This is why she was his favorite. Not because she did this little indecisive happy dance with her little feet as he stood over her, but because she did it best, with the most abandon, and with the total innocence of not knowing what she was doing. Most of them did it, with the exception of the few really harsh man-haters who just could not develop a taste for women and resented having to come to him for that release.
The likable ones all did it.
The short chubby ones swayed on their heels and turned their back.
The tall ones held his hands and suppressed their smile.
The petite ones bounced on their toes and grinned like little girls while they did it.
The big heavy ones swayed dreamily with wider grins.
But none of them did it like this, this cute, this many steps, this unknowingly. In fact, he had made a mental note never to tell any of them about this observed habit long ago. It was how he read them. He needed feedback if he was going to keep a satisfied clientele and women almost never told the truth about their needs, even to their whore.
Well, Mrs. Marsden is a notable exception.
Women were biological liars just like men were social liars. Even if he was in the habit of telling his clients about their cute shared quirks, he would surely keep it a secret from Mrs. Dawson. He would not want to risk her becoming self-conscious and stopping. Although she had never told him her first name, insisting that she be known to him as Mrs. Dawson in case they ever bumped into one another at dinner, he had fallen in love with her.
She was the only one that knew.
He had never told her.
They had never discussed it.
But he looked into her eyes and knew that she knew. He could never tell Marie, his business partner, the woman who vetted and booked all of his clients. She would go ballistic and probably sever their ties and recruit three 29-year-olds to take on his workload.
Mrs. Dawson, you would run and never look back if I told you.
This was another complicating aspect of his business relationship. Sam Waterford was married, and he was married to Marie Samos, his beautiful pimp. It had been her idea, to provide a cover and to help out with taxes. But she was also serious about it as a long term commitment. He was the one man that she could look at and not feel like a slut. In fact, she admitted to intentionally booking him at three times her rate, just so she would occupy the moral high ground. They might both have more meaningless sex in a week than most people had in a lifetime, but Marie made love to him. He knew it was a psychological barrier that she placed between herself and the sale of her own intimacy. No matter how exhausted he was at the end of the week, they spent Thursday night together and ‘made love,’ with all of the attendant rules.
I suppose I love Marie—but not like this.
He found himself staring into Mrs. Dawson’s bright blue eyes as she looked up into his and blushed. “You slay me, Sam. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
She kissed him tenderly on the mouth, gave him a clinging hug, and then pushed away, looking down at the floor and walking as fast as she could for the door, not letting him hold it for her.
Run rabbit, run.
Just like that she was gone.
