Skylar's POV
Royce pulls out of me with a final, groaning shudder before he turns and collapses onto his side of the bed, letting out a deep, spent breath. I roll my eyes hard enough to strain a muscle, then sit up just as my phone starts blaring from the tea table. Definitely another client.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the cheap sheets sticking to my skin, and snatch the phone. "Hello?"
"Good morning." Great, he's British. I've had a decent run with British clients before; most of them pay really well, and to be honest, they give great sex too. An odd silence stretches out after his greeting, and it suddenly irritates me. I can hear the faint sound of a baby babbling in the background. Probably another adulterer, I've had tons of them. Just another married guy trying to clear his conscience with a credit card.
"What do you want?" I ask, adjusting the tangled comforter as Royce hauls himself out of bed to clean himself up in the connected bathroom.
"I ummm... I've never really done this before, so.." The guy on the other end clears his throat, his voice tight. He sounds obviously nervous, obviously scared, which is totally not my problem to solve.
"What are you, 12?" I snap. He's sounding like he's trying to work up the nerve for his first time, or maybe his wife just had a baby and his idiot friends advised him to get his head straight by cheating. The usual story.
"No....do I sound like a twelve year old?" He clears his throat again, harder this time, like he's trying to physically dislodge whatever's making him sound so childish.
"You're speaking like one. Look, I don't really have much time, I just need to go to bed," I tell him, because it's true. My body feels heavy, and the rum on the nightstand is calling my name.
"I really... really need your help. I apologize if I'm stealing your bedtime, it's never my attention," he stammers.
"You're calling me at 6 in the morning," I point out, my voice flat. Who the hell makes these calls at the crack of dawn?
"Right, I almost forgot...are you free this evening?" he asks, his voice shifting slightly.
A smirk curls on my lips. He's sounding so formal, like he wants to take me on a date or something. It's almost cute, in a pathetic kind of way.
"What time?" I ask, taking the cup of rum from Royce as he passes by, not even looking at me.
"6:30pm... I've got an urgent engagement at 8pm and I really need to be there before then, I'll pay extra if that troubles you... really," he says, the words tumbling out in a rush.
"What's the situation?" I ask, getting down to business. The specifics matter.
"Well, they're three and umm —"
"Three? You're really freaky," I chuckle, the sound dry and humorless. I haven't had a threesome in years. This guy sounds so inexperienced and less confident, I know I could easily haggle my way through to a hefty pay check. My mind is already running the numbers.
"It's not that way, believe me. It just happened, how much do you charge?" he insists, sounding almost flustered.
"How much do you intend to pay?" I throw the question back at him. Let him name his price first; it's always better that way.
"How's twenty thousand?"
My body freezes for a moment, my grip tightening on the phone. "What?" I manage to get out. I've never gotten a paycheck like that from a client before, not even close. My mind races, almost making me reconsider because an offer that good could come with a hefty price attached.
What if he's a serial killer or has some sort of incurable disease? My eyes dart around my rundown apartment, landing on the ashtray full of Royce's cigarette butts.
I look at the smoky, middle-aged man who is unfortunately my landlord, the guy I've just hooked up with for a lousy thousand dollars just to cover my rent. This one call could be the biggest peak I need in my entire career. This could be my way out of this entire slump.
"You said you'd be three?" I clarify, needing to be sure I heard him right.
"Three of them, they're quite not the usual too," he confirms.
"I'll take Sixty. Twenty for each head," I state, my voice surprisingly steady. Sixty thousand. The number echoes in my head. Sixty and I don't have to show up to work for a year. I could leave this shithole, get a clean apartment in the city, and never have to see another Royce again.
"You've got yourself a deal," he sighs, the sound full of palpable relief.
"Yes!" I hiss under my breath, a sharp, triumphant sound I can't contain.
"I'm counting on this, really. I've seen good reviews of you on your website and called a few people who patronized you as well. Please take good care of them. Thank you," he says, and the receiver goes off with a beep just as my phone buzzes with a new text, instructions to send my account details alongside his address.
I lower the phone, staring at the cracked screen. Did he just say website? When did I ever have a website? The question sticks in my mind, a single, discordant note in the middle of my sudden windfall.