Seconds later I realized something: Faye Nguyen and I had plans to go out for coffee this weekend. I had inadvertently agreed to go on a date with her.
I thought of Dr. Turner and his sexy swirling lab coat and how he never gave me more than stiff nod, and on Friday, he'd wish me a nice weekend. That was the closest thing I had to a boyfriend, which Justine told me was an absolute crime. I was in my prime, physically and sexually, and according to Justine, I was wallowing it away lusting after Dr. Turner, who thought I was as interesting as upholstery swatches.
It's funny, how other people's views of us shape who we are. Perhaps if I had been in a different job surrounded by different people, I would have seen myself differently. But I thought of myself as a carpet swatch, and a beige one at that. Beige without an interesting texture. Something that would compliment a nice piece of art or distract from dirt: purely functional, never decorative or exciting. Just like my underwear: plain cotton, white, nude, or black.
But then it dawned on me: if I went out with Faye, I wouldn't be beige. I wouldn't even be an upholstery swatch. And that thought appealed to me very much.
I have no idea why I lied about name. I knew it was a bad idea to give a fake name to someone I was going on a date with. Maybe it was because he made me feel like a new version of myself: someone powerful and in charge. I gave that person a name, and the only one I could think of at the time was Violet.
Dr. Turner arrived at my apartment right on time and took me to a dive in the Castro. We had just been served our drinks when I felt him losing interest. When he was turned away, I surreptitiously unbuttoned the top of my blouse, knowing I had worn my best push-up. I leaned forward and made intense eye contact with him. For the rest of the meal, no matter if we were talking about neuroscience, baseball, or the weather, he didn't take his eyes off me.
When he invited me back to his place after, I decided to go with him. He was charming and handsome and, for most of the night, had been eying me as though I was a steak he wanted to eat. I was used to it. Most of my graduate classmates were guys, and whenever I wore tight-fitting yoga pants or a low-cut shirt, I got looked at a lot. But getting those looks from Dr. Turner was very different. My classmates were in the same boat I was in: homework, tests, loans, papers, and stress. Dr. Turner had moved past all of that. He owned his own research company, guest lectured at UCSF, and had money.
So when he invited me back to his place, I said yes. I wanted to see what my life could look like someday if I made it big like him. Was his furniture leather? Did he have valuable art around his apartment? Did he have a walk-in closet with rows of perfectly starched shirts and shined loafers? I couldn't wait to see. The promise of getting laid by someone who wasn't going to have leftover pizza for breakfast was enticing.
His apartment was spacious, with large floor to ceiling windows on both sides overlooking Nob Hill. His bedroom was neat and clean. His bed was square and perfectly made. There was a single leather chair in the corner and a dresser with nothing on top. It was minimalist and elegant. The hue of the wood was a deep burgundy, almost black. The room smelled clean and dark and sexy. I loved it.
"You seem like a nice girl, Violet,” Dr. Turner said with a quirk of his eyebrow.
"Oh, I am," I said, giving him my best wicked grin.
"Hopefully not too good," he smirked.
"Only when I need to be," I flirted back.
"Do you want music or something?" he asked.
"That's okay, I don't need any."
"How'd you get into this?" he asked, taking a seat in his chair and leaning down to remove his shoes.
I wasn't sure what he meant, but he was eying my waist, so I figured he was talking about my skirt or something. Feeling awkward, I made a Saturday Night Live reference. "Same as anyone. One leg at a time."
He sat up and gave me an amused smirk. "Care to show me what you've got?"
It wasn't exactly romantic, but I supposed it was better than playing a stupid game about when and how we were going to have sex. Obviously he wanted to, and it had been a long time since I'd gotten laid. If he wanted me to get naked first, that was fine by me.
I kept my playful expression on as I reached down to lift my shirt. I lifted it over my head, letting my hair fall down onto my shoulders as I locked my eyes with his again.
His grin grew wicked again and he leaned back.
