She looks to me.
“Hey, love bug,” she says with a wave as she picks up a pair of panties. “I’m Laura. You can find me on the corner of 42nd and 8th Avenue. I charge $100 for the half hour. $150 for the hour. Do you want my website or something?”
A hooker?
A fucking hooker?
Peter Theller, my boyfriend, was cheating on me with a hooker who stands outside of the Port Authority Bus Terminal?
“Peter Theller,” I say, surprisingly calm. “I just want to make sure all my friends know, so they don't have to ask when they find out why we broke up, that I caught you cheating on me with a hundred dollar whore that you found outside of the bus terminal!”
I zoom into his face. He’s sputtering.
I move the camera down.
Peter’s cock, which was as hard as a 5-inch cock could be, starts to deflate. Despite myself, I can't suppress a smirk. This is insane.
“Ashley, turn that off!” Peter says angrily.
Doesn't matter. He can try to turn my phone off. Hell, he can break it if he wants. It's already gone live. And it’ll play forever. And ever. Till the end of time.
“I have nothing else to say to you, you stupid, selfish, piece of shit,” I say to him. My voice is even calm. Still.
Am I acting crazy? The jury’s gonna be out on that one, babe. But I don't work 8 hours grinding my ass on other guys’ cocks not to be able to roll with the punches. And I’m not gonna put up with this shit.
Not when there are guys who look like the Gorgeous Jerk walking around out there.
I turn off my phone and turn around.
“Nice to meet you!” the hooker calls out. “I’m Laura. In case you didn't get that.”
I don't know how, but I’m out the door.
Peter is calling out to me. But I couldn’t care less at this point.
I run down the stairs. They go by in a flash. All of a sudden I’m outside. I run across the street and down the stairs into the subway.
I catch the downtown C from Port Authority. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m glad that at least I’m headed home.
I sit down on the bench in the train car and I think about crying. But no. No tears for him! Never for him!
I will survive this. I will fucking survive!
40
Arsen
“I’m sure that had my father been here at this point, he would've been the first to join me in congratulating the Board of Directors of the Metropolitan Museum of Art on their opening of their new Impressionist Wing,” I say to the polite applause and some knowing laughter. “I’m sure he would've been particularly taken with the nudes.”
The laughter is a bit lighter now, people more at ease.
“On behalf of the Met, I am honored that his last act was to grant this gift,” I finish and this time the applause is spontaneous.
Of course it fucking is. People will take money from anyone, no matter how fucking wealthy they already are. Never mind that half the people in this room would've never fucking allowed my dad to come near their daughters when he was alive. And could you fucking blame them? I couldn’t. The guy literally made billions of dollars selling smut. I must've had at least six stepmothers in my life. I lost track after a while. Each one came all giggly, then watched as they fell into neglect as their bodies aged, until they left with their suitcases that they came with, and a fat settlement check.
Now they’re dedicating a wing of the fucking Met to him. Don’t get me wrong. It cost money. But it’s the least I could do, allocating a portion of the money from the sale of the live sex webcams that he controlled and writing a check to the fucking Met.
That’s right. It’s only been ten fucking days and I’ve already started selling pieces of my dad’s smut empire.
Don’t get me fucking wrong. I love to fuck. I mean, the first time you saw me, I was fucking two strippers, remember?
“You’re father would have been very proud of you,” some random old guy says as I descend the podium. I have no idea who the fuck he is, but he takes the stage after me. I navigate around all the fucking leeches that surround this place. As long as I’m making a name for myself by distancing myself from my dad’s smut kingdom, and giving away some money to them, they’re content to come let me inside. But the moment I start going against their rules, they’ll pull back the red carpet and leave me out in the cold.
I find Gerard waiting for me outside the Met on the steps. He’s looking through his phone, checking emails. Always a good lawyer. Always on top of things. Hell, he basically raised me after my Mom died and Dad started marrying women left and right. When I moved out of the house before college because I just couldn’t get into Dad living with three other women, it was Gerard who fucking made sure I didn’t go off the deep end. Sure, I like to party. I like to get wild. But trust me when I tell you that I’d be having a lot more than tattoos on my body if Gerard weren’t there to bring me back when I started to stray.