Chapter Five: The Proposition
Author's Note: My muse is being obstinate. Someone must have stolen her M&Ms... *glares accusingly around her*
* * *
What he needed was a creature so simple, so delightfully low... and who was lower than a common streetwalker? He had the perfect one in mind, his charming little redhead from the previous night's encounter.
As the sun began to set, he climbed into his car, his plan taking shape as he drove. He would be required to teach her everything- manners, etiquette, and language. It would be a delightfully heavy chore, one that would surely take at least a month. A month... a month would have her prepared for the annual New York English Professors Conference. He would take her there and present her as a greatly acclaimed professor of English that he himself had discovered.
If she passed the test, he would know that there was the possibility of the existence of a well-spoken young woman in this world, and all he had to do was find her. It was a flawless plan, providing that he could convince the young hooker to go along with it.
He felt odd driving slowly along the seedy streets, glancing out his windows at the barely dressed women leaning against streetlamps. It was a sensation that made his skin crawl in a way that was not at all appealing. Finally, he came to the corner where he believed he had almost hit the girl he was looking for. He paused, surveying the scene, but saw no sight of her.
A hooker caught sight of him, however, and sauntered over. She leaned down to window-level and Christian had to make a conscious effort to maintain eye contact with her. "Hey babe, lookin' for some fun?"
"Act-actually, I was looking for a specific person..."
"Oh... well, then. What's she look like?"
"She... she..." he swallowed hard, trying to maintain his composure. "She has r-red hair and has, well, had a beret with these rhinestones on it."
The woman straightened. "Easy, Shakespeare, no need to stutter over the slut. You'll find your Satine if you go down one more block and turn right. You'll know 'er when ya see 'er."
"Thank you."
She had already turned away with a flip of her dark hair. "Don't mention it."
He followed her directions, and sure enough, spotted the girl conversing with a young man whose eyes were fixated somewhere south of her face. Hurriedly, he parked his car and climbed out, jogging quickly across the street. He didn't know what he was going to do, or say... he just kept making his way towards her.
He cleared his throat as he approached her. She was even more beautiful tonight, it seemed. The black spaghetti-strap tank she wore set off her pale skin in a startling contrast, and fishnet stockings clad the long, lithe legs that curved down from under her black mini-skirt. "Excuse me, miss. I need to talk to you."
She eyed him warily. This wasn't a cop was it? Damn her if it was- there was no way she could run in the heels she was wearing. "Whadda ya want?"
"I just want to talk to you a moment."
The man who had been staring at the hooker's chest glanced around nervously before backing quickly away from them. She turned to Christian, her eyes wide. "Look, I ain't done nothin' wrong, here, mistah. You can't prove I did anything, got it? An' I didn't do anything. I'm a good girl, I am."
Confused, he stared at her a moment before realizing what she thought was going on. "No, no... I'm not an officer."
She visibly relaxed, pulling a cigarette out of... somewhere, he wasn't sure where. "Got a light, mistah?"
"Excuse me?"
She rolled her eyes. "What are ya, thick? A light, ya know, for my cig. If we're gonna... talk... I'd like a smoke."
"Oh, yes... of course." He fumbled around for his lighter before drawing it out of his pocket and flicking it on. She leaned over the tiny flame, inhaling deeply.
"Much betta." She leaned casually against the wall of the building behind her, smoke wreathing her red hair like some sacrilegious halo. "Now, whadda ya wanna talk about?"
He approached her slowly. "I have a... proposition for you."
"Oh, fancy words there, mistah. All ya gotta say is ya wanna shack up an' I'll tell ya the price. It ain't difficult."
His eyes widened in shock. "Excuse me, I believe you have the wrong idea. I did not imply a sexual proposition, not in the least!"
She cocked her head, regarding him. "You don't wanna screw me?"
"Absolutely not."
Without missing a beat, she asked, "Ya gay?" She adjusted her tank so that more of her cleavage showed.
He kept his eyes focused on her face, though it was an effort. "That is not the reason I do not want to... 'screw you,' miss. I have a... professional offer to make you."