I knew lots of men liked watching stripteases. I didn't mind watching them myself. My high school boyfriend, Damon, loved to watch me undress, and had encouraged me to dance a little as I did. For his eighteenth birthday, I'd given him a lap dance while I stripped. It was sexy and playful and one of the best nights of our five-year relationship.
Dr. Turner was nothing like Damon. We were about to have sex on our first date, and he was asking me to give him a show. It was presumptuous of him, but I was proud I could deliver. Hopefully he'd deliver in other areas in return.
I found the zipper in my skirt and pulled it down, pressing my palms against my sides under the fabric as I slicked it down. I closed my eyes and imagined music playing, setting a rhythm.
Once my skirt was on the floor, I turned around and unsnapped my bra. It was a nice bra, the cups were seriously enhanced. I dropped it on the ground and shimmied out of my panties. I was glad I'd waxed recently. I was groomed and about to get laid by the hottest professor I'd ever had.
I heard Dr. Turner rustling behind me and smiled to myself. He must have liked what he saw. I pumped my knees a few times, knowing it made my ass look amazing, especially in my heels, and turned to see Dr. Turner leaning back with a lazy, fascinated expression on his face.
He licked his lips and tilted his head back before saying, "C'mere."
I walked over to him and bent over, letting my tits come near his face. "What did you have in mind?"
Dr. Turner looked my body up and down for a moment before saying, "Lie on the bed and touch yourself for me."
I was a bit surprised at that. He wasn't even going to kiss me?
But I figured this night was different from most dates I'd been on already, so why not make sex different too?
I turned back to his bed, noting its starched, square perfection. I felt almost guilty as I sank onto it. I was messing it up.
But then again, nothing about sex is clean and square and poised. Sex is sweaty and unchoreographed. So I scooted back, taking a moment to kick off my heels, and gave him a playful scrunch of my nose as I fisted the sheets, ruining the placidness of the bed.
Then I spread my legs. The cool air felt good, and the way his eyes flew right to my center made me feel powerful. I had something he wanted, but he wanted me to tease him with it before anything else happened. Soon, Dr. Turner was hovering over me, slipping on a condom.
It wasn't any better or worse than sex usually was for me. Somehow I thought that sleeping with a man who had a PhD and research lab meant that the sex would be better than it usually was. But Dr. Turner just pumped in and out, grunting, and closing his eyes most of the time.
I could only sigh in disappointment when he came before I did. I should have made sure I got what I needed first. I could have done more than lie there and pant beneath him, taking a few turns on top. So when he came, I just sighed. That was that. It didn't occur to me to ask him to finish me or to take care of myself. It was just one of those things, and maybe if he wanted to see me again, it would be different.
So my first time with Dr. Turner wasn't memorable. I suppose most sex on the first date isn't memorable.
But I distinctly remember what happened afterwards. He slipped out of me, pulling the condom off and knotting it, disappearing behind the wall that I assume concealed the bathroom. Then he came out and opened his dresser drawer, rummaging around for a moment before putting on boxers. I lay on the bed, still on top of the white covers, breathing and looking at the ceiling, wondering why I'd gotten my expectations worked up and what I was doing here in the first place. Then he swaggered over the bed and toss
ed something next to my head.
"Thanks, doll. I'll give you a call soon."
I nodded, tilting my head to see what he'd tossed at me, but it was concealed by the wrinkled duvet. Without making eye contact, Dr. Turner walked out of the room with that I-just-got-laid swagger, leaving me alone with my slowing breath and the stark quietness.
I propped myself up on my elbows so I could see what was next to me on the bed. When I saw the roll of crisp twenties, I was dumbstruck.
Dr. Turner had given me money.
Dr. Turner had just paid me for sex.
I wracked my brain, thinking of all the things I had said and done that might have led him to believe I was interesting in something besides dating. Sex, sure, but being paid for sex? That had never crossed my mind.
Then I realized -- Dr Turner had just paid me for sex.
Dr. Turner thought I was a prostitute.
I sat up, pulling my knees to my chest. What had I gotten myself into?
