Page 36 of Role Play
Funny. That’s not what Hannah told me for our entire relationship. Maybe I’m now conditioned to think the worst about women’s intentions. “Fair enough,” I answer. “Sorry, thatwas bullheaded of me to say.” I run my hand over the back of my neck, trying to wipe away the discomfort.
“I’ll forgive you if you give me another question.” She flutters her lashes, the light from the streetlamp overhead gleaming in her brown eyes.
“Don’t waste your feminine wiles on me, cookie girl. I’ve already told you too much.” Not to mention, she’s already seen me with my daughter which makes me more than uncomfortable. My stomach clenches at the thought of Dakota confronting me about my job. “You haven’t even asked your last question yet.”
After crumpling her pretzel wrapper, she sets it aside on the bench, then presses against her temples like she has a headache. The paper rustles in the night breeze, threatening to blow away. “It’s too much pressure.”
“You probably need to lie down. I don’t think we need to go to the hospital, but you most definitely overdosed.” I scan her face, noting the dilated pupils and slight sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the cool air.
“No,” she snaps, looking at me like I’m clueless. “The question. I only have one more, and I don’t want to waste it. I’m curious about so many things.” She looks up, and at least this time she’s admiring the real night sky, and not psychedelic-induced stars in a public bathroom. I follow her lead, curious about what has her so entranced. The stars are barely visible through the city’s light pollution, just a few pinpricks of light against the dark canvas.
“How’s this?” I ask. “Keep your final question, but I’ll offer you a one-for-one trade. Answer one of mine honestly, then I’ll answer one of yours free of charge.” I shift on the bench, the cold metal seeping through my pants.
“Deal,” she eagerly responds. “How much?—”
“Whoa, whoa,” I interrupt, holding up my hand. “I go first. If I deem your answer worthy, then you get your question.”
“Inebriation…deem… Why do you talk like you have a doctorate?” she sassily asks, swaying slightly even while seated.
“Because I do,” I quip back. A juris doctorate is indeed a doctorate.
Her eyes expand. She opens her mouth, but clamps it back shut, not willing to waste one of her final questions by pulling on that thread. My shoulder brushes against hers as I adjust my position. This time she doesn’t flinch, growing more and more comfortable with our bodies colliding.
“Your turn, then,” she croaks out in a whisper, touching her throat like it’s dry.
“One sec. Stay right here,” I command before hustling a few yards to the right to fetch a bottled water from the pretzel cart.
The cart owner waves me off when I fish out a bill, offering me the drink for free. “Thanks, my guy,” I sing out before returning to Sora, prize extended. The bottle is cold and slick with condensation.
“Oh, you sweet angel,” she murmurs before grabbing the water, twisting off the cap, and guzzling it down like a fish. The sound of her desperate swallows fills the quiet night. I wait until she releases a sigh of relief and replaces the cap, a smear of water wetting her lower lip.
“Why were you crying earlier? I mean, before I ripped your dress. You seemed really upset.” The memory of her tear-streaked face in the bathroom makes my chest tighten.
Now she grows quiet, head hung in something that resembles despair. The wind picks up, blowing a strand of her hair across her face. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Try me.”
Reaching around her back, where she safely stowed her purse, Sora pulls out her phone. She types slowly, her eyesgrowing to wide saucers as she tries to focus on the keys. The blue light from her screen illuminates her face in the darkness. I catch a glimpse of her wallpaper—a picture of her and a blonde with their faces smashed together for a selfie, smiling like loons. I don’t know why, but their smiles make me grin in return, like I can feel the joy the image captured.
“Here,” Sora says, handing me her phone, her fingers brushing against mine.
I scour the screen, a little confused as to what she’s showing me. It’s a review site of some sort, filled with posts and reciprocal comments. The text is tiny, and I have to squint to make it out. I read a few before I understand what they’re all criticizing. While brutal, it’s nothing surprising, simply internet trolls being trolls, this time about a romance book. I glance through about ten of the varied criticisms that don’t have a common theme. Some complain about the characters and lack of chemistry. Some wanted more sex in the story, others less. One commenter brutalized the book over a single typo.
“Do you see why I was crying, now?” Her tone has dropped a decibel, sadness deepening her voice. She hugs herself like a wall of protection, her shoulders hunched forward.
“Not really. It’s just real people working out their aggression by complaining about fake people. Have you read it?” I hand the phone back, our fingers brushing again as she takes it.
“About a hundred times…when I drafted it, edited it, and then prepped it for publishing. They aren’t complaining about fake people, they’re complaining aboutme. I’m the author,” she adds sullenly, her voice cracking on the last word.
“Oh.” I wish I had a better reply, but my mind is spinning out as the cruel comments come back to life. I was apathetic before, but now I’m pissed knowing these were the source of her pain.
“Do you get reviews from your clients?” Sora asks. She then points right between my eyes, her finger stopping just short of my face. “That’s just conversation, not a chargeable question.”
I let out a rumbly chuckle, the sound vibrating in my chest. “Fine. But, no. My clients operate with the utmost discretion. If they have an issue with me, they take it up privately with my boss.”
It rarely happens, but there’ve been a few instances where a client has blindsided me into a situation I didn’t agree to and I had to walk away. Rina has a strict pay-upfront, no-refunds policy, so when I wouldn’t participate in the cuckold situation I unexpectedly got roped into, Tabitha Rossten was furious.
Some dudes are into watching their wives get nailed by stud-like strangers, but Mr. Rossten was almost in tears about the circumstance. It certainly didn’t seem emotionally consensual, and I wasn’t going be the one to tear his soul apart. There are other escorts who wouldn’t give a shit about who they hurt, so I told the couple to keep fishing.And damn, did Rina get an earful afterward.
