Free Angel Face by Stephen Solomita Page A

wouldn’t call it chance.’
    â€˜Is that supposed to be funny?’
    â€˜OK, Angel, let’s 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?’
    It’s a good question, which Angel freely admits. But there’s another item on her agenda, one she’s not quite ready to reveal, not until she’s softened him up a little more. She snaps her fingers. ‘I’ve got an idea. You can train me to do what you do. That way I’ll be able to fight back.’
    â€˜That’s cute, Angel, but it doesn’t answer the question.’
    â€˜You think I can’t do it? Hey, Carter, I’ve already got the memoir planned. From Ho to Hit Bitch: A Transformative Journey . It’s guaranteed to be a number one selection of Oprah’s Book Club. I’ll sell millions of copies and retire to my yacht in the Bahamas.’
    Angel nods encouragement when Carter’s smile becomes a laugh. That little glimmer of lust she noted before has now blossomed. It’s burning white-hot. She looks down at the disembarking Pilgrim and says, ‘There’s 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 customer’s 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 – it was too steep for buildings – and we were about halfway there when he pointed at this apartment house. Here’s what he told me, Carter. Ricky said there was an apartment in that building with three hundred thousand dollars under the floorboards.’
    Carter signals to the waitress for a check, which she has ready. The diner’s crowded and she’s 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 Angel’s breasts. Then he looks into Carter’s eyes, discovers an even darker version of himself and returns to his meatloaf.
    Angel is more beautiful naked than dressed. She’s an altar at which Carter can bring himself to worship. But Carter doesn’t fool himself. When he runs his mouth along Angel’s inner thigh, from her crotch to the back of her knee, he doesn’t 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. Angel’s face reddens, then her neck and her shoulders, the rush of blood leaving her skin the color of a sunburn. They’re both soaked with sweat by now, and they’re changing positions with the agility of performing dolphins. When Carter finally explodes, his orgasm is as powerful as any he’s ever known.
    A few minutes later, Carter’s lying on the wet sheets, his hand over his eyes, trying to catch his breath, when he feels a second release. Janie’s passing? Paulie’s email? Carter’s ship has sailed without his noticing. He’s in the deep water now, and there’s no turning back, the shore already lost to sight. Angel’s lips are on his throat. Ready or not, here I . . . Well, it might take a while before they get to the last part.
    â€˜Tell me the truth.’ Angel leans forward, until her breasts fall lightly against Carter’s chest. ‘Am I worth a thousand dollars?’
    â€˜Did you say you wanted the