wouldnât call it chance.â
âIs that supposed to be funny?â
âOK, Angel, letâs suppose I take you back to my home, that we tangle up our lives. What do you think will happen if you become a threat to me somewhere down the line?â
Itâs a good question, which Angel freely admits. But thereâs another item on her agenda, one sheâs not quite ready to reveal, not until sheâs softened him up a little more. She snaps her fingers. âIâve got an idea. You can train me to do what you do. That way Iâll be able to fight back.â
âThatâs cute, Angel, but it doesnât answer the question.â
âYou think I canât do it? Hey, Carter, Iâve already got the memoir planned. From Ho to Hit Bitch: A Transformative Journey . Itâs guaranteed to be a number one selection of Oprahâs Book Club. Iâll sell millions of copies and retire to my yacht in the Bahamas.â
Angel nods encouragement when Carterâs smile becomes a laugh. That little glimmer of lust she noted before has now blossomed. Itâs burning white-hot. She looks down at the disembarking Pilgrim and says, âThereâs something else, Carter. Ricky Ditto liked to brag. He bragged from the minute he picked me up until you shot him. Along the way, he told me about his houses and his businesses and what a tough guy he was. In my world, the customerâs always right, so I encouraged him to a certain extent. Anyway, Ricky made this left turn off Broadway just after we came into the Bronx. There was a hillside covered with trees â it was too steep for buildings â and we were about halfway there when he pointed at this apartment house. Hereâs what he told me, Carter. Ricky said there was an apartment in that building with three hundred thousand dollars under the floorboards.â
Carter signals to the waitress for a check, which she has ready. The dinerâs crowded and sheâs anxious to clear the table. Carter picks up the check and slides out of the booth, with Angel following closely behind. As they wait for the cashier to ring up the check, one of the tattooed men spins on his stool to openly stare at Angelâs breasts. Then he looks into Carterâs eyes, discovers an even darker version of himself and returns to his meatloaf.
Angel is more beautiful naked than dressed. Sheâs an altar at which Carter can bring himself to worship. But Carter doesnât fool himself. When he runs his mouth along Angelâs inner thigh, from her crotch to the back of her knee, he doesnât assume the guttural sound rumbling up from her chest indicates passion of any kind. Same for the twitch of a muscle just below her navel and the pressure of her manicured nails on the back of his head. Feigning passion is a necessary skill in the sex worker business. But then, twenty minutes later, Carter finds himself confronted by the unexpected. Angelâs face reddens, then her neck and her shoulders, the rush of blood leaving her skin the color of a sunburn. Theyâre both soaked with sweat by now, and theyâre changing positions with the agility of performing dolphins. When Carter finally explodes, his orgasm is as powerful as any heâs ever known.
A few minutes later, Carterâs lying on the wet sheets, his hand over his eyes, trying to catch his breath, when he feels a second release. Janieâs passing? Paulieâs email? Carterâs ship has sailed without his noticing. Heâs in the deep water now, and thereâs no turning back, the shore already lost to sight. Angelâs lips are on his throat. Ready or not, here I . . . Well, it might take a while before they get to the last part.
âTell me the truth.â Angel leans forward, until her breasts fall lightly against Carterâs chest. âAm I worth a thousand dollars?â
âDid you say you wanted the