I HAVE BEEN to the Bellagio more times than I can count with the fingers on my hands.

I've walked along the golden marble tiles that shine with specks of red and have waited by the reception area that's decorated with tufted navy-blue circular seating and oval-shaped coffee tables.

I've flirted with foreign clients—sat on their laps while they placed their bets on the roulette table and have had to put up with their higher than thou attitudes. I've also watched the seasons change from summer to fall and winter to spring in the Conservatory.

Yet, what amazes me most about this resort isn't their pompous guests that saunter the grounds as if they own it, it is the glass flowers that continually draw my attention to the ceiling.

Adorned with over two thousand handblown flowers, the colorful piece stretches across the lobby to the end of the hall. My eyes sketch the delicate and intricate lines of the design, filled with tones of red, yellow, purple, blue, and several shades of green.

If this masterpiece could be turned into fabric, it would make a beautiful collection.

My creative brain begins to sew the large floral print into a cohesive, runway-worthy collection—summer dresses, pencil skirts with matching blazers, a breezy blouse.

If I had brought my sketchbook, I would have started drawing the designs right away. I'd hide under the blown flowers and sketch for hours. My suitors would never find me, and Andrews would probably have my head, but I'd have the best collection to show...no one. Because no one has taken me seriously, at least none of the boutique owners in Las Vegas.

They look at my pieces and say they are "cute" and that I "should stick to my daytime job." Some have tried to lowball me because the clothes aren't of a known designer.

To some extent, the owners are right. I should probably stick to my current job. Odds are, I will never make a fifteen-hundred-dollar dress or even make that much selling all the pieces I have in the storage unit. The wisest thing to do is to sell all of my equipment and stop wasting money at Threads, the fabric store I frequent when I feel like splurging an extra twenty on myself, but a part of me is determined to show the world I am not a statistic, and I will get out of this hole one way or another.

The ugliness of others will never deter me from my hopes and dreams or of the potential I carry deep within me.

I tell my brain to stop somersaulting with its creative ideas because right now, I have a job to do and a part to play. I cannot focus if my mind is filled with prints, pins, and chalk sticks.

I shake the distraction out of my head and focus on my current paying job.

As I follow the expensive flower sculpture to the bar, I sense the interested gazes of strangers.

Every aspect of their demeanor screams what their minds are thinking. They might as well say it out loud. Either the women want to be me, or they hate the way their men are looking at me. The men, they watch me like predators hunting their prey, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

I love people watching and could spend my days observing the mannerisms of the rich and famous. I enjoy giving each of my subjects an individual story based on how they're dressed and the partner on their side. Although I enjoy watching like I'm part of an audience, I hate it when people stare at me, especially when I'm working.

The pitiful stares are followed by whispered judgment and disgust as they physically distance themselves from me as if I have a contagious virus.

I am more than aware of the illegality of prostitution in Vegas. The smallest slip can land me in jail and everything I have worked for will mean nothing.

I'll lose Ben—my reason for doing this. I cannot afford for anyone to find out so, I learned early on in my career to fake my confidence. If I pretend I belong, no one will question my intentions, although their minds will remain in wonder.

Before, I would have kept my head down and walked with hurried steps but now, now my head stays high and my strides long and poised.

I belong here.

Walking toward my destination, I notice the shining lights emitting from the casino. The dings and chimes of slot machines are a devil on the shoulder of a gambler, enticing them to drop their sobriety chip on their way back to the rabbit hole.

The enormous room is filled with the acrid smoke of cigarettes and imported cigars from the Caribbean. The stench fills every inch of air around me, triggering my gag reflex. The pungent scent reminds me so much of Ralph that I have it written under my hard limits.

Andrews knows not to pair me with a smoker, but because all of the hotels in Vegas have casinos, the smoke comes with me whether I like it or not—much like it does at home.

Entering the bar, I occupy one of the empty stools and wait for the bartender who signals he'll be right with me. He shuffles around a few more drinks and finally heads my way. Placing a napkin on the mahogany top, he asks with a dazzling smile, "What can I get for you?"

"A shot of tequila and a glass of Cabernet, please."

Giving me an acknowledging nod, I watch as he grabs a bottle from the massive black shelf behind him and pours the alcohol into a shot glass. He slides the glass toward me, and I take it back in one full gulp.

At first, the liquid burns but as it glides down my throat, I am reminded that this is my medicine, and it will make me feel better when the effects begin to numb my body.

Finishing my drink, the bartender hands me a glass of red wine and goes on to serve his other customers.

