Page 10 of Santa's Baby
I don’t know why it gives me another zip of a shudder up my spine. I feel more self-conscious than I’ve felt in years.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him.
He raises his glass. “Enjoying a drink. Nothing more.”
Nothing more. Yeah, right.
There is no malice in him, nothing sinister. His smile isn’t dark or foreboding, it’s just surreal – and it gives me the kind of butterflies I like to crush under my shoe, but they won’t fuck off. They’re stronger than I’ve known in a long, long time.
There’s a twist of bizarre humour in Santa’s voice that screws with my insides. It’s just the kind of magnetism that makes my stomach tumble along with my brain.
“Have fun in the alleyway,” he says. “The clock is ticking.”
Yes, it is. I look at the doorway.
My client is out there now, expecting me any second, and as much as I’m loath to tear myself away, I have to go. Creamgirl always comes first.
I smile at Santa before I leave, but say nothing, because for once my big, bold mouth is stumped. I rely on my legs and work ethic to force myself on by.
I daren’t look back to see if he’s still watching me, because one more flash of his smile would have me crumpling at his feet, and it’s not Santa’s feet I need to be crumpling at.
I have business to attend to.
3
TIFFANY
Idon’t need User 2906 to provoke a fight or flight reaction in me. It’s already there, loud and clear. Jesus Christ. My head is wired. Spun out to hell as I stumble down the club steps onto the street.
The night chill helps, bringing me back to some semblance of clarity. I suck the cool air into my lungs, desperate to keep a hold of myself. I banish all thoughts of Santa, because I have no time to ruminate or speculate. Not now. I’ve got to get in the zone.
Creamgirl has to take the reins.
The shadowy alley is just up ahead, running down the side of the club. I figure I’m going to have to ‘stall’ as I pass by, so reach for my clutch as a pretend distraction, but I don’t need it.
An arm bursts out of the darkness, a savage fist grabbing my hair and yanking me from the street as I squeal. My squeal is barely more than a squeak, since a hand slaps over my mouth before I can blink.
My assailant must know martial arts or something, because he takes me in a chokehold – his elbow against my windpipe as he drags me backwards. I don’t know how I manage to stay upright on my stilettos, because there’s trash all around our feet.I hear the jangle of empty bottles being kicked away, and the crumple of paper under my shoes.
This isn’t just an alley, it’s the club bin store, and it’s a stinking shithole.
User 2906 has already prepped for our session, that much is clear. He slams me into the wall between two big dumpsters and switches the chokehold for a forearm against the back of my neck. My face is flat against the damp brickwork, and the gravel texture could easily graze my cheek, but that’s the least of my worries right now.
“Stay fucking quiet, understand?”
I try to nod, but he’s got me pinned too tight. “Yes.”
He eases up the pressure a touch and I gulp in some breaths.
I stick to my usual script.
“I’ve got some cash, if you want it… not much, but you can take it.”
He laughs, his voice throaty.
“I don’t want your cash, you dumb bitch. I want the body you’ve been slutting around on the dancefloor.”
“I was just dancing.”