Page 12 of Into the Blue
Is that what he does with all the girls he brings to the private rooms?
He doesn’t get private rooms. Which I believe. Though if it’s not in a room like this, I still know he’s not lonely.
Especially not with the knowledge he clearly has about how to do… all he just did with my body.
Hell, I have not totally even recovered or processed what just happened.
I’m one of many and he’s not my man. This is a job.
“Why didn’t you fuck me?” I ask. There is no desperation in my tone, just curiosity. It was on the table and he… passed.
“Didn’t?” His head tilts to the side as his hand trails up my side to below my breast. My nipple hardens and becomes much too obvious with nothing but the single layer of blush silk covering it. He watches in the mirror and I’m drawn to watch him, too.
“You never took your clothes—” My voice is breathy as his intention pulses heavy in the air without him having to utter a single word. His other hand matches the movements of the first and now my back is pressed to his front. “Off,” I say, finally finishing my sentence on an exhale.
There is no mistaking this man is hard. The thick ridge of him sits between my cheeks. Its insistence is the beginning of what will likely be a Pavlovian response if anything from earlier is an indication of what I have to look forward to.
Who’s to say thereisanything to look forward to?
The man never even took his clothes off.
With my tits in his hands, he makes eye contact with me. It’s intense and unyielding. “I don’t pay for it,” he replies, still playing with my breasts in his hands.
I blink several times and then I look over to the money that’s so obviously sitting on the table. He follows my gaze and our eyes meet in the mirror again. “Told you I wanted some time with you. Time is money.” His head nods once to the stacks again and he adds, “That wouldn’t even start to cover how much my dick is worth.” His sinister smile lifts on one side and I scoff.
“Well, I guess I’ll never know.”That’s it Rocky, reel him in.
He crouches by the loveseat and picks up my outfit that he cut off of me, putting it into one of his cargo pockets. “Oh nah. You will. But when I’m ready for you.”
But that’s where he’s wrong. He might have gotten me distracted for a minute earlier—okay, maybe longer.
There is still something I’m absolutely sure of.
He will never be ready for me.
I’m the one thing he never saw coming.
Chapter 5
“And this woman you blew me off for is…?”
In front of my desk, my best friend looks just as pissed as I figured she would be in her pressed pantsuit. It’s a deep navy color I know she picked because she’s working at my place today.
When we were younger, everyone speculated she would be in the WNBA because of how tall she is and her love of the sport. Steph has always been about the money so she chose a different path. Now, she looms over me with her ball player height as smoke pours out of her ears.
Her temper is the least of my problems though. I give her a terse response. “She’s new.”
There was also speculation that her and I would end up together because we were on that court together more times than not growing up. It’s because of her that I started going by Blue. She was nasty on the court, throwing elbows, fouling out. I had a black eye so often because of her sharp ass elbows. One day she said,your eye is so black it’s damn near blue.
Then she just kept calling me that.
We were only in middle school and other kids caught on to it. They thought it was too funny that agirlgavemea black eye. Maybe it’s a Southern thing or a Louisiana thing, but once you get a nickname, regardless of what it is, that bitch sticks. Can’t ever get rid of it. I didn’t care about losing to Steph or getting a black eye. What I couldn't abidewas the disrespect to me and the base of it being the fact that Steph’s a girl.
Turns out, Steph wasn’t the only one who could throw an elbow or make someone blue with bruises. Bet I never heard anyone say “Blue,” in mockery again. I own the name with pride, while they cower in fear.
It was many years later when I picked up a blade instead of using my fists. The tattoos only cover part of the damage my hands have seen. They definitely don’t cover the damage I carry elsewhere. I flex my hands, feel the tightening of old scar tissue and begin massaging the digits. Years and four surgeries later, they still don’t work as well as they should. I’ve adapted and most couldn’t tell. For that I’m grateful.
“New?” She gives me an incredulous look back. “New… at the strip club?”