Where I came from in Michigan, only desperate women sold their bodies, and that was usually at a club with a pole or in a dingy motel next to a Denny's or Waffle House. There were no wads of money tossed on nice sheets like this.
I felt so young and so naive and so, so stupid. I closed my eyes and felt tears start to sting.
Dr. Turner had never been interested in dating me. He'd only wanted to sleep with me, and going out for a drink had just been a pretense. It was degrading and horrible and I wanted to shrink into my own sweaty, dirty skin and hide.
But I wasn't going to cry in his house. I wasn't going to leave any more of my dignity here than I'd entered with. If I had to cry, I'd wait until I was home with the door to my room closed.
But then I looked down at the money and got curious. How much did this pretentious asshole think I deserved for sleeping with him? I looked at the money, still appalled, but also intrigued.
I had to know what I was worth.
I poked at the thick fold of twenties. It looked threatening, like a small animal playing dead until I was close enough to attack, when it would spear me with its razor claws and fangs. But it didn't spring to life. It rested against the sheets, lifeless.
I picked it up and started counting.
One hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred. Four hundred. Five hundred.
Five hundred dollars.
Holy shit.
Chapter 3: Casing
Saturdays were always crazy, and being down a bartender meant Dave and I were busting our asses trying to take orders and keep track of tabs. At two thirty in the morning I locked the front door, grateful once again that city laws prohibited alcohol sales after two a.m. I turned back to the bar to finish wiping it down so I could go home.
"You good, Montgomery?" Dave asked, hastily untying his bar apron and stashing it under the bar .
I shook myself out of my tiredness. I had forgotten Dave wanted to leave early. We had been so overwhelmed, I hadn't offered to let him leave as early as I'd planned to.
"Yeah," I said. "Go have fun with your new man."
"I owe you one," he said, taking his coat from under the bar. "I've got your back next time you want out early."
I gave him a tired smile and waved as he went out the back door.
I sighed, looking around. It wasn't much work, but I was tired.
I was just about to head for the tables in the corner when a furious rapping came from the door behind me.
"We're closed!" I called out, not bothering to mask how annoyed I was.
A muffled voice spoke from behind the door, and a few more knocks rang through the bar that now reverberated quiet in the absence of the music and drunken laugher.
I opened the door just enough to say, "We're closed," and was pleasantly surprised to see the girl with long black hair from earlier that night.
"I'm so sorry," the girl said. "I just came to see if my friend left her purse here."
I opened the door wide enough for the girl to enter before locking it again behind her, trying not to get too flustered that I was alone with such a beautiful girl.
She gave me an apologetic grimace. "I'm sorry. It'll just be tricky for Claire to stumble home tomorrow without her keys or wallet."
"Of course," I said. "What does it look like?"
"It's green with a black leather strap."
I walked behind the bar to the area we usually kept lost and found items in. Seeing the purse the girl had described, I placed it on the counter.
"This it?"
She gave me a grateful, relieved smile. "Looks like it."
I gave her a polite smile as I reached for the broom. "Glad you found it."
Faye checked the contents of the purse and then pulled out her phone, checking it as she leaned forward onto the damp bar. She made no motion to leave. Instead she watched as I made a few strokes on the floor with the broom before saying, "I'm Faye, by the way."
I looked up. "Riley.”
"Pleasure to meet you," Faye said. "Do you have to close up alone?"
"Not usually, but Dave had a hot date so I let him cut out early."
Faye nodded and still made no motion to leave, leaning over the bar to watch me. When I looked up with a curious smile, she looked embarrassed. I figured she must have a reason for stalling.
"Having fun babysitting your drunk friends?" I asked.
Faye rolled her eyes. "Claire found the karaoke bar around the corner and I'm too sober to sit through that shit."
I gave her a sympathetic chuckle. "Don't tell my boss, but you're welcome to hang out here for a minute while I close up. I know better than anyone how annoying drunk people can be."
"She's not horrible all the time. But..." Faye lowered her voice. "A few of us have bets on how long this one's going to last."
