Free Blurred Lines (Blurred Lines Volume 1) by Breena Wilde Page B

that.”
    “Thanks. Which shoes though? The red ones?” I hold up seven-inch platform shoes. “Or these black ones.” They’re also seven-inch heels and patent leather.
    “The black ones, for sure. They’ll look perfect with your outfit and hair.” She climbs out of bed. She’s wearing a black thong and a white tank.
    I slide on the shoes and grab my black bag.
    “You got enough condoms?” she asks, taking her shower bag into the bathroom. “I bought a new box yesterday. They’re under my bed, or maybe on my bed.” She shakes her fingers through her hair. “They’re somewhere over there.”
    “Thanks, Jessica. I’m still good.” At the door, I pause. Jessica turns on the water. The automatic coffee pot—our one splurge—kicks on and I sigh contentedly. When I come home in the morning, I’ll no longer be someone’s bitch. I’ll be my own person, obligated to no one. That one thought pushes out any worry about what Fileze has in store with the man I’m seeing tonight.  

 
     
    Chapter 3
     
    It’s nine o’clock. The night air is warm and breezy. Salt from the ocean gives the air a little bite.
    My apartment complex is snuggled between The Bean Barn and a barber shop. I stop in at the coffee shop and get an iced coffee and a blueberry scone. Bob, the manager, doesn’t charge me for the coffee and I thank him.
    Slid e into a booth, open the paper already sitting on the table, and find the business section. The DOW is down and the NASDAQ is up. Wall Street is a mess. I peruse an article. Some guy is giving his two cents on trends in the market.
    Lame , I think and pull out my phone. Fileze said he would text the address by ten tonight. It’s nine thirty, so I wait and watch the people pass by The Bean Barn’s big window.
    On a giant billboard across the street is a movie poster. The actress has dark hair, is holding a knife, and appears to be fighting her way through a jungle. Behind the billboard is the ocean. If I listen hard I can hear the waves break and smash against the sand. 
    That’s one of my favorite things about L.A.: there’s a variety of people and something for everyone. Of course the elite of the town are the actors, but the truth is they’re just as fucked up as I am. Their form of prostitution is just a lot more visible than mine.
    My phone buzzes.
    It’s Fileze. He texts me: The Hotel BelAyre. Ten-thirty. Room 1323. His name is John. He’s already paid. Your cut is your freedom. Don’t fuck it up and don’t be late. I’m counting on you.
    I snicker at the client’s name. John. Sure it is , I think. But, whatever. I text him back to let him know I received the message and finish my coffee. If I hurry, I can walk and make it in plenty of time.
     

     
    The Hotel BelAyre is swank, decorated in various shades of gold, white, black, and green. Lush plants are placed perfectly. The air is fresh and cool. Now I understand why he wanted me to dress fancy. Had I come in one of my regular outfits I would’ve stood out like an ostrich in a room full of penguins. As it is I still feel out of place, but I roll my shoulders back, lift my chin, and head toward the elevator.
    A girl at the front desk stops me.
    “Can I help you?”
    I swallow . Fuck. What if he didn’t tell the front desk I was coming? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The night will be ruined before it even gets started and I’ll still be Fileze the Sleaze’s bitch. Ugh. Realizing there’s nothing else I can do, I decide to tell the truth. “I’m meeting John in room thirteen twenty three. He’s expecting me,” I purr.
    She taps some keys on her computer, and I feign irritation. “Did you want a DNA sample?”
    She shrugs apologetically. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
    I finish my walk to the elevator and push the button. It tings and the door slides open. Inside is a bellman. “What floor?”
    “Thirteen,” I say.
    He eyes me, taking his time with my thighs. I reach around him and press the button. “I haven’t got all