Taking a sip, I notice blonde curls at the end of the bar. Luke gives me a nod, letting me know Mr. Edmond has arrived.

It's showtime.

Placing the glass down, I swirl the wine inside and keep my eyes focused on the spinning liquid. It runs in circles and crashes like the waves of a tumultuous ocean. Much like the thoughts inside my head, the motion places me in a mesmerizing trance.

Somewhere in my stupor, I manage to hear the bartender ask, "What can I get you, sir?"

The man occupies the empty stool next to me. "I'll have what the lady is having."

"A glass of Cabernet coming right up." The bartender drums the tips of his fingers on the long mahogany and gives me a knowing smirk. I might be able to hide my occupation from tourists but not so much from the locals.

They know my type of woman when they see us and when I welcome the flirtatious banters of a man twice my age, it solidifies their suspicion.

However, they don't report me.

My clients pay for their silence with a hefty tip.

Unashamed that I've been caught, I plaster a coquettish smile on my face and turn my attention to the foreign voice.

For a man in his early sixties, Mr. Edmond is quite handsome. His brown eyes rest behind light, chestnut round glasses. Although soft, his gaze glints with longing and his graying hair reminds me of a salt and pepper shaker.

Unfortunately for him, he is not my type. It seems ridiculous to even think about having a type when my line of work prevents me from dating out of pleasure rather than as a way to survive and provide for Ben.

But in those rare moments, where I think of that carefree world, the man of my dreams isn't a man after all but a little boy who became someone in this world. He never fell through the cracks like his parents. He respects women and loves his mother with a passion, regardless of all the things she went through.

I inquire the Brit next to me, "You fancy a Cabernet?"

"It's my favorite drink."

I raise my brow. "Is it really or are you just trying to flirt with me?"

He leans forward on his cladded elbows. "If I wanted to flirt with you, I would've asked if I could join you. You see, such a beautiful woman shouldn't be alone at the bar."

I lick my lips, surprisingly enjoying our little banter. It could just be his accent.

Most men would've asked for my name and made a crude comment, expecting me to take it as a compliment. At first, the sleazy comments bothered me but after some time, they went into one ear and out of the other.

Mr. Edmond, however, gracefully initiates conversation.

"May I buy you a drink?" he adds.

"My cup does seem to be running dry."

He gives me a crooked smile as he calls for the bartender. In a different time, I'm sure that smile was the cause of many broken hearts.

"You know, I don't just let any man who calls me beautiful buy me a drink."

"Well, I'm honored to be the exception."

I shrug indifferently. "It could just be your accent."

He bites the side of his lower lip, hiding a chuckle. "Being British in America does have its perks."

"Oh, so you do this a lot?"

"Do what a lot?"

"Call women beautiful and hope one lands?"

"No."

"I doubt it."

"So, you truly believe all women are beautiful?"

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

"If you believe that to be true, then you must believe that a beholder's standard of beauty differs from one to another. And if you believe that to be true, then you haven't a reason to doubt me when I say I don't call women beautiful very often."

See what I mean by wise, old men?

I feel like I just came out of a philosophy lecture. And not a good one.

The Brit seems like the type of man who is very selective with the women he lets around his circle. I bet he thinks the women he allows to be seen with him should feel oh, so lucky to have been picked by him.

What an arsehole.

But I can't tell him I think he's a prick.

I have to put my acting face on and continue flirting with him.

"Then it is I who should be honored to have been called beautiful by a nameless beholder."

"My apologies," he says with a sheepish smile. "Arnold Edmond."

I know.

"Belle," I introduce myself. No need for a last name.

"Belle," he repeats as if rehearsing how it will sound when he plunges his cock inside me. "Are you hungry, Belle?"

I bite my lower lip, trying to gauge if there is a double meaning hidden behind his question.

Mr. Edmond's mouth spreads across his cheeks as he stands. "For food," he clarifies, extending a hand. "After all, we've only just met."

Through my long lashes, I take notice of his height as he stands over my 5'5 height. He is much taller than my usual dates and is surprisingly toned for his age.

Mr. Edmond's three-piece navy suit is hand-tailored to fit him like a glove and the cufflinks around his wrists give away the luxurious Italian designer.

I start to mentally calculate the cost of his outfit.

It's a force of habit at this point. Knowing how much they're willing to spend on a piece of clothing gives me an insight as to how much money they'll tip me at the end of the night. It also helps me stay current with the latest trends and designers to the rich and famous.

