The Other One

The girl who got stabbed last week bled out behind a dumpster on 45th. Paramedics didn’t even arrive at the scene. It was too late. After it almost took the police half a day to get to the scene, the only thing they said was that it was quick. Or so they assumed.

The body laid there all night and part of the next day. Forgotten. Urinated by drunk fuckers who didn’t care about a hooker, like ninety percent of New York’s population. By the time she was disposed God knows where, the pool of her blood had already stained the disgusting floor.

Poor, little, dumb lamb.

Stupid enough to let a guy follow her down an alley. Didn’t check for a weapon, didn’t ask for cash first. Just smiled while sucking his dick, like she was new to this. And now, she’s the story everyone’s telling to scare the rest of us straight.

I light a cigarette I don’t want and lean against the chipped brick wall outside Club Inferno, where the bass still pulses through the pavement like a heartbeat too far gone, drowning out sirens, screams, and the sound of the city of liberty.

“Do you think she screamed for help?,” one of the girls by my side asks, brushing glitter off her thighs.

Her friend smacks her lips, checking her red lipstick on her cracked hand mirror. “If she did, didn’t really matter.”

“I liked her.” Another says, squishing her breasts into her bra. “She was sweet.”

“She was dumb,” I reply with a puff of smoke. “This job doesn’t pay for sweet.”

And I mean it.

Maybe once upon a time I would be affected by this kind of conversation. A few years back I would have been horrified if one of them said what I just did. An innocent human life taken by some psycho who felt like gutting a working woman. A fellow sexual worker calling her dumb just for doing what she thought was to get the work done for a couple of dollars.

But not now.

Life in the streets of New York ain’t easy. One has to learn a few things. Being selfish to keep yourself alive being the top one.

I breathe in another puff of smoke, feeling it burn my lungs.

“She brought it on herself.”

None of them say anything. I don’t expect them to. And definitely not when a group of drunk finance bros spills out of the club, loud and flushed and sticky with overpriced cologne. The girls stand straight, greeting the group like they are supposed to, big smiles and touchy hands. One of them makes eye contact and stumbles toward me.

“Hey—hey, you working?”

His words slur, his breath thick with liquor. I look him over: red-faced, too handsy already, probably thinks he’s doing me a favor.

“Not for you,” I say flatly.

He flips me off, then turns to one of the other girls. She’s already smiling. I don’t judge. She’s got rent to pay.

“You’re picky,” someone says behind me.

I turn. Only to find a suited man. Bald. A couple of weeks’ worth of beard along his chubby jaw. The buttons of his white shirt stronger than my sharp tongue.

“Maybe,” I answer, dropping my cigarette and snuffing it out with my heel. “But I have high standards about my men.”

That gets a laugh.

“A whore with standards, huh.”

He pulls cash from his pocket, lifting it between his fingers until the red neon light blinks against it like a subtle warning.

“What can you offer for fifty?”

This fucker must be joking.

Still, I cut short the distance between us, a smile tugging at the corner of my violet lips. He smells of booze and smoke. Like the whiskey that the club serves exclusively to VIPs — the one that’s not diluted — and like that strong aftermath aroma that can only be the smoke from a cigar.

My hand sneaks beneath his gray jacket, the impossible-to-hide Brooks Brothers label sewn under the left inside pocket.

Cheap ass.

“I don’t know.” I purr, making sure he notices my hand tracing his belly, going down to his business. “Make it a hundred and I’ll make sure you get the blowjob of your life.”

I lean in, whispering against his ear. “I know you can afford me.”

He smirks like he’s won something. Maybe the moment. Maybe me.

I drag my nails down his belly again, slow and suggestive. His body responds the way they always do. Breath quickening, mind slowing, hard in a matter of seconds.

“Hundred, huh?”

“Up front,” I say, palm out.

He nods to the curb. “It’s in my car.”

My smile doesn’t fade, but my gut tightens.

“Should I wait here for you?” I purr against his ear, licking his lobe with the tip of my tongue. “Maybe I’ll throw in a little discount. A proper gift for making you go fetch.”

