no money, no family

Cecelia woke up in a strangers bed, as a stranger. The owner of this bed wasn’t a stranger, persay, but a client. She knew his name, Damien? Donald?, and he looked nice when he was asleep; his lips slightly parted, lying on his belly, face pressed against his pillow, hair stuck up in all different directions and the sun leaking through the curtains, casting shadows on his face. He looked cute, not sleazy, not the guy who picked her up at the end of her shift at the club and drove her to his place in silence, only talking when they got inside to command her to strip. And the girl who woke up in this bed wasn’t exactly a stranger either; she was just someone who was a bit dazed, and confused, and frankly not quite sure who she was herself.

Usually she would get out of a clients place as quickly as possible. She slept in though, because his, Danny? Duke?, bed was so, so, comfortable. It felt like it was made from heaven’s clouds. It was actually made from memory foam, which was pretty fucking close to clouds, especially to Cecelia, who’s own bed was full of springs and was on the floor and she shared it with her boyfriend-roommate-pimp who sweat and talked in his sleep. Danny-Duke-Donald-Damien’s slept soundly and quietly and was sweating prior to sleeping, thanks to the services Cecelia provided.

Reaching a hand out to his nightstand to check the time on his phone, and figuring he'd want her out before his neighbors started to wake up, she got out of bed and dressed. She wasn't interested in doing the walk of shame, and surely he didn't want people questioning who the scantily clad girl leaving was. 

In the kitchen, she picked his wallet up from the counter to get the cash she earned. She was shocked at the hundred dollar bills it was full of, considering pocketing all the cash and running, hoping he wouldn't find her; it would please her boyfriend-pimp-roommate... Or she could see how far a bus or hitch hiking could take her.

"Pretty sure I don't owe you that much," Damien-Danny-Duke-Donald said from behind her, making her jump and nearly drop the thousand bucks she held. "Last night was eight hundred. Not that you didn't do well. I'm very satisfied."

She turned to see him standing in his underwear, hands on his hips, sly smile on his lips. "Good to hear."

"Anyways, I paid your pimp already, but, uh, take a hundred or two for yourself. A tip," He said, "since he probably doesn't let you keep any for yourself."

When she failed to respond with a thank you, sputtering in shock at his generosity, he chuckled. "Buy yourself something pretty. For the next time you see me. Or something to wear on stage, you've been in the same lingerie for a week."

Celia raised an eyebrow. "You watch me strip?"

He looked a bit disappointed. "You don't recognize me? I'm a regular."

A gorgeous twenty-something year old should stand out among loads of unhealthily overweight middle-aged men with receding hairlines, but she shook her head.

He approached her slowly, lifting a hand to touch her cheek softly; an oddly intimate gesture. "I'll sit closer to you next time, so you can see me. Wear what you buy with that money tonight. Are you busy tonight?" These sentences were whispered, though no one could hear them. He studied her face, waiting for her to respond. She shook her head. "I'll be waiting for you after your shift. There's more cash where that came from." 

Celia, confused and a little scared, spat out, "I have a bus to catch," and left his apartment building quickly.