While his face might not show his age very well, the subtle shaking of his hand gives it away. I accept it and get off the stool.

As we start on our walk toward the elevator, I notice Luke behind us, watching Mr. Edmond's every move as he places a hand on the small of my back.

Having Luke here gives me a sense of peace and safety. Where everyone in my life has failed to protect me, Luke has never. He's my constant—always there, ready to attack at any sign of discomfort.

Sometimes I wonder what it does to his ego to see me with other men.

Does he ever get jealous, or does he understand this is a job? Either way, I'm glad he's here, watching me flirt with other men. Not only am I protected from their wrath, but from Luke's infatuation. One day, he'll get it through his head, nothing will ever come of us.

With his hand on my back, Mr. Edmond guides me through the halls of the Bellagio. The stares are back, and I don't blame their questioning gazes. There is only one reason why a woman my age would be with a sixty-two-year-old man. But I will only confirm their suspicions if I let them get to me, so I remind myself, once again, that I belong here.

Reaching the elevator, Mr. Edmond presses the dull button, and it quickly lights up, counting down the floors as it reaches the lobby.

With my heels, I reach just above his shoulders and can smell his expensive cologne. It reminds me of a winter day in the forest—evergreen trees and smoked wood.

He applied it properly, not over his clothes or directly onto his skin but right after a shower.

"Ladies first," Mr. Edmond says as the elevator yawns open.

Stepping inside, I feel the touch of his hand once again at the small of my back as if it has become a permanent fixture. We are finally alone when the doors close, away from prying eyes and Luke's surveillance.

Mr. Edmond might be proper and poise in the presence of others but as soon as we are alone, his flawless façade will start to fall.

This is where he'll make his first move.

This is when they all do.

There is something about elevators that turns men to their primal state. It's like a hazy fog that urges them to exert some sort of power of masculinity.

Their impulses drive them into pushing women against the wall, hitch up their dress to expose their sex, and finger them on the cold walls of the elevator.

Who the fuck would enjoy that?

How will a woman have enough time to get in the right headspace to allow moisture to build in between her legs?

How can a man think a dry, unmanicured finger feels good in the most sensitive part of a woman's body? A part that needs to be tended as gently as the petals of a flower.

I swear these men never had sex education in high school and if they did, I bet my entire paycheck it only focused on the repercussions of having unprotected sex.

I mentally prepare myself for Mr. Edmond's assault.

I'm surprised when he leans in close to me and whispers into my ear, "You are much more beautiful in person."

That's twice.

Twice he's called me beautiful. A compliment he doesn't give very often.

My eyes look straight ahead as I reply, "Thank you."

Just as Andrews keeps portfolios of all of the clients, he does the same for his girls. It includes a headshot and a boudoir photo with skimpy lingerie. He uses the images to coerce clients into buying the most expensive package—intimate dinner and a suite. Among the photographs are a list of the girl's hard limits, favorites in case the client is in the mood to spoil, and the cost per hour or night.

Everything Andrews does is done meticulously and with a purpose. He loves to tease and tempt his clients, giving them enough details to make them crave our pussies, but not too much to give away information about our private lives.

He is thorough and his expectations are always clean and direct.

We all know not to cross his boundaries.

Guiding me with his possessive touch, Mr. Edmond and I make our way out of the elevator and onto the tenth floor. Aimlessly following his lead, we enter the restaurant and are greeted by a hostess.

"Good evening, table for two?" the young redhead asks.

"The reservation should be under Arnold Edmond."

Skimming through the iPad on the counter, she grabs two menus and motions for us to follow behind her. "Right this way, Mr. Edmond."

Passing through the rumbles of the restaurant, the murmurs grow quieter as the stares grow deeper. As if sensing my tenseness, Mr. Edmond rubs the small of my back in a soothing manner. My anxiety slowly depletes as the waitress leads us to an intimate and private seating on the terrace.

The ambiance is straight out of a romance novel.

The backdrop is of the Bellagio Fountains and the string lights that stretch horizontally from point to point illuminate the dark night. Along the perimeter of the balcony are half-mooned vases overflowing with white hydrangeas—my favorite flower. A white linen cloth covers a round table, and two tall beeswax candles add to the romantic feel of the night.

It all looks so thoroughly planned as if he'd had the reservation made months in advance—hired gardeners and made sure no other guest reserved a table outside. I wouldn't be surprised if he did.

