Page 7 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

But what of it? So the asshole has a cool tattoo. He probably doesn’t even know what it means.

I force myself to tune back into the conversation. Dardan is arguing with the man named Cyrus about what date Wednesday was, and suddenly, everybody’s arguing. I want to blurt out the right answer or tell them to look at their phones, for fuck’s sake, but I’m not supposed to draw attention to myself.

Luka observes, though, silent as a sphinx. Does he know the date? Of course, he knows the date, but he doesn’t say it for whatever reason.

Never mind. Just over two more hours to go, and then I’m gone.

Luka and the guys start talking about the Knicks while the women stay quiet. I’m staring down at the table, listening, willing myself to be invisible and trying to ignore Dardan’s leg, which is suddenly pressing more against mine.

I check the time. Is the clock even moving?

Luka shows a slight interest in the problems of somebody named Zedd, and now everybody is falling all over themselves to tell him what they know about Zedd’s corner guy getting robbed, desperate for Luka’s approval. The theory seems to be that a rival gang was behind the robbery.

Criminals stealing from criminals.

I amuse myself by imagining the great Luka in an orange jumpsuit. That’s what he should be wearing. Not whatever cashmere Italian suit he has on, sitting there all larger than life like a runway model fresh from a designer’s evil fashion show.

With a tattoo that he doesn’t even understand the coolness of.

Sometimes, I think I feel the intensity of his gaze turned back on me, but then I think I imagine it. Either way, I try not to look at him. I’m barely even here—that’s how intensely I’m willing myself to be invisible.

And so what if he does see through me a little bit? So what if he’s somehow figured out that I’m not actually an experienced hooker? I doubt I’m the first impoverished woman to try her hand at sex work.

They’re still on the thing with Zedd. Luka has questions. He wants the corner guy brought to him, and no, he doesn’t care that the corner guy turns out to be fourteen and it’s the middle of the night.

Luka takes one of the guys’ phones and puts something in, and then he takes Dardan’s phone and does the same. I don’t look at the numbers he’s punching in. Some protective instinct is telling me I don’t want to know.

My own phone is at the ready, and in two hours and fifteen minutes, Bender will call with a supposed family emergency to get me out.

And I’ll never have to be near these hateful criminals again.

Chapter Four

LUKA

Are they actually fighting about today’s date? Look at the fucking phone, I think. But again, the nervousness. Except for her, the nubile prostitute and her holier-than-thou scorn, so above it all, like she alone doesn’t have a dark side.

Say what you will about the other people at this table; at least they know they have dark sides. They know they’re capable of doing monstrous things when monstrous things need doing. You have to respect that.

There’s a dusting of freckles over her nose that she tried to conceal with makeup. So many little secrets waiting to be uncovered.

Her lips are formed into a rosebud of judgment, a configuration that makes her top lip plump out. It comes to me that her top lip is too large to fit exactly with her bottom lip; it has more volume, I suppose you could say, an imperfection that is fucking hot.

I imagine those lips around my cock as I fist her hair. This girl on her high horse transformed into a beautiful little beggar, tears of need bleeding down her cheeks as she begs me to use her inwhatever way I see fit, greedy for my cock, pleading for my touch, desperate for my next command.

I force my mind back to the situation at the table. Orton’s drawing people out with careful questions.

My being here is the culmination of months, if not years, of hell, and I’m analyzing her lips?

No.

Everything is riding on obtaining the information I need. There are more people who need killing. It’s everything.

She takes a sip of her drink through her straw and licks her lips—just the inseam.

The guys reply to Orton, still wary of what my presence here means for them.

I can hardly blame them for feeling that way. I showed up out of nowhere, sliced up their leader in the grizzliest way possible, and declared myself king. I’d be wary, too. But that’s the Albanian clan life for you.

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