I know he has money—a house like this? He’s loaded. But rules are rules, and I have to see the cash up front. I can tell he doesn’t have it on him because his sweatpants highlight the bulge at his crotch and his round, bubble butt, and there isn’t a wallet in sight. So when I ask for the dough, he ducks back out into the hall and disappears for a few moments, leaving me alone in the guest room. This all feels strange to me for some reason I can’t quite put my finger on. Whenever I’m at a client’s house for an appointment, it’s all business. Wham, bam, thank you, Sam.
But this? This feels like I’m not here for the money but for him, and it shouldn’t. I don’t know what to do about that.
Less than a minute passes before he’s back. He has a leather wallet in his hands, and when he opens it c