Mr. Edmond pulls my chair out and removes his navy jacket, placing it on the back of his chair. Before he takes a seat opposite me, he unbuttons his vest and checks the time on his Rolex. Is he checking to see how much longer he has with me? Or does he have somewhere else to be? He removes the cloth napkin from the wine glass and spreads it over his lap.

As his brown eyes dance over the menu, I can't help but watch him.

His right hand continues its subtle shake, and his fingernails are manicured and filed to the nub. His left hand is empty of a ring. Although most men would take it off to hide the fact they are married, the tan line usually gives them away. However, Mr. Edmond doesn't have one.

How long has he been single for?

He seems to carry himself well and in such a respectable manner that I begin to think how a man of his status ended up buying a prostitute for a night. I am then reminded that all of my suitors are proper in the beginning until they open their mouths to speak or unzip their slacks to fuck me.

"Belle?"

I shake my head out of my thoughts when I hear my name. "I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize. Greta was asking for your choice of drink."

"I'll have a Cabernet, please," I say and look back at him, daring him to order the same.

He gives me one of his lopsided smiles. "I'll have the same."

"What's on your mind?" he asks after the waitress retires with our drink order.

"The white hydrangeas."

He raises his shoulder as if it isn't a big deal. "I thought it was a nice touch."

"It's very attractive when a man takes the time to get to know the woman he dates."

His smile faints as he looks at me for a second too long. I shift in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable under his scrutiny. "Something tells me you aren't easily wooed."

"I could be if I find it to be genuine."

In my world, it's hard to tell fairytales from reality.

I've had memorable dates with men I've thought of as nice, kind, family oriented. Only to later find out they're married with three kids and a dog.

Fairytale versus reality.

"Do you find me to be genuine, Belle?"

That's a hard question to answer.

By now, any other suitor would have been inside me ready for round two. Yet here we are having a quaint dinner on a private terrace with my favorite flower surrounding us as if he hasn't paid one-thousand dollars to fuck me.

Of course, not all my dates end in sex.

Some men want a genuine connection that doesn't involve their dicks inside me. Others use me as a trophy beside them, to be paraded as a shiny object. But no man has ever given me white hydrangeas. Flowers, yes—a bouquet of red roses.

Never, ever white hydrangeas.

So, forgive me if I'm taken aback by the gesture.

Most men don't bother reading my portfolio—they go straight to the boudoir picture and hard limits.

Here Mr. Edmond sits across from me. A man reaching his mid-sixties, wooing a woman who could easily be his granddaughter. Wooing a woman who he has already paid for. Wooing a woman who doesn't need to be wooed to be fucked in whichever way he pleases because I am already his. For an hour, at least.

Whether he's genuine or not, that's something I can't quite decipher on our first date. For all I know he's a sociopath who would much rather fuck with my head than my pussy.

"I notice you aren't wearing a ring on your left hand. Of course, that doesn't mean you aren't married but it does lack a tan line, which leads me to believe you are, in fact, unmarried. I find that to be admirable."

"The fact that I'm single?"

I shake my head. "That you're here...with me and are unmarried. You aren't a cheater, which leads me to believe you're a half decent man."

"Half decent? Ouch." He places a hand on his chest as if wounded by my words.

I chuckle. "Well, you did hire a hooker, Mr. Edmond."

"I like to spread my wealth. A half decent man will keep it selfishly to himself. And, please, call me Arnold."

"I prefer Mr. Edmond if you don't mind." Using their last names reminds me to stay professional, allowing me to remain unattached to the suitors. I hope it does the same for them, but from past experiences, I know this isn't the case.

Most clients follow the rules. They know I come with an expiration date. Try as they might, they can't keep me as a souvenir let alone a trophy wife. But then there are those, you know, the ones that seem to think the rules don't apply to them. The ones that believe they are above society. The ones that ruin it for the rest.

Out of the many incidents I've had in this profession, one that stays fresh in my mind was when a suitor tried to get me to go from the hotel to his home. Maybe he wanted to play house. Maybe he needed something about the encounter to feel authentic.

Who the fuck knows?

Luke was there, though, and stopped that runaway train of a man before my body left the grounds. Even better, the night ended early with the full amount paid.

Where is Luke anyway?

I turn my head left to right and catch Luke seating in one of the faux leather booths scarfing down a burger. Considering his physique, his free time must be spent getting jacked at the gym. No doubt ensuing a hefty appetite.

"If it makes you comfortable, I don't mind it at all." I hear Mr. Edmond reply, drawing my eyes back to his.

