The Professional Lover III (18+)

01 : Needing Them

You're not a prostitute if you don't ask the guy for money, right?

Right, I answer my own stupid question. Because then it's just theft.

Fluffy hotel pillows are a luxury to me. Beds in general, really. I pull my long hair out from underneath me and roll over to look at him. Lying at the other end of the bed, he faces away from me, sleeping soundly. That is a luxury too, considering it would be so much harder if I got another view of his gorgeous face.

Sliding out slowly, I exit the warmth of the sheets for the chill air of the morning. I find my clothes littered on the floor and pull them on. When I walk to the other side of the bed, he's still asleep.

I find his pants and dig into the back pocket. His wallet's there, though unluckily, it sits shallow with two twenties and four ones. There are credit cards inside, but that seems too malicious a thing to do to someone like him.

He was good. Better than good. Gentle, attentive, communicative. He got me off twice and seemed to have a great time doing so. Genuinely good men like him barely exist these days. I'm probably a great example of why that is.

I shove the bills in my back pocket and take one last look. Oh, how I wish I could have another taste, but I'm lucky enough to have the memory. "Bye, Sexy Man," I whisper and slip out of the door.

I flee down the hallway and down the fire stairs. Once I get outside, I find my car and climb in. My key goes in, turns, and then there is silence.

The battery is dead. We'll call that Karma.

I look in the backseat at the makeshift bed, the pile of clothes, and a backpack full of tampons, expired protein bars, and a vibrator. I've reached a level of low I didn't think was possible, but at this point, I'm not sure I remember what high feels like. Something like last night, probably.

As much as I want to go back upstairs, crawl back into bed with that man, and pretend I could live a life like that, I don't have the time. I climb out, grab my longboard from my trunk, and keep moving. 

"Your total is 210.73," the pharmacist says.

My smile drops as I stare at the number on the screen. "Two ... Two hundred dollars? It was seventy-five last time."

He doesn't look at me when he says, "Yes, well ... your insurance only covers generic."

"Uh huh ... So what's this then?"

"The FDA made some changes in the approved active ingredients. There are only two generics available on the market, both of which we do not have." The old man glances down at me from his high horse. "Seeing as this medication is for emergency use, I assumed it couldn't wait for our shipment in two to three weeks."

Fucking hell, karma. I know you're a bitch and all but can you give me a break? "You're right," I tell him.

"So ... That'll be 210.73."