I smirked. "What's wrong with the guy?"
Faye tilted her head, trying to figure out exactly what she didn't like about her friend's fiancé. "I don't trust guys who are that muscly, you know? Usually they're hiding something."
I giggled."You mean like most of our customers here?"
Faye rolled her eyes and nodded.
"Some people are into that."
"If he feels the need to compensate for something by overdeveloping his chest, I guess no one can stop him. If only I could stop him from marrying Claire," she grumbled.
I stopped sweeping and studied her. She seemed oddly protective of her friend. "Do you have a thing for her?" I asked, daring to test the waters of her sexuality.
Faye looked offended. "Ew, no," she hissed. "She's not my type."
The quiet bar was tense for a moment and I wished that she would tell me what her type was and if I had imagined her sweeping glance earlier. Was I her type?
Faye's phone buzzed. "Sweet," she said, looking down at it. "They took a cab back to the hotel when they couldn't find me, so I'm off duty. And thank god."
"Congrats," I smiled. "Can I offer you a drink?"
I knew I wasn't supposed to, but Dave was gone and my boss wouldn't know.
Faye brightened. "Got any scotch?"
"Coming right up."
I pulled out a clean glass, wiped it down, and turned to the shelf behind me. "This didn't happen, by the way.” I looked over my shoulder and winked at Faye.
"What didn't happen?" Faye said with a coy smile.
"I was wondering the same thing," I volleyed back.
"I can't even remember where I am."
I stopped, eyes going wide in mock alarm. "It's not absinthe, Faye."
Faye laughed as she leaned over the bar. "Are you having one too?"
I realized that it didn't make sense for me to offer Faye a drink if I wasn't partaking myself. I pulled out a second glass and poured us each a generous drink.
I looked up mid-pour and it dawned on me that Faye was flirting with me. My stomach flipped in excitement. It had been a while since a girl had flirted with me, and I hadn't had sex with a girl since college.
I didn't know if Faye was flirti
ng on purpose. Lots of girls flirt without meaning to. I didn't want to misread Faye's cues.
Faye picked up her drink, resting the rim of the glass against her lip for a minute as she looked at me. It was a sultry look that made my cheeks warm. I didn't think I could be as sexy in return, so I just gave an embarrassed smile and looked down into the contents of my drink before taking a big sip.
A much bigger sip than I intended.
It was burning.
I was suddenly coughing and sputtering. My whole chest was on fire, creeping up my throat into my mouth and face. Now I was hacking and Faye was leaning towards me in concern, asking if I was okay.
I was mortified. Bartenders are supposed to be able to handle our liquor, and here I was, coughing like a sixteen-year-old drinking cheap vodka out of a water bottle under the bleachers. Faye put her hand on my bicep in concern.
Definitely flirting.
Having recovered from my coughing fit and the embarrassment that ensued, I drank the rest of my scotch slowly as we made small talk about the bars in the neighborhood, good restaurants in the city, and other local treasures.
There was a lull in the conversation as I finished my drink. I was enjoying myself and found that my previous fatigue was nowhere to be seen.
"Are you driving tonight?" I asked, glancing between Faye and her empty glass. I wanted to refill it and keep our conversation going, but not if she had to get behind the wheel.
"No, I live just a little ways away," Faye said with a flirtatious smile. "I don't have to drive."
I grinned back and patted the bar. "Can I offer you another drink?"
Faye quirked her eyebrow. She knew the game we were playing now. "Sure."
She watched as I took two clean glasses and poured them each a generous drink. I capped the bottle, spinning the cap, and lifted my glass.
"Cheers," I said with a brief lift of my eyebrows.
Faye looked me square in the eye with a wicked smile as we clinked our glasses.
An hour later, Faye was loose and her eyes were dark and she blinked slowly. Her mouth spread unevenly when she smiled, and there was a strand of hair that was out of place in her previously impeccable hairdo. She laughed too loud at things that weren't funny, and when she spoke, her words were loud.
Wherever the Dandelion Falls Page 3