Chapter 9. Author's note: comments and votes (especially comments) are very appreciated. I'd love to know what anyone who is reading this thinks of it. Thank you, if you do give feedback, or if you just read!

Later that night, Nightingale found herself lying next to Michael, her head on his chest, listening to the gentle sound of his heartbeat and the slowness of his breath. Assuming him to be asleep, she gave a sigh.

And so she was surprised when Michael ran one hand along her spine and murmured, his voice humming in his chest and sending vibrations throughout Nightingale's body:

"You're not asleep?"

She, with another sigh propped herself up on one elbow and examined him, a smile on her face. "No," she said, and stroked his cheek. "Why? Do you want to go again?" She was careful to skirt around any words that would have proved more blunt, as she he raised herself in a well-practised manner and straddled him, smiling as winningly as she could.

He looked up at her with his slightly foolish, but entirely charming eyes and said something that was bashful that it nearly made Nightingale blush.

"Only if you want to," he said.

Nightingale sighed once again. With any other client she would have purred her put-on desire to fuck him again, but she was finding it more and more difficult to lie to him. He must have picked up on her indecision as he tentatively put his hands around her waist and said nervously:

"You don't want to?"

Nightingale wondered if he knew that she never wanted to sleep with a man. He must not have based on the surprise on his face. She knew that most of her clients at least wanted her to pretend that she wanted it - it soothed their egos, made them feel somehow masculine.

At least a part of this emotion must have shown on her face, as Michael's eyebrows shot up as fast as he sat up. "Nightingale, have you ever wanted to...sleep with me?"

Nightingale bit her lip. She had no idea why she suddenly found it impossible to lie. She knew she was an excellent liar. It was part of what made her such a successful, sought-after whore.

"Yes," she told him, feeling her lie fall flat. So she amended it to something more truthful. "Well...I've never minded it with you. You're very gentle and considerate."

Michael seemed to take it as a compliment, and it was. "Gentle and considerate" were two adjectives that Nightingale could apply to no other clients. He was gentle with her, and considerate of her feelings, though she always allowed him to violate those feelings. Combining that with "never minding it", something that was not entirely true except in comparison to men like Bobby, created the highest praise she could offer.

Michael was quiet for a while. During this time, his fingers walked their way up and down Nightingale's flesh in a way that was, most surprisingly, not unpleasant. Normally she hated it when men touched her, but Michael's hands were different.

"Have you ever enjoyed it?" he asked, his voice small.

Nightingale knew the answer she could give, but could not bear to lie. "No," she said sadly, and took his face in her hands. 

She knew deep down that she ought to have said yes. All her clients liked her to pretend at least that she sort of enjoyed herself during their encounters - except the few truly twisted ones who liked her to kick and thrash about, screaming, as though she were being raped - and yet she never had. She found it entirely impossible to, for the evident reason that it was impossible to savour something you were forced into.

Michael flinched back as though someone had pressed a red-hot poker into his skin. After a moment's consideration, he said, "That's not too surprising."

Nightingale nodded and nudged her face against his. He pushed her away.

For a moment she panicked, worried that he would now be angry with her, report her to Bobby, or beat her himself. But instead, he put one hand on her face and looked at her with such gentleness that it made her want to weep.

"I want you to enjoy yourself," he said, his voice childish in its simplicity.

She smiled at him and kissed him. As with the first time they had kissed, she felt a gentle flutter in her chest. Like fear, but far sweeter, butterflies seemed to batter her stomach.

 "There," she said. "I enjoyed that."

He smiled, his face lighting up with slightly gormless happiness. "Okay," he said, and laid back down, beckoning for Nightingale to join him. She obeyed, and laid herself against his body.

"Goodnight, Gale," he sighed happily.

"Goodnight, Michael," she echoed. As she closed her eyes, she wondered what she had gotten into.

She awoke the next morning to find that Michael was still asleep. Not sure what to do, she shook his shoulder and whispered to him to wake up.

He grunted in response. So she woke him up the way she did a lot of her clients - with a kiss. It seemed to work on Michael, for he gave a sigh and opened his eyes. Nightingale was afraid of the depth of emotion she saw lighting up his eyes.

"Wake up, Michael," she said, and kissed his forehead.

"I'll do anything if you ask me like that," he mumbled, eyes nearly crossed with bliss.

Nightingale had to laugh. "That's good to know."

Michael nodded and rumpled the hair on the back of his head with an airy hand. He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall - analog, a throwback to the era when the digital world was only a fantasy, not a reality - and sighed.

"I should really go, I suppose," he said, yawning. At that moment, they both his stomach give a terrific rumble. Nightingale laughed again as he clutched it, looking self-conscious.