She dropped the cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it with her heel. "Professional, eh? Whadda ya mean by that?"
"I mean that I wish to take you and make you into a well-spoken lady."
A laugh exploded from her crimson lips. "Listen to ya!" She dropped her voice in a bad imitation of him, "I want to make ya a well-spoken lady, ya hear?" She laughed again.
"I'm not joking. I am an English professor at Montmartre University, and I am conducting a profession study of the English language. The purpose is to see if I can turn a common person such as yourself, who knows absolutely nothing about the beauty of the language she daily butchers, into a well-bred young woman of society within a month."
"First of all, I ain't no common person. I'm high class, I am. Ya gotta pay good money for me, got it? An' second of all, what's in it for me?"
Chris hadn't expected her to take charge of his proposition like she was doing. "For you?"
"Yeh. If I'm understandin' ya right, I'm gonna be out-of-work during your little study. I'm gonna need some money."
"I'll be providing all you need, though. Food, housing..."
"Ya expecting me to sleep with ya during this study?"
Again, he was taken aback. "Absolutely not! This is to be a strictly profession relationship."
She shrugged. "Whateva. But I still need some pay, or I ain't agreeing."
He sighed in submission. "What do you normally... charge... your customers per night?"
"Two hundred."
His mouth dropped, he was sure of it. This woman would drive him to bankruptcy before the month was over! "Look here. I'll make you a deal. Since I will be providing all of your necessary requirements for living and there will be no, and I mean NO sexual favors, I will pay you fifty dollars per night for a month, with will leave you walking away with fifteen hundred dollars at the end of the study. You won't have to pay for any of your food or rent." He paused, letting the offer sink in, then stretched out his hand towards her. "Do we have a deal?"
She smiled broadly. "You betcha!" Her long, thin fingers grasped his hand firmly, shaking vigorously. This guy was a born fool, she decided. He was going to PAY her to live in the lap of luxury. This was gonna be great.
END CHAPTER FIVE
Author's Note: My muse is being obstinate. Someone must have stolen her M&Ms... *glares accusingly around her*
* * *
What he needed was a creature so simple, so delightfully low... and who was lower than a common streetwalker? He had the perfect one in mind, his charming little redhead from the previous night's encounter.
As the sun began to set, he climbed into his car, his plan taking shape as he drove. He would be required to teach her everything- manners, etiquette, and language. It would be a delightfully heavy chore, one that would surely take at least a month. A month... a month would have her prepared for the annual New York English Professors Conference. He would take her there and present her as a greatly acclaimed professor of English that he himself had discovered.
If she passed the test, he would know that there was the possibility of the existence of a well-spoken young woman in this world, and all he had to do was find her. It was a flawless plan, providing that he could convince the young hooker to go along with it.
He felt odd driving slowly along the seedy streets, glancing out his windows at the barely dressed women leaning against streetlamps. It was a sensation that made his skin crawl in a way that was not at all appealing. Finally, he came to the corner where he believed he had almost hit the girl he was looking for. He paused, surveying the scene, but saw no sight of her.
A hooker caught sight of him, however, and sauntered over. She leaned down to window-level and Christian had to make a conscious effort to maintain eye contact with her. "Hey babe, lookin' for some fun?"
"Act-actually, I was looking for a specific person..."
"Oh... well, then. What's she look like?"
"She... she..." he swallowed hard, trying to maintain his composure. "She has r-red hair and has, well, had a beret with these rhinestones on it."
The woman straightened. "Easy, Shakespeare, no need to stutter over the slut. You'll find your Satine if you go down one more block and turn right. You'll know 'er when ya see 'er."
"Thank you."
She had already turned away with a flip of her dark hair. "Don't mention it."
He followed her directions, and sure enough, spotted the girl conversing with a young man whose eyes were fixated somewhere south of her face. Hurriedly, he parked his car and climbed out, jogging quickly across the street. He didn't know what he was going to do, or say... he just kept making his way towards her.