He grins, shaking his head.

Of course not.

I swear to God, my own words are slapping me in the face right now. But money is money. A hundred would add to my current situation. So, I follow him anyway. Not far—just to the corner, where a black limo idles beneath a flickering streetlamp. Too clean. Too quiet. Too out of place.

He steps aside, gestures grandly at the opened door. “After you.”

I hesitate.

There’s something off about the way he says it. Like he’s not offering. Definitely commanding.

I pray that’s his kink and not anything murderous. A big man ordering around his whore, being rough, and — oh — so manly. Not asking, ordering how to move, or not to move at all. Like a doll. Make that sense of superiority that he can’t get anywhere else engorge like his old dick.

Don’t judge.

I’ve done worse for less.

With one last look at the club, I slide in.

And that’s when the door slams shut behind me.

Hard.

I spin, ready to throw hands—but I’m not alone.

On the opposite seat sits a man in a tailored charcoal suit. One leg crossed, hands folded neatly, face carved from money and marble. Cold eyes. Calm breath. No smile.

The door locks click.

“Hello,” he says smoothly. “I’m sorry I had to use another… method to bring you here.”

I examine him from head to toe.

He doesn’t look like a typical serial killer. His demeanor is polite, definitely from a wealthy family. Too polished. Too clean. His suit probably costs more than my miserable life.

But that doesn’t mean I trust him.

Even the rich have strange appetites.

My practiced smile returns.

“So,” I say sweetly, “you’re my client?”

He says nothing. His gaze becomes thoughtful for a moment, as if pondering the question. Until he nods, once.

A rich guy looking for a little fun with a prostitute. In a limo.

It’s not something I haven’t heard of. There is even that movie I don’t recall the name of. A prostitute and a rich guy, falling in love.

But I’m not that kind of girl. No fairy tales for me. No sir.

The limo’s upholstered floor brushes my knees as I drop, crawling forward on all fours. I move like I’ve been taught—like prey pretending to be predator. My body mimics a cat, putting on that hint of sensuality that only my hips are capable of.

He just looks at me. Watching every move I make. My hands press to his legs. I slide them apart, positioning myself between. The place they all want me in, close to where they like the most attention.

I look up.

“How can I please you?” I purr, fingers gliding up the inseam of his pants, to the bulge under the opulent fabric. “Should I start by meeting your friend here?”

My nails find his belt.

But before I can unbuckle it, his hand catches my wrist.

Still calm. Still watching.

He pulls a pack of cash from his coat and slides it into the space between my breasts.

I glare at him from below. Words stuck in my throat.

“You can keep it,” he says. “Just for meeting with me.”

I blink.

“But if you decide to stay and hear what I have to say... I promise to make that multiply by a thousand.”

My heart stutters. My saliva harder to swallow than the things I’ve sucked on.

The cash pushes my breasts apart; the fucking money rolled into a thick cylinder the side of a fine fragrance mist bottle.

I’ve seen smaller dicks.

“I have a proposition,” he says when I don’t speak. His voice is cool and clean like glass. “And it doesn’t involve ten minutes in the back of a car.”

I school my face. Swallow the shake in my lungs, hiding any evidence that I don’t possess any control over this.

Whatever the hell this is.

I tilt my head. “That so?”

He nods.

“I need someone who can pretend,” he says. “Someone beautiful. Sharp. Professional.”

I blink. “You want an actress, not a hooker.”

He shrugs, amused. “Why not both?”

This must be a joke. A sick one.

For a second, the image of that girl flashes in my head. The dumb one. Bleeding behind the dumpster.

Maybe I’m next. Maybe this is it.

But curiosity always did kill the whore.

What could he want that makes him offer me so much money?

His lips twitch into something, almost a smile, reaching into his coat and pulling out a small velvet box.

He opens it.

A ring.

Diamond. Massive. Fucking real.

He leans in. His nose grazing mine under the warm limousine light.

“Marry me.”