Greta returns with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, a sharp knife, and a corkscrew. She inches the knife against the cork foil and peels it away swiftly. Discarding the foil cap inside her black apron, she places the tip of the corkscrew into the center of the cork and begins to twist. She gives it one last wiggle before popping the cork right off.

With an arm placed behind her back, she pours the red liquid into my large glass and proceeds to do the same with Mr. Edmond's glass. Placing the wine in the middle of the table, she asks with a pleasant smile, "Have you taken a minute to look over the menu?"

Mr. Edmond clears his throat, giving her another one of his signature smiles. "We've been..." He seems to search for the right words as he looks at me for a second longer.

Flirting. "Talking." I aid in his search.

"No rush. May I interest you in our special for the evening—a decadent charcuterie board?"

"Belle?"

"That sounds delicious."

"I'll get that started right away."

As she retreats for a second time to the restaurant kitchen, I find myself once again staring into the night.

This high off the ground, the hustle, and bustle that is Las Vegas seems so far away. The once loud city has grown faint in the distance and if I listen closely enough, I can hear the whistles of cayotes in the far desert.

I figure Mr. Edmond is a man with many connections—he didn't come to the restaurant hours before our date to arrange this whole scene himself. He is far too busy for that. What will remain a mystery to me is how he managed to quiet Las Vegas.

As if reading my thoughts, Mr. Edmond asks, "Do you like it?"

My eyes lock with his. His brown irises are intense as if yearning for affirmation. I play right into his ego.

"I do." I need him to know I appreciate his efforts. "Although, my expectations are now really high for our second date."

He leans in close with his elbows on the table. "Ah, that means you'll grant me the pleasure of a second date?"

As if I have a choice. "The night isn't over." I tease.

"Let's make it a memorable one, then." He raises his glass and clinks it with mine.

The evening unfolds seamlessly, and after Greta brings out the charcuterie board, I begin to wonder if this is how being on a date feels like—a real date. The kind of date I go on because I feel like it, because I want to meet someone new, or simply because I am horny and need a proper fuck. Gosh, I haven't been on a date since...I take a minute to ponder the thought but can't come up with a straight answer.

To be honest, I don't think I've ever been on a date.

Yeah, I'm sure the butterflies that threaten to burst out of your stomach as you drive to your destination feel great. I'm sure finding just the right outfit and makeup gets exciting, but with the stress it brings me to get ready for men I have never met, nor do I like or have the desire to fuck, I cannot begin to imagine the anxiety of going on a date with someone I actually like.

For now, I feel content seeing a certain six-year-old boy at McDonald's once a week for dinner.

"Are you in Vegas for business or pleasure?" I ask as I take a sip of the red.

"I live here, although tonight I hope to delve into some pleasure."

"I did skim over a Better Than Sex chocolate cake on the menu earlier." He raises his eyes to mine and forms a smirk. "After all, I've only just met you," I say the words he used against me earlier at the bar.

"I thought Europeans hated Americans." I think out loud, cutting into my steak.

"We aren't all snobbish."

"So, how did a not-snobbish Brit end up living in America?"

His eyes fly up from his plate with one blink and he squints, causing his age to show ever so slightly with the crinkle of his eyes. He is quiet for a moment—watching me. Was I too direct with my question?

I swallow the pool of saliva that has collected in my mouth, wondering if he is ever going to answer me, and if he does, will he be honest or lie through his teeth?

I don't expect him to tell me his whole life story, although some men do so without my asking. Most are worried about sharing too many details of their lives with me, afraid that I might blackmail them or track them straight to their home and families. As if.

Some are simply too self-involved to care to carry a genuine conversation—they paid for sex and only sex, and they'll let you know as much.

Honesty, that's a rarity in this line of work. Everything about this profession is a ruse. The men. The stories. The sex. Even me.

As if ignoring my inquisition, Mr. Edmond slices through his steak with a steak knife. He forcefully stabs the tattered piece with his fork before bringing it into his mouth and chewing it with forceful bites. Taking a swig of his wine, he flushes down the meat. He brings the napkin to the corners of his mouth and looks at me one last time.

"The perks of being born in a time where the family name mattered more than you," his tone drips of sarcasm with a hint of melancholy. Ah, so he comes from old money.

"Some families are still struggling with that."

"Are you speaking from experience?"

I chuckle. "God, no. No one knows me and if they did, I doubt they'd care."

It's sad, but it's the truth.