He cleared his throat as he approached her. She was even more beautiful tonight, it seemed. The black spaghetti-strap tank she wore set off her pale skin in a startling contrast, and fishnet stockings clad the long, lithe legs that curved down from under her black mini-skirt. "Excuse me, miss. I need to talk to you."
She eyed him warily. This wasn't a cop was it? Damn her if it was- there was no way she could run in the heels she was wearing. "Whadda ya want?"
"I just want to talk to you a moment."
The man who had been staring at the hooker's chest glanced around nervously before backing quickly away from them. She turned to Christian, her eyes wide. "Look, I ain't done nothin' wrong, here, mistah. You can't prove I did anything, got it? An' I didn't do anything. I'm a good girl, I am."
Confused, he stared at her a moment before realizing what she thought was going on. "No, no... I'm not an officer."
She visibly relaxed, pulling a cigarette out of... somewhere, he wasn't sure where. "Got a light, mistah?"
"Excuse me?"
She rolled her eyes. "What are ya, thick? A light, ya know, for my cig. If we're gonna... talk... I'd like a smoke."
"Oh, yes... of course." He fumbled around for his lighter before drawing it out of his pocket and flicking it on. She leaned over the tiny flame, inhaling deeply.
"Much betta." She leaned casually against the wall of the building behind her, smoke wreathing her red hair like some sacrilegious halo. "Now, whadda ya wanna talk about?"
He approached her slowly. "I have a... proposition for you."
"Oh, fancy words there, mistah. All ya gotta say is ya wanna shack up an' I'll tell ya the price. It ain't difficult."
His eyes widened in shock. "Excuse me, I believe you have the wrong idea. I did not imply a sexual proposition, not in the least!"
She cocked her head, regarding him. "You don't wanna screw me?"
"Absolutely not."
Without missing a beat, she asked, "Ya gay?" She adjusted her tank so that more of her cleavage showed.
He kept his eyes focused on her face, though it was an effort. "That is not the reason I do not want to... 'screw you,' miss. I have a... professional offer to make you."
She dropped the cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it with her heel. "Professional, eh? Whadda ya mean by that?"
"I mean that I wish to take you and make you into a well-spoken lady."
A laugh exploded from her crimson lips. "Listen to ya!" She dropped her voice in a bad imitation of him, "I want to make ya a well-spoken lady, ya hear?" She laughed again.
"I'm not joking. I am an English professor at Montmartre University, and I am conducting a profession study of the English language. The purpose is to see if I can turn a common person such as yourself, who knows absolutely nothing about the beauty of the language she daily butchers, into a well-bred young woman of society within a month."
"First of all, I ain't no common person. I'm high class, I am. Ya gotta pay good money for me, got it? An' second of all, what's in it for me?"
Chris hadn't expected her to take charge of his proposition like she was doing. "For you?"
"Yeh. If I'm understandin' ya right, I'm gonna be out-of-work during your little study. I'm gonna need some money."
"I'll be providing all you need, though. Food, housing..."
"Ya expecting me to sleep with ya during this study?"
Again, he was taken aback. "Absolutely not! This is to be a strictly profession relationship."
She shrugged. "Whateva. But I still need some pay, or I ain't agreeing."
He sighed in submission. "What do you normally... charge... your customers per night?"
"Two hundred."
His mouth dropped, he was sure of it. This woman would drive him to bankruptcy before the month was over! "Look here. I'll make you a deal. Since I will be providing all of your necessary requirements for living and there will be no, and I mean NO sexual favors, I will pay you fifty dollars per night for a month, with will leave you walking away with fifteen hundred dollars at the end of the study. You won't have to pay for any of your food or rent." He paused, letting the offer sink in, then stretched out his hand towards her. "Do we have a deal?"
She smiled broadly. "You betcha!" Her long, thin fingers grasped his hand firmly, shaking vigorously. This guy was a born fool, she decided. He was going to PAY her to live in the lap of luxury. This was gonna be great.
END CHAPTER FIVE