Bright light. It shines in through the glass walls, the sun unforgiving in its announcement of the day. I try to place the sun, try to place where I am and who is waking me up. I roll, the sheets soft and smooth, which causes my eyes to reopen. Soft and smooth don’t describe my sheets. Cheap and scratchy are my norm.
Green eyes stare down at me. Green eyes that lead to a crooked nose, full lips and a few days of unshaven growth. The face is vaguely familiar and I blink, my brain fully waking up. The security guy. Some name that begins with a D.
“Time to get up. Mr. Dumont would like to speak to you.”
I cover my face in my hands, trying to wake up enough to think. “Then you’ll take me home?”
I hear a chuckle. “If that’s what you want.”
I sit up, pushing back the blankets and swinging my legs off of the bed. My brain hazily engages, memories of last night slowly clicking into place. “Wait.” I turn to the man with a glare. “I locked the door last night.”
He shrugs. “We have a key.”
I bite back a response, shooting him the stoniest glare I have, moving across the
room and yanking open the closet door.
“I see you found some pajamas.”
“Yeah. You’ve got enough female clothing in here to outfit half of the city.” I grab a tee-shirt dress and a pair of underwear, the tags still hanging from the lace. Stepping fully into the closet I turn and shut the door on the man’s face, cutting off whatever words were about to come out of his mouth.
I feel a bit of adolescent pleasure at the slight, at the ability to show some of the frustration that is building up inside me. I pull the panties on, popping off the tag and tug the dress over my head, forgoing a bra. I study myself in the mirror, a critical eye looking for flaws. I look younger, my makeup-free face much different than the vixen look I go for at the Club. My hair is curly, a result of going to bed with it wet, the strands exacting their revenge in the form of uncontrollable volume and curl. I run my hands through a few times before giving up and opening the door. To one irritated green-eyed face.
“Sorry,” I say breezily, dipping down and grabbing a set of jeweled sandals from a basket by the door, examining the size before slipping them on. A size too big, but acceptable to get home with. Someone at the club will be all over them.
I can feel his frustration, the emotion making me smile, my spirits rising as we exit the house and head to the main home, sunlight dancing off of the pool’s water and sending playful highlights over my legs. I am close to getting paid, getting in that limo, and heading back home in style. With this payday, I will be flush for a while, six months at least, six months of no stress, no blowjobs, and no bullshit from Dibs over late rent or the utility bill.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. About getting paid, about going home, and about six months of bliss.