Page 47 of Hitch
Duane angles his head toward the VIP room without saying a word. I stand, but Michael and the sugar baby saddle up next to Duane.
“Let me give you a warning, good man,” Michael says, touching Duane’s shoulder. “This stripper will steal—”
Duane shoves him into the wall, and the drywall cracks from the force of Michael’s body. The sugar baby stumbles over her heels, holding herself up against the wall next to him.
“What the hell? You asshole!” the sugar baby says.
“Fuck, man,” Michael mutters. “You want to mess with me like that? Do you know who I am?”
Duane glowers down at the two of them as if he’s imagining their agonizing deaths, and an instinct inside of me kicks in, wanting to usher Duane away before something bad happens to Michael and his sugar baby.
I put a hand on Duane’s back, and we go to the VIP room. He shifts me in front of him, protecting me from Michael. Michael shouts at us, but we ignore him.
The customers’ voices fade as we settle into the back rooms. The music is quieter than usual, almost like it’s meant to help lull someone to sleep rather than turn someone on, and my heart beats in anticipation of being alone with Duane after what we did yesterday. A cocktail waitress brings a beer for Duane and a glass of wine for me.
Duane’s paying for my time again, but he’s here doing a favor for me. I asked for help, and he came. I’m not used to it. People don’t usually show up when you ask like this.
But maybe that’s my fault. This is the first time I’ve felt comfortable asking for help. And what does that say about my feelings toward Duane?
The answer to that question sends nerves spiking through my skin, so I remind myself that this isn’t free. It’s still a transaction. I open up my broken clutch.
“I’ve got three hundred,” I say, “but the rest—”
Duane puts up a hand. “No need.”
“No need? It costs hundreds of dollars to be back here. You can take it out of our next session.”
His eyes blink as he glares at me. “There’s no need for that,” he says slowly, his words challenging me to say differently. But it’s obvious Duane isnotgoing to let me pay for the VIP room, even if it’s a favor to me.
I perch on the sectional, and Duane takes a seat next to me.
Duane dips his head toward the curtains leading to the main floor.
“Who is he?” he asks.
I stare down at my hands, linking my fingers together. Duane is so different from Michael—Duane is harsh, where Michael is pretty, Duane is bulky, where Michael is sinewy, Duane is rough, where Michael is uptight.
I don’t want Duane to think that Michael is the kind of man I want. He was just the man who was there when I needed to give my mom a break.
“He used to be my sugar daddy,” I whisper. “He paid me to be his girlfriend.”
“Name?” Duane asks.
“Michael Bellford.”
“How long?”
I look down at the floor. Are we really having this conversation right now?
“Five years?” I say.
Duane doesn’t say anything for a while, and that makes me nervous. What does he think about my relationship, my only real long-term boyfriend? Can I even consider Michael a boyfriend when he was paying me, or was he more of a boss?
An emptiness drops to the pit of my stomach.
“There wasn’t much choice in Oakdale,” I explain. “I guess I thought he could help me and my mom.”
“Did you have sex with him?”
