Page 7 of Pretty Please Me
My eyes drink in the dark, crowed space faintly lit with only red lights and candles. Groups of scantily clad women and well-dressed men usher around me, bumping against me despite my best efforts to move out of the way. The bar seems extra-crowded tonight, not that I have anything to compare it to other than my tried-and-true haven, Terry’s. This place is nothing like Terry’s. Rather than cozy and familiar, it feels edgy and dangerous.
Insecurity burns in my chest like acid reflux, but I ignore it. Just because I’m not dressed provocatively, or my hair isn’t teased to look like I’ve just crawled out of bed with a man, doesn’t mean I don’t belong here. I undo the top button of my cardigan and feel a little better. See, I’m not so uptight. I can let loose a little. I mean, I’m here, after all. That’s got to count for something.
I suck in a breath and straighten my shoulders as I set my sight on the bar and force myself to move.
Tonight, my mission is simple: Find a nice man who isn’t too creepy—or married—share a couple of drinks, so he’s loosened up, then ask him to be my personal sex tutor in exchange for three thousand dollars.
I have no idea what the going rate for sex lessons is. My only knowledge of prostitution comes fromPretty Woman, so three thousand feels like a good starting point. I like to think of myself as a quick learner, so I’m hopeful it won’t take more than a week. Of course, I’m open to negotiation.
I pull my purse against my chest protectively as I maneuver myself up to the bar and order a drink, sliding a twenty to the bartender. “Keep the change.”
The bartender gives me a surprised smile and mouths a“Thank you.”
I’ve always been a good tipper, but tonight, I need a little help from the universe and all the karma I can get.
My eyes narrow in on a line of people heading toward the back of the room. There must be some kind of event… Maybe that’s why it’s so busy tonight? I stand on my tiptoes to get a better look when I spot a familiar face and instantly feel excited. Damian Johnson is offering psychic readings for charity at a booth in the back.
Damian is a fashion icon and an extremely gifted psychic. He was Elliot’s first paying client and single-handedly put her company, Clutch Media, on the map. Last summer, he helped us track down Gwen and Jack after they went missing on a work trip. If it weren’t for Damian telling us we were looking in the wrong direction, we never would’ve found them, and I can’t even begin to think about that. The man has proven his abilities in spades, and I can’t believe how lucky I am that he’s here tonight.
With a bit of renewed excitement, I make my way into the crowd and join the line. Not only would it be great to see him, but maybe he can offer me a little clarity on what… or who… to look for tonight. At this point, I’m so desperate I’d do just about anything.
I sip the melted ice from my drink, waiting thirty minutes until I’m finally at the front of the line. Damian smiles wide when he sees me and stands up to greet me.
He kisses me on each cheek, then looks me up and down. “Magnolia Anderson, I’ve been looking for you all night.”
I narrow my eyes. “How did you? Oh… You’re good.”
He shrugs. “That’s what they tell me.”
“What is all this?” I motion to the three booths set up with different tarot readers.
“Oh, we’re partnering with the bar to raise money for a homeless shelter. They’re donating twenty percent of the proceeds tonight, so drink up. It’s a good cause.”
I smile warmly at the sentiment. There are good people in the world, but ironically, they’re usually not the ones hanging out in the most obvious of spaces. They don’t need accolades, the spotlight, or the promise of a reward; they’re just good because theyactuallylove everyone.
“Hey, Bobbi, I’m going to take a break. Cover my table, would you?” Damian calls to the woman set up beside him, and she gives him a thumbs up.
“Come on.” He leads me to an empty booth with a VIP rope around it, and we both climb over, settling into the plush velvet seats.
It’s quieter here. Despite the fact that we’re still in the middle of the bar, it feels a little cozier and safe. A server appears with a tray of drinks, and I snatch a fruity-looking one, needing something to calm my nerves.
“Now, tell me, what exactly do you want guidance for?” Damian pulls out a deck of tarot cards and shuffles them masterfully, staring at me as if he can see right through me.
I squirm in my seat and twirl a fallen strand of hair that’s usually tucked behind my ear. “I’m in the market for somelessons, and I was hoping you could tell me whether that’s a good idea… or give me any advice?”
He quirks a brow. “Go on…”
I swallow a lump in my throat. “There’s this guy back home, and I’ve had a huge crush on him, and he asked me out… Well, there’s a reunion, and he said he couldn’t wait to spend some time with me… alone… and I don’t want to scare him away, so I–”
He perks up in his seat as if he hears something and tilts his head to the side. “Okay, something is coming through. Keep talking…”
“I… uh… I’ve just felt really lost lately watching everyone move forward with their lives. I don’t have anyone to take care of, and I’m not really sure what the point of anything is anymore,” I confess. “I mean, I own my own business, and things there have been good. I guess I just thought I’d be happy by now, but I just feel so… lonely.” I look up with blurry eyes. I’m not sure when I started crying, but there’s something so calming about Damian’s presence. I don’t feel embarrassed spilling my soul to him like this… even if we’re in the middle of the bar.
“Oh, sweet, sweet, Magnolia,” he coos. “I think you were meant to come here tonight. In fact, hold on one moment. I’m getting a download.” He grabs my partially damp bar napkin and pulls a pen from his jacket pocket.
I watch him scribble rapidly in shocked observation. Minutes pass by, and he doesn’t look up. He just keeps scribbling. I try to make sense of the few words I can actually read: trust, play, release, true love, and I almost fall out of my seat when I make out the word orgasm. He’s written it in all caps and underlined it three times in the center of the napkin.
I glance around us as if I’m guilty of something. I feel as if Damian somehow managed to project the word like a bubble over my head, like a scarlet letter signaling my abhorrent embarrassment to the entire bar.
