Page 5 of Cruel Pleasures
I give a nod of my head as I follow her advice and strip off the low-cut blouse I’ve put on.
Emerald’s an expert on these matters. She also happens to be the only other person in my life I’d consider a friend.
We met years ago when she moved into the townhouse. Because of her earnings as a professional dominatrix at clubs like Two-Twelve and Nightowl, she could afford the biggest room in the house, on the third floor.
At first she was rude and standoffish, but once she found out I worked at a sex shop, she let her guard down and showed me a more down-to-earth side.
But Emerald doesn’t know the truth about my meet up with Francesco this morning. She believes I’ve started a Cyber Fans account and one of my wealthier subscribers invited me to coffee to discuss a sugar baby arrangement. I neglected to tell her that I’d used Lyra’s account and that it was Lyra’s admirer Francesco who I’m meeting up with.
I’d rather keep her out of this. There’s no telling what the Midnight Society’s up to, and she has her own life to worry about.
I focus on the matter at hand—finding a look that’s casual yet enticing to the male eye.
“What about now?” I ask once I’m changed.
Emerald ditches her nail file and comes up behind me digging in her purse. Suddenly, she’s gone from bystander more concerned with her nails to helpful older sister.
I should know one when I see one—I have two older than me who were never helpful.
“You need some mascara to open your eyes up a bit more. Here.”
I stay still as she touches up my lashes first with a curler then with a mascara wand. A flurry of nerves hit my stomach as she draws back and admires her handiwork.
I haven’t been remotely nervous at the thought of meeting up with Francesco, but now that it’s an hour away, I’m having second thoughts.
As friendly as Francesco seemed, he’s still a part of the Midnight Society. He’s a member of the same club that could very well be behind Lyra’s disappearance…
“Remember,” Emerald says, “stay safe and don’t give away too much. Just enough to keep him coming back for more. He doesn’t need to know where you live or your whole life story. Time is money, got it?”
“Got it,” I repeat.
“Good. Now go sell ass,” she teases with a wink. “You’ll be a pro in no time.”
I appreciate the encouragement, but refrain from letting her know I won’t be selling ass any time soon.
There’s no more time to waste. I have to ride the subway through several stops just to make it to the Java King on Thirty-Fourth.
I snatch my purse up and head for the door.
Let’s hope I get results.
It’s drizzling out by the time I turn up to the Java King. Francesco sits under the umbrella of patio tables. Seeing him before he sees me, I take a moment to observe every detail about him—he sits relaxed in the woven chair in linen pants and a popped collar. His complexion’s borderline orange from what’s obviously unnatural tanning methods, and his thinning hair’s been gelled down to his scalp.
His eyes light up when he sees me, and he beckons me over with two fingers.
He’s not at all attractive yet has the confidence of a man twice as good-looking.
I play along with a polite smile and cut a path toward the table.
“Ciao, bella,” he greets in a heavy accent. “Sit.”
“Shouldn’t we go inside? It’s sprinkling.”
“Sit,” he says again, grinning. He gestures to the cup perched on my side of the table. “I ordered you an espresso. Very strong.”
“No thank you.”
“Drink.” He raises his own espresso cup like he’s making a toast.
