#noripensit

A giggle escaped as your eyes crinkled shut, cheeks lifting to unveil your pearly whites. It was your most charming, most innocent smile, the one that usually got you whatever you wanted.

So you definitely weren’t expecting the bill folder to boomerang back into your fingers as you dragged your hand away.

Your eyes snapped open, your feigned enthusiasm deflating just a smidge, still giving him the benefit of the doubt.

But across the table? Patrick was sending you what you were certain was his own million-dollar smile.

“Thank you for inviting me,” you said, moving the bill back toward him, your voice laced with meaning.

The butterflies from earlier? Dead. Panic clawed at your stomach instead.

Patrick swallowed, his smirk twitched. His expression shifted into something dangerously close to annoyance.

Oh, this bitch.

You could tell what he was thinking before anything even happened.

“Yeah, of course, of course.” He picked up the bill holder, peeked at the total—then grimaced. “Hey, I’ve gotta use the restroom.”

He went to stand, and you shot across the table to grab his wrist.

“Don’t. Do this. To me,” you seethed through your teeth, trying your best not to draw attention. He looked shocked as you yanked him back down.

“What the hell? Don’t you have money?” he asked, as if you were the asshole here, not the slightest bit embarrassed by his behavior. “You just won your match.”

“They pay out winnings at the end,” you hissed. “And haven’t you heard of credit card debt?” If Amex had a wrapped, you’d be in the top 1% of collections—that was a fact. “Aren’t you rich?” you shot back. “The girls in the circuit said you’re loaded.”

Patrick made a face. “Yeah, well, my parents are loaded,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. His eyes flicked to where your vice grip was still locked on the wrist of his other. “I thought you were staying here?”

“I’m the 99th-best player in the world! I just cracked the top 100—you think they’re putting me up in the Ritz?” You were aware that you sounded deranged, but anyone overhearing this conversation—anyone witnessing Patrick’s smug little expression—would side with you. “This was just where I figured we’d meet up,” you gritted out. “I thought you’d be at the St. Regis or something?”

At this, Patrick laughed.

You pouted. This wasn’t funny. “You’re a fucking grifter.”

“Says the fucking woman who ordered a main and two sides,” he countered, nodding toward your plate. “You didn’t even finish your dessert.”

“I was going to take it with me,” you defended yourself. “And I like to eat. I thought you were good for it.”

“Well,” he said, leaning back, “looks like we’re at an impasse, my friend.”

Friend. What a far cry from babe, which he’d been calling you a whole twenty minutes ago.

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Stepping onto the curb, back into the absolute bullshit that was the Atlanta nightlife, you exhaled a soul-deep sigh.

It was definitely going to be another month of paying only the minimum on your credit card.

The vein on your forehead throbbed as Patrick slung an arm over your shoulder. You turned, studying his profile. He turned too, flashing a sheepish little grin.

“So, looks like I owe you one?”

“You mean some money?” you countered, jutting your chin at him. “$105.79.” That was his total. To the cent.

“You take payment in anything besides cash?” His grin stretched into a smirk.

You paused for a beat, and he tucked you closer under his arm.

Your eyes narrowed before you spoke. “Why? Are you interested in giving up your firstborn child?”

Patrick sucked his teeth before leaning down to whisper in your ear, the tip of his nose tickling the shell of it. “Why? Are you interested in being the mother of my firstborn child?”

Touché, motherfucker.

᳂˙✧˖° ༘ ⋆｡˚᳂

You supposed you should have a little more shame—or maybe just a little more self-respect—but as Patrick drove into you from behind in the cramped backseat of his old, shitty CR-V, all that mattered was that, as far as you were concerned, his debts were paid.

"Hi," you greet the blonde as you sit next to him on the bed. It's hard to believe that someone as good-looking as him would come to a brothel, even one as exclusive and upscale as the one you work for. “What should I call you?”

"Art," he responds immediately, causing you to frown in confusion.

He's clearly not experienced at this and seems uneasy, fidgety even. Usually you don’t get the newbies; your schedule is typically filled with politicians and big egos who like to tell you all about why they’re VIPs.

This leads you to suspect that Art is wealthy, very wealthy.

"Is that your real name?" You ask, playfully pouting your bottom lip. "They should have told you to use an alias."

He has the decency to look bashful, letting you know he had been told the rules, but you flash him a reassuring smile.

"It's okay," you whisper, moving closer to him. You watch his Adam's apple bob nervously in his throat. "It'll be our little secret." You lean in even closer, asking seductively, "is this your first time, Art?"

"Yes-uhm, yes," he stammers, clearly flustered by your presence, that happens to men when you’re around. His blush is cute on him.

"That’s okay. I’m not here to judge you. I started not too long ago myself." It’s a lie, but he can’t tell.

“Really?” See.

"Mhmm," you murmur, your expression softening. "Yeah, I have some school bills to pay and whatnot."

You're practically in his lap now, asking permission to touch him with your eyes. Art gives a small tilt of his head in agreement, and you brush his hair away from his forehead before leaning in to kiss him.

"What are you studying?" He asks between kisses, even as you lick into his mouth.

"Huh? oh, biology? On the premed track," you stutter. You probably should have lied, but his simple follow-up question threw you off; usually your ankles are behind your head at this point and any kind of small talk is out of the norm.

The look of unfeigned interest on Art's face surprises you, but you chase his mouth.

"Are you planning on becoming a doctor?" He seems earnest, as he pulls away from your lips again.

“Yeah,” you answer vaguely, not wanting to reveal too much, but he waits for you to continue so you give him the smallest bit more. “Of some kind, if I pass the MCAT.”

"Wow, then how did you end up working here?"

You tense up at the question. What are you supposed to say? That the work-life balance is great? The truth is, being an escort pays three times more than any other nine-to-five job would. It's a dream paycheck for a college student with lofty goals.

"How do you want it?" You try to steer the conversation back to its original purpose, letting your fingers trail down to the front tie of his robe.

He looks at you with confusion for a moment before remembering why he's here. His hand stops yours from untying the robe completely.

"Actually, can you just…hold me?" He pauses awkwardly before mumbling something about not wanting you to think he's a loser. You can’t help but suck in a breath when you realize he’s crying. "I signed my divorce papers today, our custody battle is going to be hell and it's been a rough month."

You blink and it takes a few seconds for you to compute that he's simply lonely. He genuinely cared about your responses to his questions. This man, who is probably rich and most definitely handsome, is patronizing a brothel for companionship.

It makes you want to weep for him.

"Yeah, I'll hold you, Art." You guide him onto the sheets. "Let's lay down."

When you're face to face, what strikes you most are his eyes.

They sparkle like sapphires in his head, but up close you notice a small brown spot in one of them, like a little speck of dirt. Or, maybe that one’s not a sapphire at all, it’s more like an apatite.

"Your eyes are different colors." Art blushes even more at your observation, if that's possible. "They're beautiful."

You can't tell if this is all just for the money, but you find yourself wanting to be gentle and kind to him.