Now, he stands from his desk, free to move about, free to turn on every damn light in the house and fuck his way through every room should he choose to. Except there is no one here to fuck. A problem, especially given his pent-up need. His fingers twitch, reach for the cell that lies on his desk, a faithful companion that still worked upon his discharge. Funny—it’s been two weeks, and he’s still surprised by his ability to pick up a phone without waiting in line. His fingers scroll down and find the number for Patricia, a woman he has known for ten years. He hesitates over the number. Patricia is all that he knows, his only connection to expensive pussy. He can’t call an employee, a friend, everyone’s panties in a wad over the McLaughlin bullshit. He presses on her number and lifts the cell to his ear.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The steely voice immediately brings Patricia’s thin frame and sharp eyes to mind. The tone of her greeting leaves little doubt as to her current opinion of him.
“Pat…” he says warmly. “It’s been a long time.”
“Too short, Marcus. Don’t tell me you want a girl.” The arch of her voice makes it clear what the correct response to that accusation should be.
He sinks into his desk chair, forces his voice to remain light while his fingers reach for something to break, the snagged pencil snapping cleanly in half. “No, no. I’m just calling to touch base. Clear up any misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstanding?” The cold lilt of her calm voice chills him. A tone with more bite than he can provide with the buckle of his belt. Women shouldn’t speak to men in this manner, and he suddenly doesn’t want to hear the next words out of her mouth. “You dropped a girl in an alley in town I wouldn’t toss a used cigarette in. The fact that she was found is a miracle. Not to mention what you did to her. You listen to me, shithead.” Her sentence ends in a hiss and he can imagine her, leaning over her desk, her conservatively perfect nails biting into the phone as she snarls. “You think I’m gonna let you step within ten miles of my girls, you are crazy. As far as your sex life is concerned, you are dead to this town. Dead.” She punctuates the end of her sentence with a firm click of the phone.
“Jesus Christ,” Marcus swears, looking at the cell phone screen, confirming the snub before tossing it down, the plastic piece sliding across papers before coming to a slow stop. He stares at the phone, recounting the conversation. He had underestimated the reach of the trial coverage. The effects of his tarnished reputation. The fact that Katie McLaughlin is preventing him from getting a prostitute is fucking ridiculous. And he isn’t about to stoop to getting a street whore. Not, he reminds himself, jiggling his foot, that he has the ability to drive to one.
No matter. There have to be a hundred Patricias in this city of wealth and sex.
He powers on his computer, waiting for the machine to warm up. He clicks on the Internet icon, staring blankly at the search box before typing “escorts in Miami” into the field.
He selects the first link he sees, the screen quickly filling with a grid of videos, videos that appear to be live, all women, in various stages of undress, on beds, stages, one posing in the shower. Confused, he scrolls down then up, his eyes following the tabs on top, the word ESCORTS nowhere in sight. Is this an interview process for clients to meet the hookers? Or an online version of prostitution? For the hell of it, he follows the simplistic sign-up, deposits a few hundred bucks and, intrigued, settles back in his chair, clicking on one prominent face, a smiling brunette, the words JessReilly19 underneath her image.
CHAPTER 18
I RECLINE, RUN a hand lazily over the comforter while I read the chat streams in free chat. This is the waiting room, the place where I look tempting and smile and laugh and convince one of the waiting men to press the “Take to Private Chat” button, starting the clock ticking, starting the quick, steady drain on their credit card. $6.99 a minute. It has built my empire and put hundreds of men into debt.
BBQKing: damn ur hot
LSUfreshman: pls show your tits
JoeyBaby111: are your breasts real?
I laugh, running a hand slowly down the dip of my bra, pulling slightly at the lace to show the boys a little more skin. “Joey, my breasts would be a lot bigger if they were fake. These girls are all mine. LSU, I can’t show my tits in free chat but would be happy to show them in private.”
LSUfreshman: im broke
---HungBlackCock enters room
MommasBoy: do u do family chat bb?
Divorced4646: take off your panties and turn around
---freebird71 enters room