Page 12 of Lovers Fate

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Nice try, asshole.

“I don’t drink while I work.”

“Need to be clear-headed,” he muses. “I respect that.”

This man doesn’t have an ounce of respect. I’m sure his wife believes he’s out working late while she’s slaving away in the kitchen preparing dinner, and he’s here offering me two hundred bucks. But she isn’t my problem.

If she knew who I was at this point, she wouldn’t be so nice, and I wouldn’t feel sorry for her.

Like Dr. Foster.

Every session, Dr. Foster dissembled, keeping his true intentions hidden underneath a professional smile while he tried to hide the hard-on in his pants as he sat opposite me. Dr. Foster harbored a fantasy. He wanted to fuck me because, in his mind, his cock was my savior. I could tell by the way he watched my hands or the way his eyes lingered on my crotch.

He hoped I would confess to what I did and why, but all I did was feed his fantasy while I served my sentence. In my mind, I was satisfied with the outcome. Chris deserved what happened to him. Maybe that makes me a killer. A monster with no remorse.

One thing I did learn from Dr. Foster and the others just like him was that their need to fix me had nothing to do with what I did. It was so they could feel less guilty for beating their dick when they thought of me.

Men will tell a thousand lies to achieve the euphoria they long for—a euphoria absent from their lives. They will do anything for it. Blur the lines. Cross them. Make up anything to justify what they want.

They perceive it as a necessary self-serving sacrifice. Then they cover it up, like a dog does to shit so it won’t stink. The man beside me exemplifies this.

Rolling my shoulders back, I push my chest out. Like I expected, his greedy eyes are on my breasts. I turn to face him again and ask, “What is your name?”

“Randy,” he says quickly.

The bartender walks over. My eyes flick to her. Her eyes dart to Randy. “Would you like to order anything else, Randy?” she asks.

He’s a regular.

I’m not surprised, but something is missing. Whatever he wants, he doesn’t want on the main stage, and it involves sex.

“No, I have everything I need right here.” My gaze falls on the bills he’s still pinning to the bar with his finger.

I glance at the bartender and give her a wink. “What do you do, Randy?”

“I’m a professor at Stockbridge University,” he says proudly, trying to impress me. “Do you attend?”

It’s Monday. College students aged twenty-one do not typically hang out at a strip bar on a Monday night.

“School wasn’t in the cards for me,” I say blithely.

His eyes fall between my legs, then back to my face. “I think you’ve found a better use of your time here.”

I smile seductively and reach for him, slowly drawing circles over his wrist, causing his hand to tremble. “I thought you said I was smart, Randy?” I lick my painted lips slowly while the bartender continues to watch me from the corner of my eye.

“I never said that.”

I pout. “But you said I was better here than at school,” I say in a little girl’s voice. “Isn’t that where smart people go? To school?”

He shakes his head slowly, but his eyes never leave my mouth. “I never said…”

“How old is your wife?”

“Thirty-five.”

“And you?”

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