Shattered Glass(11)

I stared in horrified fascination as he made his way to the passenger side door. My pulse jumped at each tap of his knuckles against the window. It took several seconds to decide whether to roll it down or just unlock the door. I chose the latter.

Pulling his apron off over his head, Bunny slippers climbed in the passenger seat and shut the door. Scents—his scents—filled the car: tobacco, soap, and something herbal that reminded me of my college girlfriend’s incense. I detected cinnamon and sugar as well, and I wondered if he had been baking.

“Hey,” I said lamely. I didn’t know what else to add. I just want to get to know you? Buy you loafers? The longer I sat, the faster my heart worked. Say something. Say something. Say some—“How was your day?”

“Who gives a fuck?” His voice was as cold as his glare. Not that coldness detracted from his beauty; quite the opposite. It only complemented the sharp angles of his face.

I didn’t know how to respond to his aggressive declaration, and apparently he wasn’t adding anything else to the conversation, so the two of us sat in silence.

I guess I thought he’d give a fuck. He had, after all, climbed into my car. Though now he seemed to be debating whether to leave or talk or, well, judging by the way his fingers were opening and closing on the door handle, there was some debate about something. I was about to ask him to coffee—because I was the lamest guy ever—when he spoke up.

“Fifty bucks for a blow, twenty for hand. You don’t touch me or kiss me. And I don’t fuck. Payment up front. Got it?” His head tilted, those dead eyes watching me like he could give two shits whether I took the offer or left it.

I should have expected it. Shit, I was a vice cop, I should have fucking expected it. But the thought hadn't even crossed my mind. And the clenching ache in my gut was ten times worse because of my ridiculous idealism. I blamed those damn slippers.

Of course, I couldn’t take him up on it.

But Jesus, I wanted to.

Our eyes met as I heard myself ask, “How much to touch you?” Jesus Christ. What the hell am I doing? A giant sign in my head kept flashing: “Career ending! Career ending!” in bright neon red.

I knew what I was doing, though, and I just had to take the risk. Him touching me could leave doubts. But if I willingly put my hands on another man, and I enjoyed it, then some of my questions would be answered. I needed this debate resolved to function normally again. And better with a whore than some random stranger who could get attached. Or with whom I could get attached.

His shoulders dropped for a second and then tensed. He set his jaw and chewed his lower lip. He was calm. By contrast I was a mess. My nails dug into my thighs, my breathing heavy and clipped, and I couldn’t stop staring at him. Was he gauging my desperation? It had to be obvious just how desperate I was. The sad part was, it wasn’t even desperation to fuck him. Well, it was and it wasn’t. It was more than that.

“Two hundred.” He turned to the scenery outside my window.

“Do you want to wait here while I go to an ATM?” Did I actually just say that? I was oddly excited, vaguely nauseated and terrified. I didn’t even know how old he was.

And…I kept staring at his feet. What would his reaction be if I offered to buy him sneakers? Big, ugly, pink-checkered sneakers. The kind of footwear that even I couldn’t find attractive.

Bunny Slippers reached behind him and pulled the safety belt across his chest. I mentally laughed at the gesture. For all he knew, I could be taking him off to murder him, and he was putting his seatbelt on, making it easier to hold him hostage.

Wrapping my arm around the back of his headrest, I twisted to check my blind spots and pulled out of the parking lot. I kept my hand on his seat while I drove. Delicious sprouts of auburn hair almost touched my skin. Almost. If I just stretched my finger…

Think of something to say, Austin. Nothing came to mind except that flashing sign that kept changing its marquee. FBI career over! Arrested! Underage Prostitute! Prostitute! Male Prostitute!

Half a block away, I pulled into an ATM kiosk and emptied five hundred dollars from my account; all the while I tried to talk myself out of, and into, this insane plan to pay someone, a guy, for sex.

Not sex. You’re not having sex with him.

I practically fell into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the cash and my seatbelt as I shut the door. Bunny Slippers continued to stare out my window. He hadn’t looked at me once since we left the restaurant parking lot. After separating two hundred from the stack of bills, I handed them to him with trembling fingers. “Here, two hundred,” I rasped. He tucked the money into what I was just now noticing were jeans, not pajama bottoms. I exhaled in relief. At least I hadn’t been checking out what he was wearing.