubt.

Nobody’s gone up to him yet. They’re waiting on Cue, wondering if he’s gonna kick him out. It’s only been a week or so since the guy almost beat Nickel Kobald’s ass. Almost kicking Nickel’s ass is likealmostwinning the Super Bowl. Like, objectively impressive, but still, everyone gets to see you lose big.

He’s got a faded shiner, but he’s moving like nothing’s broken. I would’ve thought he’d have taped ribs at the least. Maybe he is made of steel.

The girls are all starin’ at him like he’s steak. Fine by me. I jerk my chin at Danielle, try to get her to take him. I need a distraction so I can slip off. Hot or not, ain’t no way in hell I’m givin’ him the two hundred bucks back.

Danielle raises her Mrs. Potato Head eyebrows and shrugs a shoulder. Well, that’s a nope. Guess she ain’t gonna move without Cue expressly giving the okay. After the fight, it was kind of unclear whether this guy was banned, too. Cue’s still dickin’ around behind the bar, so he hasn’t noticed trouble walk in.

I’m on my own.

I turn my back to Clark’s booth and lean into the beefy gentleman about to buy me a third apple juice, pressing my tits into his forearm. I make sure to jiggle and giggle. He ain’t said nothing funny, but it don’t matter none. Guys like the giggle.

“How about we take this to the way back?” I pull out all the stops. Bite my lip. Graze my nips against him. Cue keeps it sixty-seven damn degrees, so I got headlights for days.

“Ah.” Beefy grins. “What’s the way back?”

“The V.I.P. room. You know, the champagne room? We can be alone. You can tell me more about—” Fuck. Fuckity fuck. What was he talkin’ about? His transmission? Football? “Out-of-state tuition. Sounds crazy. Who’s got that kind of money?”

“Pyle State is just as good. Maybe better. And we wouldn’t have to pay room and board. My ex just wants the boy to go Ivy League to screw me.”

Nailed it. Tuition.

I nod, very serious. “And you’d get to keep your boy close. You don’t want to know what kids get up to when they’re off on their own for the first time.”

I make my eyes real big, and set my hand on his thigh, close enough to his junk to feel it jerk the pleats in his khakis.

Come on, Beefy. Let’s blow this popsicle stand. I spare a glance at Clark Kent from the corner of my eye. Fuck. He’s staring me down. He wants that money.

Time to double down. I roll the dice.

“Why don’t we go to the way back, and I’ll show you exactly what kind of trouble naughty girls get into when Daddy’s not around?” I make my voice breathy and nibble on the tip of my pointer finger.

Yup. Nailed it again. Beefy’s a kinky one. He’s pitchin’ a full-blown tent now. He swallows. “Uh. Okay. Lead the way.”

Will do. I grab his big ol’ paw and head for the back, careful to keep my eyes away from Clark Kent’s booth.

“Hold up, baby. Let me close out my tab.” Beefy pats my ass awkwardly and ambles off for the tip rail to settle up.

Shit. He’s left me in the middle of the tables. Maybe I should duck into the changing room. Take a piss. I don’t know. This guy looks good for a hundred, one-fifty if I call him Daddy. Danielle would be more than happy to take this one off my hands. He’s got easy money written all over him. Less the house’s forty percent, that would be a ninety-buck piss before taxes. Fuck that.

---