"Breakfast time, I take it," she tittered, patting his belly.

He grinned foolishly. "Is there no way I could eat breakfast with you, Gale?"

She sighed internally at the use of the sobriquet, realizing that he used it far more than any other client. She knew what was happening to Michael, but couldn't stop it.

"No," she told him.

He looked hurt, and so smiled at him and kissed him quickly. 

"It's not that. It's that I don't eat breakfast," she said.

"What?" he asked.

"I eat one midday meal. But is that really important?" she asked, nuzzling his face. She'd realized that a way to wriggle out of speaking with Michael was to kiss or caress him, and decided to make use of it.

"I  guess not," he said weakly, and surrendered to Nightingale's affections. It was only after a few minutes during which Nightingale bestowed at least twenty or so kisses upon him, and even more caresses - without actually fucking him - that he gave a yelp.

"Good Lord!" he cried, his eyes widening as he took in the time on the clock. "I'm going to be late for work!"

Nightingale flopped back on the bed. "Work. Going to be late for creating more Inamoratas to enslave, are you?" she snapped.

The moment the words were out of her mouth, she was aghast. She clapped both hands over mouth, as if to force the insolent words back down her throat. But she could not, and Michael was standing there, half-dressed, staring at her in shock.

Nightingale was horrified, and not because she had offended Michael. It was the very fact that she had let such disobedient, rude thoughts escape her. She, the perfect Inamorata, the one who never spoke back except to tease charmingly, the one who was popular with clients for her obedience and skill, had just mouthed off at a client like a green girl.

What was happening to her? Had David and Michael made her so loose, had they damaged her impeccable self-control enough to make her talk back like that?

As she sat up, regarding Michael with her wide eyes, she braced herself, waiting for the slap - or worse - to come. Michael, though he might be a nice man, would surely not put up with such impertinence.

And so it was much to her astonishment that he smiled sadly, leaned forward, and kissed her forehead gently.

"Yes," he said, with an air of confession. "That's where I'm going. Forgive me for my profession, Nightingale."

His guilty air moved Nightingale nearly to tears. And so, lying to him with an ease that had not come earlier, she smiled.

"Of course I forgive you," she said, the deception feeling perfectly comfortable. It was necessary and though it was a lie that she could ever forgive him for that crime, she told it to set his guilty heart at rest.

"Good," he said, and pulled on his jacket. Then, his cheeks going red with a blush, he continued. "Should I pay Bobby on the way out again?"

She nodded. "Yes. And if you want to continue to be my first-pick client, then make sure you keep paying more than the rest."

"You mean that any man could outbid me, and you'd sleep with him instead?" asked Michael. His eyes were wide with hurt and betrayal.

Nightingale wasn't sure whether she wanted to screech at him or embrace him for his naivety. She settled for smiling gently. "That's what I do. That's what Bobby tells us to do," she qualified, after a moment's thought.

"Oh," said Michael.

"But don't worry, darling," she said, standing and approaching him. When he was within and arm's length, she laid one hand on his forearm. "There is only one other client who pays more than you. And so if he is not here tonight, I'll be all yours."

Michael looked half reassured and half jealous.

"And if I'm not here, take Rose," said Nightingale, remembering that that night Rose would have to take her first client. "But be gentle with her. She's still very young."

"I don't want Rose," snapped Michael. "I want you."

But, with a simple goodbye, he departed. Nightingale, giving a sigh, grabbed her bathrobe and sat down on the rug. Reaching under the bed, she pulled out Cyrano de Bergerac.

She was reading, noticing some interesting similarities between Michael and the slightly foolish but undeniably sincere character of Christian, when there was the most genteel of genteel taps on the door.

"Come in!" she called, stowing Cyrano under the blankets.

Not surprisingly, it was Rose. And also not surprisingly, she looked upset. When Nightingale patted the ground beside her, the poor girl threw herself into the room and collapsed next to Nightingale, her shoulders shaking with fear.

"Nightingale," she whimpered.

Nightingale patted her head. "It's because of tonight, isn't it?" she asked. She tried to keep the sorrow in her voice to a bare minimum, so as not to hurt Rose.

Rose nodded, her beautiful eyes wide with fear. "I don't want to do it," she said, her voice small.

Nightingale laughed bitterly. "Of course you don't. But you have to."

They paused, during which time Rose's eyes dimmed with despair. After a little while, Rose pulled on Nightingale's arm.

"You've never thought of killing yourself?" she whispered.

Nightingale had to bite her tongue to prevent herself from laughing scornfully at the poor little fool. As it was, her face contorted into a twisted expression of disgust and depraved humour that made Rose flinch back nervously.

