Free Her Last Trick by Huck Pilgrim

Her Last
Trick

    Jenna Morris sat at the bar, nursing a tonic
water.
    Her brother, Dale Morris, sat in a booth, across
from the bar, pretending he didn’t know her. He was big, a muscle
bound tough. Tonight he wore a loose fitting black jersey, as much
to hide his physique as to conceal the identifying tattoos on his
arms and chest. The bar was dimly lit. Smokey. One of those places
men go nightly to drink themselves to death.
    Dale had found it.
    Jenna worked to keep her eyes off Dale. He’d
paid to get her fine black hair cut short, spikey. Even bought a
stud for her nose. It was Dale’s way of boosting her confidence.
She loved the look but felt self-conscious wearing it.
    Fidgeting on her stool, she looked to the man
sitting on her left. He was big, broad shouldered, with dark,
smoldering eyes. Not long ago, he’d purchased the tonic water she
now held in her hand. The barkeep had placed the glass in front of
her and then nodded to where the man sat across the bar. Jenna
grinned at him appreciatively. He crossed the bar and took the seat
next to her. His size alarmed her, but Dale had dealt with bigger
men. Jenna and Dale had a good hustle together. Jenna would take
the mark into the parking lot and agree to do him for a small fee.
She always insisted on getting her money up front. “ You can’t
unsuck a cock ,” she’d chirp. Her youthful exuberance always
made the marks grin.
    Jenna would toy with the mark until her brother
showed up. He was ruthless. Barred from the UFC for life, Dale knew
how to take a man down. He was quick. Deliberate.
    “What’s your name?” the big man sitting next to
her asked.
    Jenna could feel the nervous tension in her
tummy. Except for a brief appraisal before he took his seat, he
hadn’t even looked at her. He held his whiskey to his mouth and
scanned the room.
    “Natasha,” Jenna said. Her voice sounded high
pitched. Squeaky.
    The mark slowly turned his head to her, a big
grin on his face. He seemed to know it wasn’t her real name. He had
a bald head and a strong chin. Jenna could see some sort of tattoo
peeking out from the neck of his jersey.
    He lowered his drink to the bar and appraised
her body.
    Jenna’s cheeks went hot, but she enjoyed the
warmth. She liked the look in a man’s eyes as he calculated her
worth. Not her true worth, but the amount he was willing to pay for
twenty or so minutes of her time. She wore cutoff jeans and a
halter top. Leather combat boots, laced just above her ankle. Dale
felt her best bet was to dress like an innocent—some sort of
truant, a waif or a runaway. But he warned her not to overdo it.
He’d given her a fake driver’s license that said she was drinking
age. She needed to look the part.
    She swiveled on the stool to give the mark a
better look. Make her intentions clear. She crossed and then
uncrossed her legs, tapped her boney knees together. Tossing out
her small breasts, she bit her lower lip and watched his eyes slide
to her navel, her slender hips.
    The big man leaned forward.
    Putting his lips near her ear, a hand on her
knee, he whispered that he’d be willing to give her one hundred
dollars to “go” in her mouth.
    Jenna felt an electric pulse in her groin.
    She had yet to sit with a boy in a darkened
theater. She’d never felt a boy’s hand in her own, nor walked with
a boy under an umbrella. Never felt her shoulder collide with a
boy’s, listening to the patter of raindrops above her head. A few
weeks ago, on her birthday, Dale had come to collect her from Saint
Joseph’s Orphanage for Abandoned Girls. She been living there since
she was eight years old.
    Saint Joe’s had certainly never offered her an
occasion to let a boy go in her mouth.
    Squeezing her thighs together, she sipped her
tonic water. Setting her glass down, she held up two bony fingers.
“Two hundred,” she whispered.
    She looked at the mark.
    He straightened on his stool.
    She didn’t know why she was asking for so much.
It wasn’t like the