Free Kill Jill by John Locke Page A

off?”
    “Friday night. Favors Strip Club.”
    “What about it?”
    “You didn’t ask me to buy you a drink.”
    She thinks a minute, then says, “Is that such a big deal?”
    “Big enough to set you apart from every bar hooker in the history of the world.”
    “And yet I would have had sex with you. And still would, if you’ll agree to let me go.”
    “That wasn’t your only mistake.”
    “What else?”
    “You asked me to set the price. Again, that’s a first.”
    “You’ve obviously had a lot of experience with prostitutes. Your mother must be very proud.”
    “My mother was a prostitute. She wouldn’t be proud, but she wouldn’t be judgmental, either. As for your other mistakes? You got mad because I didn’t make you feel special. Do I really need to tell you hookers don’t expect a special relationship? And they don’t insult potential customers. Also, you grabbed the seat beside me too quickly. It reeked of desperation.”
    “That’s unique among hookers?”
    “Sadly, no. But with your looks, it’s a bad move.”
    “Why?”
    “Of all the women in the club, you’re the prize.”
    “That’s ridiculous. Most of them are little more than half my age.”
    “Those girls are cute or pretty at best. You’re beautiful. Refined. Clean. And you’re not on drugs. You’re mysterious.”
    “Mysterious? How?”
    “Because you never let the customers see you completely naked on stage. You’re the one they’d pay big money to bang, but it has to be their idea, not yours. Friday night I could have had you for a fraction of what you’re worth.”
    The dashboard light casts a green glow across Jill’s face. Jack starts a mental ten-count. By the time he gets to three, she asks the question he knew was coming.
    “How much am I worth?”
    “You’re too high class to turn tricks. You could be a courtesan.”
    “Which is what, exactly?”
    “Top of the line. A companion. With benefits.”
    “Define high class. In terms of a hooker.”
    “She’s beautiful. Smart. Classy. Sexy. She’ll fit in wherever a wealthy guy wants to take her.”
    “And that’s worth how much?”
    “Three grand for a night, five for a weekend, ten for a week.”
    “And if I were ten years younger?”
    “Twice that.”
    “Is that what you pay high class hookers?”
    He pauses a moment, then says, “Let’s talk about you.”
    “What about me?”
    “I knew before I met you.”
    “Knew what?”
    “That you never turned a trick in your life. That you only started stripping three weeks ago, and can’t even finance your buy-in because you’ve been lending money to the bouncers and dancers, trying to fit in. That’s a rookie move, by the way. They were taking advantage of you. Beyond that, you’re not a real stripper. You move well, but never go past pasties and panties.”
    “You’ve been watching me?”
    He nods.
    “How long?”
    “In the club? Couple of times. All together? A month, give or take.”
    “Where?”
    “Your apartment, the club, your day job, your errands, job interviews.”
    “You knew I worked at the Pancake House?”
    “Of course. Speaking of which, would you prefer I call you Emma Wilson?”
    She ignores the question, saying, “You knew I kept flunking job interviews?”
    “I knew.”
    “Then you knew how desperate I was.”
    “Which is why I stepped in when I did.”
    “You knew I was ready to sell my body?”
    “I knew you were getting close. And I didn’t want that for you.”
    “You’ve been following me around for a month?”
    “About that.”
    “Why’d you wait so long before taking me back?”
    Jack starts to reply, but she cuts him off, saying, “Wait, I know. You were building your fee. Pretending you couldn’t find me right away.”
    He shrugs. She’s wrong, but does it really make a difference?

Jill drifts in and out of sleep as the effects of the drug slowly wear off. At one point she asks, “You got any kids?”
    “No.”
    They go silent again, until he says,