"Of course I have! Every Inamorata here has considered it at some point. But there's nothing around here with which to do it. No poison, no way to drown myself, nothing sharp enough to slit my wrists, no rafters to hang myself from," she said. "And Bobby beats any Inamorata if he finds out she's trying to off herself. Dead Inamoratas mean wasted money and lost revenue. Magenta, for example. She made a shank-"

"A what?" said Rose, looking disturbed.

"It's twenty-first century prison slang. Magenta, because she rightly considers us all prisoners, introduced us to it. It's a homemade knife, really. She made a knife out of a breaking apart her bed frame. She slit her wrists," said Nightingale. She shuddered, remembering how Sparkle had discovered the scene. Magenta had laid down on her bed and slashed with the shank, spilling scarlet blood all over the white sheets.

"Sparkle found her. It was awful. I heard Sparkle screaming, and for good reason. Magenta ripped open her wrists very badly, and not successfully. I've never seen Bobby so angry. He had her fixed up, and then beat the shit out of her," continued Nightingale.

Rose's eyes widened. "He shocked her?"

"Yes, but he also kicked her, too. And when he knocked out four of her teeth, he had to have those replaced, too. Which made him angrier," said Nightingale. "Which is one of the reasons why no one else has ever tried it. You want to know the other reason?"

Rose nodded, her already-wide eyes now giant orbs.

"I'm not giving Bobby the fucking satisfaction of knowing he's broken me," growled Nightingale.

Rose smiled a little, but it quickly faded. After a short while, she said softly:

"Gale, will you help me?"

Nightingale watched Rose fidgeting, twisting her hands together in a childish way, and felt nearly debilitating sorrow rise in her chest. So she touched Rose's arm as comfortingly as she could.

"I'll try," she said. "Though I don't think anyone can help you, not for your first time."

Rose shuddered. "I'm afraid," she said, and her voice was pathetically small.

Nightingale didn't say anything. There was nothing to say.

"Will it hurt?" she whispered.

"Yes," said Nightingale, her voice just as quiet as Rose's. "But ithe physical pain isn't the only thing you need to worry about. It's the client himself."

"What do you mean?" gasped Rose, her mouth slack with horror.

"Clients pay well to fuck virgins," said Nightingale. As she said it, she watched Rose flinch back at the idea. Not because she was nervous of the client, but because what Nightingale had just said was something that their conditioned knowledge told them was taboo. Though they themselves had no reason to find something like that scandalous - they were whores, for fuck's sake - it was still something that made Rose flinch and even Nightingale with her hardened, cold demeanour found distasteful.

"What?" mumbled Rose.

"Your first client is likely going to be what I affectionately refer to as a 'twisted fuck'," said Nightingale. She did not mince her words, as there was no point. Rose would have to learn the truth.

Rose paled. Nightingale, feeling guilty, stroked her folded hands.

"But here's the good thing: it's only going to happen once. Those clients, they're a one-time thing. After that, you'll have to deal with some nasty pieces of work who'll take advantage of you, beat you, rape you, but it will never be that bad again. And I can help you after tonight," said Nightingale fervently.

Rose, most surprisingly, looked comforted. "You promise that? That it'll be better after tonight?" she said hopefully.

What Nightingale said next she had never said before to another Inamorata, because, until she had been given a new hope by David, she had never believed it.

"Yes," she said.

"What happened to you, Gale?" asked Rose. "I've only been alive five days, but what I've learned about you is that you're hard, cynical, and tough as nails. Never optimistic. And now you're telling me things will get better?"

"I'm not saying they'll be fucking sunshine and flowers, Rose," snapped Nightingale, as though she felt the need to defend her cynicism. "I'm saying that the more experienced you get, fucking clients will get marginally more bearable."

"Oh," said Rose.

"Yeah." Nightingale replied in a snarl. Then, seeing that Rose was about to cry, she went on. "Tonight, just follow your instincts. Go along with whatever he wants. Pretend to enjoy it, don't cry, and don't protest. That should keep you okay."

"Really?" sniffled Rose.

"Yes," sighed Nightingale. "Now, do you want to continue your French lesson?"

Rose smiled in a watery way. "Okay," she said.

As Nightingale pulled out Cyrano from its hiding place, she noticed a small smile curving its way over Rose's pretty mouth.

"What is it?" she asked gently.

"I like the character of Cyrano," she said, her smile becoming even brighter. "I like him a lot. I wish men like him existed. I wish good men existed. Or if they do, I wish we knew them"

Nightingale was silent, though her heart screamed at her to concur with Rose, to tell her that she knew of at least one good man. As it was, all she did was sigh and open the book.