The Department of Children and Families came to my house once when I was fifteen. It was an unexpected visit, the kind they use to catch parents off guard. Only Ralph wasn't taken by surprise.

As if having done this hundreds of times before, he played right into the role of a concerned parent while my mother offered the social worker a glass of water and covered her track marks with a long-sleeve shirt in the middle of summer.

They labeled me as a pathological liar and closed the case, satisfied I was safe under my abusers' roof. Before the new school year started, I dropped out of high school.

Like I said, even if they knew me, they wouldn't care.

I smile humorlessly if only for the sake of appearing lively. I move the vegetables around on my plate, praying Mr. Edmond isn't the type of man to pry into my personal life.

"What's your story?" he asks.

I tilt my head at his blunt question.

Most suitors like to pretend they haven't bought me. They enjoy the chase and like to pretend I'm a random chick at the bar who has found them so incredibly attractive that I want to jump their bones right into a suite. I'm starting to realize Mr. Edmond isn't like most clients. Although refreshing, it's beginning to catch me off guard. I don't do well with surprises.

I like routine.

I follow a routine.

I know routine.

It helps me stay consistent. It makes me aware of the times I should and shouldn't be home. It helps Ben feel grounded.

Trying to butter up his wallet while I suspect it might be doing the same to his dick, I say, "I usually tell my story on the third date."

"Are you asking me out?"

"That depends." I take a drink of my wine.

"On?" He inches closer, intrigued.

"How interested are you in getting to know me?"

He licks his lips as if parched. "I'm very interested in getting to know every part of you, Belle."

"Then it looks like you have all night and two more dates until you find out."

Our flirtatious banter gets interrupted by Greta as she clears the table and asks if we have room for dessert.

"Would you like some dessert?" Mr. Edmond asks me.

I lick my lips seductively and flutter my lashes at him as I speak to Greta, "I think we'll have dessert in our suite."

"Of course. I'll place this on the table for whenever you're ready." Putting a black pad on the table, she picks up our dirty dishes and heads into the restaurant.

Mr. Edmond retrieves his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and places a couple of hundred-dollar bills inside the pocket of the pad. As he stands, he buttons up his vest and shrugs his jacket on. Walking to me, he offers a hand. I place my hand in his and feel it quiver under my touch. As we exit the restaurant and step into the hallway en route to the elevators, his hand follows the repeated pattern as before, resting on the small of my back.

"May I take you home?"

"That isn't allowed."

He nods in acknowledgment and presses the down button.

Down? Why are we going down? He should be pressing up toward his suite.

Fuck.

Did I say something I wasn't supposed to say? Do something I wasn't supposed to do?

Fuck!

This was supposed to be a dinner and a suite kind of date.

Andrews isn't going to be happy.

My eyes go directly to the illuminated number above the elevator as it begins to approach our floor.

Fourteen more floors until it arrives.

I send a quick prayer to the universe, asking for it to stop at every single floor. I need more time with Mr. Edmond. I need to flirt my way into getting into his suite and wallet. I need those two extra dates.

I hate this feeling of...dependency.

I learned at a young age that no one is there for you like you are for yourself. I had to navigate my own way around life at only ten years of age. To some extent, it was better that way. I mean, when the only people you can rely on are drug addicts or child abusers you really have no one else to turn to but yourself. But in this line of work, I must depend on others to stay afloat.

I depend on Andrews to arrange our dates. On Luke to keep me safe. On strange men to tip me accordingly.

"Why don't we go up to your room?" I suggest.

Mr. Edmond moves close as if to erase any distance between us. His brown eyes pierce into my green ones as his thumb draws small circles on my cheek. "I wish to know you, not just fuck you."

I scrunch my eyebrows. "What does that mean?"

The elevator dings and soon after the deathly sound, the doors spread open. Mr. Edmond plants a kiss on my cheek as he guides me inside. Standing on the opposite side of the elevator, he watches me as the doors close.

I thought I was hitting all the right keys, but I must have misread him. And here I am, once again, caught off guard.

Mr. Edmond surely came with the intention of swooning me tonight. He rented out the terrace and changed the gardening flowers. He wore cologne and dressed in his most expensive suit. He wanted to impress me. He wanted to fuck me. He was going to fuck me until he didn't.

When did I mess up? Was I not too appreciative for his liking? Too flirtatious? Blunt with my responses? Was it my dress? My makeup? Was he ashamed of the way the bartender and Greta looked at us?

As I reach the lobby, my phone buzzes on my purse.

[Andrews]
The Brit. Delano. Thursday evening.