set something up.”
Mark raised his bottle, and John did the same, toasting to resolving his future. Like Mark knew anyone in a secret police unit. But the thought of telling his mother he carried a gun and shot people for a living did widen his grin somewhat.
“So we’ve sorted out my career path, what do we do now?”
“Let’s get absolutely fucking trollied.” Mark’s suggestion threw him into a fit of posh snorts, so loud that a few disapproving stares gravitated their way. John stared them all right back.
“I’ll drink to that,” he said.
2: Saturday 24th September, 06:30
John Smith lay on his back in his bed, staring into the blackness. No light had appeared through the cigarette hole in the thick velvet curtains signalling it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the events from last night. A week on Scotch and a night of God only knew how many Coronas had taken its toll on his cognitive powers. Oh yes, he was going to become a secret agent, and then he and Mark had gotten pissed.
“What time is it?” said a sleepy, female voice.
John shot up, grabbed the duvet with both hands and pulled it to his chest. His heart pounded, and his skin tingled with goose bumps. Movement had not been kind to his head. He looked over to his left, but the room was still pitch black. Anyway he worked it, his head came back to the same conclusion. There was a woman in his bed.
“What the...?”
“Heh, stop stealing all the covers, chummy,” said the silky voice. “That’s no way to treat a guest.” A soft hand slid under the duvet and onto his bare chest, stroking him in slow circles. “I’m yours till eight if you want to go again.”
John felt around and banged on the lamp at his bedside. The room lit up and he blinked rapidly as he fought to focus his eyes on the warm, wriggling body that was attempting to clamp on to him. Her words percolated in his brain while he gazed down at the slender, naked frame. She was truly spectacular: hardly twenty, long dark hair, pale smooth skin and the mischievous face of a wayward angel. She was way out of his league. The soft hand crept towards his crotch just as his brain caught up with reality.
“You’re a prostitute?” he exclaimed, sliding off the bed, taking the duvet with him and wrapping it around himself like fluffy, makeshift armour. With a few feet between them, the young woman’s beauty was blatant and decidedly distracting. “You’re a prostitute,” he repeated, not sure what else to say.
Chocolate brown eyes glistened and tears formed in their corners as his guest crossed her legs, folded her arms and bent awkwardly over in an attempt to cover her newly found modesty. “I’m an escort actually, not a prostitute, and I don’t do anything I don’t want to.”
John could not handle a crying woman - prostitute, escort or otherwise. For Superman it was Kryptonite, for some it was fingernails on a blackboard, but for John it was a woman’s tears. The more tears, the more John fell apart.
“Don’t cry,” he pleaded. “I don’t care what you do. I’ve got every respect for prostitutes.” He saw the corners of her mouth drop further, and the tears began to flow. “I mean escorts. Please... please... please don’t cry.” But cry she did, and how. He racked his brain for the right words to stem the tide and end his pain. Any lie would do. “My sister is an escort. It’s in my family, why would it bother me?”
Her eyes narrowed and lingered on him, perhaps testing whether his statement would crumble under the glare of her teary vision. He held her gaze. His lie was working. “You’re only my second client,” she said, wiping her eyes and looking around the room for her clothes. “You seemed really nice.”
With the pounding in John’s head relegated to a low priority, the memory of the night began to surface. Mark had lost his bet on the football match and had seemed somewhat dejected until Carmen,
Mark raised his bottle, and John did the same, toasting to resolving his future. Like Mark knew anyone in a secret police unit. But the thought of telling his mother he carried a gun and shot people for a living did widen his grin somewhat.
“So we’ve sorted out my career path, what do we do now?”
“Let’s get absolutely fucking trollied.” Mark’s suggestion threw him into a fit of posh snorts, so loud that a few disapproving stares gravitated their way. John stared them all right back.
“I’ll drink to that,” he said.
2: Saturday 24th September, 06:30
John Smith lay on his back in his bed, staring into the blackness. No light had appeared through the cigarette hole in the thick velvet curtains signalling it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the events from last night. A week on Scotch and a night of God only knew how many Coronas had taken its toll on his cognitive powers. Oh yes, he was going to become a secret agent, and then he and Mark had gotten pissed.
“What time is it?” said a sleepy, female voice.
John shot up, grabbed the duvet with both hands and pulled it to his chest. His heart pounded, and his skin tingled with goose bumps. Movement had not been kind to his head. He looked over to his left, but the room was still pitch black. Anyway he worked it, his head came back to the same conclusion. There was a woman in his bed.
“What the...?”
“Heh, stop stealing all the covers, chummy,” said the silky voice. “That’s no way to treat a guest.” A soft hand slid under the duvet and onto his bare chest, stroking him in slow circles. “I’m yours till eight if you want to go again.”
John felt around and banged on the lamp at his bedside. The room lit up and he blinked rapidly as he fought to focus his eyes on the warm, wriggling body that was attempting to clamp on to him. Her words percolated in his brain while he gazed down at the slender, naked frame. She was truly spectacular: hardly twenty, long dark hair, pale smooth skin and the mischievous face of a wayward angel. She was way out of his league. The soft hand crept towards his crotch just as his brain caught up with reality.
“You’re a prostitute?” he exclaimed, sliding off the bed, taking the duvet with him and wrapping it around himself like fluffy, makeshift armour. With a few feet between them, the young woman’s beauty was blatant and decidedly distracting. “You’re a prostitute,” he repeated, not sure what else to say.
Chocolate brown eyes glistened and tears formed in their corners as his guest crossed her legs, folded her arms and bent awkwardly over in an attempt to cover her newly found modesty. “I’m an escort actually, not a prostitute, and I don’t do anything I don’t want to.”
John could not handle a crying woman - prostitute, escort or otherwise. For Superman it was Kryptonite, for some it was fingernails on a blackboard, but for John it was a woman’s tears. The more tears, the more John fell apart.
“Don’t cry,” he pleaded. “I don’t care what you do. I’ve got every respect for prostitutes.” He saw the corners of her mouth drop further, and the tears began to flow. “I mean escorts. Please... please... please don’t cry.” But cry she did, and how. He racked his brain for the right words to stem the tide and end his pain. Any lie would do. “My sister is an escort. It’s in my family, why would it bother me?”
Her eyes narrowed and lingered on him, perhaps testing whether his statement would crumble under the glare of her teary vision. He held her gaze. His lie was working. “You’re only my second client,” she said, wiping her eyes and looking around the room for her clothes. “You seemed really nice.”
With the pounding in John’s head relegated to a low priority, the memory of the night began to surface. Mark had lost his bet on the football match and had seemed somewhat dejected until Carmen,
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