Sara
Sara took a parking spot near the door. As soon as her boss had discovered the classic Trans Am in the back lot belonged to her, she’d insisted Sara move it—and always park it—around front.
“That’s a man’s car,” Nuwa had said. “People see that car parked in front of Lucky’s, they think some big strong stud is inside getting VIP massage from my girls. Good for business, that car.”
Nuwa didn’t have a subtle bone in her slim body. She saw the world through entrepreneurial eyes, everything in terms of the dollar. She didn’t ask nicely and she didn’t take no for an answer.
So out front it was. Sara’s chest constricted every day she had to park beneath the Lucky’s Healthy Life Massage sign. Partially because her dad would roll over in his grave if he knew his prized vehicle had become a pawn to draw men to a massage parlor. Mainly, though, because parking in plain view meant anybody could see her car. And there weren’t a lot of red 1980 Trans Ams rolling around anymore.
Lucky’s was in an industrial park. Not an area the average person generally traveled, but if Conn or Nia—and now Curtis—ever chanced by this place while her car was here…
She pulled out the paper lunch bag she kept beneath the seat and breathed into it. She had no idea if this trick had scientific merit, or if it was age-old bullshit. Either way, it worked every time she used it. Not coincidentally, that was every time she parked in front of this damn building.
At least Nuwa’s Mercedes wasn’t here. The boss split her time between three booming establishments. She’d been at this one last night, and unfortunately, so had Sara. Though Nuwa had hired her to work the front desk—a job that included greeting clients, logging the girls’ activity in a ledger, and on occasion, acting as bouncer—last night she’d informed Sara that her days as front-desk clerk had expired.
“All girls start at desk. Start not stay. I hired you because you’re pretty, have a nice body. I see how men look at you. They like your long hair and big tits. They want you for massage. Time you move up,” she’d said. “I give you one more week at desk. After that, you do massage.”
Massage…meaning fully nude fondling at minimum. There was no maximum.
That’d been fun, finding out she only had her job for one more week—unless she went from front-desk pimp to massage-room prostitute.
She’d almost gone back to her apartment at the end of her shift. Facing Curtis, trying to answer his polite questions without lying or losing her shit, got harder each minute she spent with him. She hadn’t been sure she could do it last night. Knowing he’d come looking for her, insist on retrieving her, was the only reason she’d returned to his condo.
He’d waited up, as expected. Asked the typical, “How was work?” question.
She’d told him it had sucked, that her boss was an asshole who expected too much from her.
Curtis and his damn cop instincts had picked up on the depth of her statement. Without asking, he’d risen from the couch and gone to run a bath. Super-hot, the way he knew she liked it, especially after work. He’d undressed her and guided her to the bathroom. In no hurry whatsoever despite the late hour, he’d knelt by the tub, soaping her body, gently worshipping every inch of skin in the process.
He hadn’t pushed her to talk, gifting her with comfortable silence instead. Though he’d lavished plenty of attention on her breasts and the rings in her nipples that he couldn’t seem to get enough of, he hadn’t made any real sexual overtures. As if he’d sensed the weight on her shoulders and knew she needed to unwind more than she needed to fuck. Proof once again that he gave a shit about her.
Afterward, he’d wrapped her in one of his fluffy towels, taken her hand and led her to the couch. He’d offered to give her a massage—words that had turned her stomach. Her instinct had been to push him away. Instead she’d pulled him on top of her.
Even with their bodies touching more places than not, he’d only kissed her. Though there was really no such thing as “only” kissing with Curtis. He made kissing sweet and erotic at the same time. Explosive. Dynamite against her carefully constructed defenses. Every time their lips joined, another piece of her wall crumbled. And last night, she’d invited him behind it completely.
She’d woken with his arm slung protectively over her, his large, strong hand cupping her breast. And it’d felt so good. Sexy and safe and…more.
He fucked like a god and treated her like a queen. Every day she stayed with him wore her down more. She had to get away from him.
But how? The apartments she’d seen this morning would’ve been okay if she had a job lined up beyond next week. Even the shithole she’d abandoned to stay with Curtis was beyond her means if she didn’t land another source of income immediately.
She wasn’t taking another handout from her parents. She wouldn’t impose on Nia and Conn by knocking on their door. Tomorrow she’d have to lower her already-rock-bottom standards and modify her search to include shared apartments and boarding houses.
Or she could steal Curtis’ gun and rob a bank. With that option, she’d either walk away with a fistful of cash, or they’d send her to jail. Either way, she’d have a roof over her head that didn’t come with a dominant-yet-caring cop roommate.
Whether she went the boarding-house or bank-robbery route, it’d have to wait. Lucky’s opened soon and she didn’t care to have one of the early customers—and there were always a few—flanking her as she unlocked the front door.
She kept her chin up and shoulders back while stepping out of the car. One of the massage girls had given her that piece of advice when she started here.
“No matter how you feel inside, always look like you have no fear and no shame,” Candy had said. “Most of the guys we get here are harmless. Looking like a takes-no-shit bitch helps keep the ones who aren’t so harmless in line.”
If it kept the goons off petite Candy’s case, it was a tip worth taking. Plus, Sara had grown to like and respect Candy. All the girls were nice, actually. Sara might even miss them after next week.
Inside the building, she cut around the privacy jag that separated the door from the reception desk. She started the computer and hit play on the daytime music. The clientele tended to be more mature between ten and five, so they played a mix of light jazz and older, easy-listening hits for soft background noise.
Of course, mature didn’t equate to quiet, and the interior walls were far from soundproof. She’d never be able to hear Killing Me Softly again without one man’s very vocal appreciation of Candy’s talents popping into her head during the chorus. Thank god her favorite vintage songs weren’t part of the Lucky’s playlist.
She had five minutes before they were officially open for business. Such an appropriate phrase for this place. She moved through the archway leading to the meet-and-greet room and waved at the three women lounging on the leather furniture. Brandy, Paris and Candy. Each wore something different. The world’s shortest, tightest dress. Cutoff jean shorts and a bikini top. Skimpy lingerie. They’d all opted for high heels to complete their outfits, of course. While Lucky’s couldn’t claim to have something for every man’s taste, this group represented the blonde, redhead, and Asian categories quite well.