Chapter Four
It’s when we get to the crème brûlée that I realize something has changed. The conversation is still foreplay, but we aren’t talking about s*x. Even in veiled terms. We’re talking about childhood and dreams. We’re talking about intimacy, which is all the more disturbing.
“It’s the cars,” I admit my weakness. “I would see them pull up night after night with rich men and beautiful women. These Porches and Bugattis. I knew that one day that would be me.”
“And now that is you,” she says, pride in her voice, as if anyone would consider being a prostitute a success.
“I suppose—” Suspicion narrows my eyes. “How do you know what I drive?”
She flushes a deep crimson. “I may have seen you out the window.”
“Really?” I ask, because it’s the right thing to say. It makes her feel char
