Rachael stared at the ceiling, wishing she could choose her clients. If money weren't an issue, she never would've picked Osa. His sweat had soaked the sheets, leaving a sour film on her skin. Demanded she go down on him, threatening to call Noah for a refund if she refused.
Osa's snoring cut off. He cracked open bloodshot eyes. Glanced at his wristwatch. "Gotta go," he mumbled, rolling out of bed, his white boxers clinging to his bulky frame. "Rachael, you're mine. No other guys."
She rolled her eyes, clutching the thin sheet. "It's my job, Osa. I work for Noah. How do I survive otherwise?"
Her voice carried the exhaustion of a dream long dead—the runway lights she'd once chased replaced by dim hotel lamps and men like this. Noah, her handler, was the most careless man alive, never bothering to screen for anyone decent. When she first met Osa, she was reduced to a transaction, a purchase order with no room for refusal.
Osa tugged on a T-shirt, the fabric straining over his gut. "I've got cash to cover you. Trust me." His tone hardened. "Jared owes me big. If he doesn't pay, I'll beat the shit out of him."
Rachael slipped into her colourful dress, desperate to escape the room's stale air, thick with the acrid haze of Osa's crack smoke from last night. Longed for a hot shower to scrub away his odour and the memory of his touch. Glancing at the door, she wanted to slip outside the crack out of this life.