I looked up, surprised, and realized that she was talking to me.
“Yes,” I said, staring at the nearly empty beer that I’d drunk and wishing I could afford more—but not with Sergei’s threat dangling over my head, suspended by razor wire.
The woman settled herself onto the stool next to me, her short skirt sliding up her legs.
“Girlfriend stand you up?”
I shook my head.
“Boyfriend?”
That made me look up, my glance sharp and annoyed.
“No!”
She gave a predatory smile and rested her hand on my thigh with a gentle squeeze.
“Just checking. Whiskey? Or another beer?”
This time I really looked at her.
She was attractive, older, perhaps as much as forty, but she took care of herself and smelled good. I remembered what Volkov had said about earning ‘tips’.
I closed my eyes against the memory and breathed in deeply. The woman’s subtle perfume filled my nostrils and when I opened my eyes again, she was staring at me, a small frown on her face.
“Are you okay?”
Her concern was touching. Yveta and Gary avoided asking me questions like that because they were afraid that I’d answer, saying things they didn’t want to hear.
No, I wasn’t okay. I hadn’t been okay since my plane had landed in this gateway to hell.
“Sorry. Bad day,” I answered. Then I forced a smile and watched her eyes light up. “I’m Ash.”
“Melissa.”
We shook hands and Melissa waved at the bartender for two whiskeys.
“To new friends,” she said as we clinked glasses. “Cute accent, by the way.”
I savored the quick burn of the whiskey and glanced at my new ‘friend’, not responding to her comment. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to encourage more questions about me. So I turned it around.
“Are you on vacation?” I asked politely.
“God, no!” she laughed. “Convention—for business. I wouldn’t come here by choice.” Then she glanced at me. “Sorry, that was rude. But I prefer the beach. What about you?”
“I work here.”
“Really? What do you do?”
“I’m a dancer.”
Once I’d have been proud to say that, but not now. My voice was empty of emotion.
“Oh, I should have guessed,” Melissa smiled, eyeing my body with easy familiarity, a covetous glint darkening her gaze.
After that, it hadn’t taken her long to invite me up to her room “for a drink in private.” Less than 20 minutes.
She’d been upfront, businesslike, not offering any reason for hitting on me. Maybe there was nothing to explain: she was a single woman picking up a guy in a bar and offering him a good time, no strings.
I swallowed as I tried to get the words out, to ask for money. But then a sliver of doubt made me hesitate. Could she be an undercover cop? Gary had told me that they did this, waiting for the girl or guy to solicit money.
I smiled at the irony: if she was a cop, she was exactly what I needed; if she wasn’t, it wouldn’t make any difference.
But when we reached her room, there was nothing undercover about Melissa.
The moment she was through the door she shimmied out of her dress, attacking the zipper on my pants before I’d turned the lock behind me.
Melissa was attractive, but a sort of horror that I was prostituting myself kept getting in the way and my hard-on was fading fast.
“How much did you drink?” she huffed, rubbing my soft cock over the material of my briefs.
Humiliation and anger made me push her away.
Not enough for this, I thought.
I forced my mind past my problems and remembered the ultra-hot fuck I’d had with Yveta the night before. That worked, and my cock started to stiffen. I cupped myself over my briefs and stared at Melissa.
She licked her lips and walked toward me as I shrugged out of my shirt and kicked off the pants that were pooled around my feet. When she was near enough, I unhooked her bra and tossed it to the floor and played with her tits which were real enough and heavy in my hands.
I fucked her on the bed, my eyes closed the whole time, trying to keep the picture of Yveta in my mind, her long muscled legs wrapped around my waist as I’d plowed into her backstage at the theater after everyone had left.
I had just enough awareness to make sure that Melissa came before I did something stupid like call her by the wrong name.
Her nails dragged down my spine as her back arched and she quivered around me.
I pulled out immediately, although I hadn’t come. I don’t think she noticed.
She smiled at me sleepily, her skin flushed, her eyes sated.
“You can see yourself out,” she yawned. “There’s money on the table.”
I bowed my head and dressed hurriedly.
There was a small pile of money on the table. I scooped it up and left the room as quickly as possible.
Outside the hotel, I paused to count the money: $145. Plus five one-dollar bills.
I’m surviving. That’s what I told myself.
After that first time, it became easier. I was better at picking my targets and charged more.