Never Die Alone

Sounds of the night filtered in, though it was late enough that there was little traffic. There was the occasional hum of wheels on the city streets, or an engine purring as it passed, but at least there were no horns honking, no damned sirens screaming. A peaceful time in the city.

From this window she had a direct view of the apartment building just beyond the alley, but the unit across the small space was dark. Its occupants had probably gone to bed already. The elderly couple who occupied it kept opposite hours from Tiffany. The Sorensons were just getting up and shuffling around about the time that Tiffany turned out the lights. Once in a while Tiffany would peer through the window and catch the old lady in her bathrobe and hairnet, studiously making coffee while Tiffany was downing her last shot of vodka for the night.

“Different strokes,” she murmured, and felt a breath of night air against her skin. Was that the scent of magnolia on the breeze, or her imagination?

Again, she glanced at the clock.

Ten more minutes had passed. If he ever had the balls to show up, she’d charge him extra. With each passing minute, she became a little more agitated. She figured the john could at least be prompt. She was a working girl, had to stagger appointments. Fortunately this guy, not one of her regulars, was her last client of the night. A good thing, ’cause she was beat. Besides this gig, which she considered her side job, she worked part-time as a waitress at a restaurant in the brewery-turned-shopping mall on Decatur. Usually she covered the lunch shift, but sometimes di

“Come on, come on, I ain’t got all night,” she said, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. So far there was no sign of gray in the springy black curls that she’d highlighted with a few thin gold streaks. She told herself the lines on her face just added a little character, and there weren’t many. Not yet. Her eyes were still clear, a light brown with flecks of green. Tonight, they were sultry, rimmed in glittery shadow and thick mascara.

Unbuttoned to her navel, her oversized blouse was sheer and showed off her figure as well as offering a peek-a-boo glimpse of her breasts, still firm and high despite having a child and pushing thirty. She’d compressed them into a leopard print bra with cups at least one size too small so that she appeared to be spilling out of it.

She was fit. Trim. Waitress work kept her in shape and she’d given up her pack-a-day habit. Well, not entirely, but at least she could make her pack stretch for three or four days. An improvement, right? Wasn’t that what life was all about? She’d kicked the meth and most of the booze, now the cigs. Well, almost. By the time she was forty she’d be so damned healthy she wouldn’t be able to stand herself, and then maybe she’d get joint custody of Logan back. Her heart turned a little cold at the thought of her son. He was nine already. Nine? Oh, man, she’d already missed so much and by the time she turned forty he would be . . . oh, sweet Jesus, he’d be twenty, the age she was when she bore him. No, no, no. It was going too fast! She couldn’t wait that long. She needed her baby boy back now. Somehow she’d have to clean up her act and—

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Finally, knuckles knocked sharply on her door.

She straightened her short skirt, made sure it was snug and even across her buttocks, tossed her hair over her shoulders, licked her lips, and stepped into her heels before crossing to the door. Placing a hand over the top lock, she said, “Who is it?”

“John.”

That was what he’d said his name was. Really? Some of her first-timers used it as an alias, thinking it was fu

He stood beneath the porch light. A tall man dressed in black, with thick, coffee-colored hair, this one was leaner and fitter than her average customer. A pair of Ray-Bans covered his eyes as if he were hiding his identity. No surprise there.

He smiled. A disarming grin showed a flash of white teeth. “I have an appointment.” he said. “You’re Tiffany?”

“That’s right,” she said in a cool tone. At night she was definitely Tiffany Elite, not Teri Gaines, the waitress who hopped from table to table, mopping up spilled soda and beer while smiling at her customer’s stupid jokes in order to catch a fatter tip. No, tonight Tiffany was definitely in the house. She unlocked the chain and held the door for him. “Come on in.” As he stepped through, she felt a little tingle of warning run up the back of her neck. What was it?

No worries. He was already reaching for his wallet and placing a bill on the table, a hundred-dollar bill from the looks of it, though it was marred. “Let’s take care of business first,” he said, leaving the C-note faceup.

Dear God, were Ben Franklin’s eyes actually blackened?

Weird.

But it would spend.

“So,” she said with a coy smile. “What can I do for you? That”—she pointed at the bill on the table—“will get you started, but you won’t go far.”

“Let’s see how far we can go,” he said. “Why don’t you start by stripping?”

She lifted an eyebrow, as if she found his request fascinating when really, wasn’t it the normal routine?

“All right,” she said, “but I don’t like to party alone.” Bending over, offering him more than a little glimpse of her cleavage, she slid off one red heel, then slowly, the other. If he wanted a striptease, she was going to make it worth his while. She probably should leave the shoes on—guys liked her in nothing but garters and stockings and mile-high heels—but she wasn’t going to make the mistake of wobbling while she undressed like she did last week when she fell. That john had laughed at her discomfiture, damn him. As for nylons and garters, she wasn’t into that unless a client specifically requested an outfit; then, of course, she’d accommodate him. And charge accordingly.

This one hadn’t asked for anything. Just an appointment.

She kicked off the heels and suddenly lost four inches so that now she was a good foot shorter than he. To be expected. Looking up at him, she noticed that he wasn’t just fit, but muscular as well. Strong. His black shirt, buttoned to his neck, seemed off somehow. Something odd about it. But it didn’t really matter.

Watching him, she slid out of the sheer blouse, let it fall to the floor, and then slowly wiggled out of the tiny skirt.

Was he getting off?

She couldn’t tell.

No bulge appeared in his black jeans, but whatever. He wasn’t complaining.

“Want to help?” she asked, fingering her bra.

“You do it.”

“Whatever you want.” She tamped down her boredom and tried to sound breathless, as if she were turning herself on. Though it was all an act, a routine she’d gone through a thousand times. “Why don’t you take off some of your clothes?”

One side of his mouth lifted. “Why don’t you help me?” he said.

That was more like it.

She looked up at him and offered a sexy smile along with what she hoped was a sparkle of excitement in her eyes. “Sure, baby,” she said, and sauntered closer to him. “Let’s start with these.” Reaching up, she tried to remove his glasses, but he caught her hand.

“They stay.” Firm. Almost angry. He jerked his head back.

“Sure . . . sure. Whatever you say.”

He let go of her arm and she tried to recover. The guy was a little freaky . . . quick to ignite. Best to do him and get it over with; escort him out the door and turn the lock behind him. She didn’t like the edgy ones, but she needed the money.

“How ’bout we start here?” she suggested, and slid her fingers down the waistband of his pants.