Sometimes, I think of that little burn that the first spark left behind.

–

The lights are low as always in this room. Maria, my only sort–of friend here waits the tables, and when a client is led to this room, it's her job to make sure he signs the form and pays first. We don't do shit half–assed. Can't say we love our jobs, but we do love our paychecks.

I unpin my hair and rake a hand through it. It's worse in summers. The air conditioner never works right and Marcus, the manager of the club, never does shit about it.

"He paid for an hour, doll," Maria drawls in her Southern accent and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

I never have any words before I do this, so I just nod and watch her as she places the chilled champagne and the glasses on the bedside table and walks out, closing the door behind her.

Seconds later, the door opens again and a man walks in, shuffling his feet uncomfortably and with his hands in his pocket. He fidgets. He looks like he'll run any moment. First timer. I can sense those.

"Hey," I say casually, waiting for him to step closer so I can see his face. Like I said – the lights are dim in here.

If it was possible, he goes even more rigid – pun unintended – and nervously rakes a hand through his hair. The action throws me off a bit but I shrug and take a step in his direction. I'll have to do all the work here.

"Uh," he starts, and I could just laugh at how his voice sounds. It's almost a squeak. I stop moving.

"Just don't piss your pants or anything," I deadpan, and am rewarded with a small, awkward chuckle.

He finally moves towards me, towards the light from the lamp, and it's like time stops. I always read about such silly moments in silly novels, watch them in silly movies, and wonder about the general silliness of the human mind. Like, how can time stop? But it does. It genuinely does. Except, there is nothing romantic about it.

I reach for the glass on the table, fully intending to throw it on the wall behind him to scare him off, because how dare he?

"Don't…don't do that, please. I can explain."

I grit my teeth. Customer service, be damned. "How the hell did you…just…what the fuck?"

He shrugs, finally taking his hands out of his pockets. "I wanted to see you again."

At first I don't get it. I don't understand why he would want to. And then he steps forward even more and sits down on the bed, and I realize that I don't have to get it. It's like a reflex now. I follow suit and take the two steps till I'm standing right in front of him. He looks up at me hesitantly and red covers his cheeks. I would find that endearing anywhere else, but not in this room. Here, it's just a matter of making him comfortable, which he clearly isn't.

I push his shoulder gently, and his face contorts in what I can only describe as panic.

"Um, Bella, I, uh…"

"Shh."

I take off his jacket first. He's still in his office clothes, and I can see the sweat on his neck. Fuck that air conditioner. I loosen his tie next but don't take it off. It looks sexy, hanging loosely around his neck. I look at his face and the doubt in his eyes is palpable, but I know I can take it away. I put a knee up on the bed, near his thigh, and when his hands go to my waist to support me, I climb on the bed fully, so I am straddling his lap, with my arms around his neck. The zipper on my thigh–high boots is making this a lot more uncomfortable for me than it has to be, but I've left them on anyway. Most guys like it.

"So," I breathe against his ear, "what do you wanna do?"

He gulps and shakes his head a little, as if to clear it. "Nothing."

I smile and plant a small kiss under his ear. He shivers. "You want me to do all the work?"

"No, I –"

"I've been told I suck pretty well," I whisper and suck on his earlobe.

He leans away and I have to pull back to look at him. His face is red as a tomato.

"Aw, you're cute," I tell him honestly. "Never done this before, have you?"

He shakes his head again, and doesn't meet my eyes. That could also be because his eyes are glued to my boobs, which are pretty spectacular in this corset.

"Can we talk?" he asks softly.

I raise a brow. "Dirty talk does it for you?"

"No, no, like, normal talk."

"Nothing about being here is normal, sweetheart." I roll my eyes. "Be more specific."

"How did you end up here?" he blurts out.

I clench my jaw. This is what I was afraid of. Nothing good ever comes out of this talk.

I shift so I'm back on the bed, leaning against the pillows seductively. I reach out and grab his tie, pulling him to me. "Come here and maybe I'll tell you, Edward..."

As it turns out, he is serious about the talk talk. He doesn't let me try anything even remotely sexual. He just about runs away from me if I try to touch him. He wants details of my life – details I don't want to give him.

"You know…we could be friends," he murmurs as he sips his champagne.

"Spoken like a true social worker." I bring my glass to my lips but pause. "Wait – you aren't actually a social worker, are you?"

"No, I work in finance."

And so he tells me all about his life. He's pretty naïve and trusting for baring his soul to a…prostitute…but who am I to complain? He just paid five hundred dollars for this hour. If he wants to be stupid, then he can be stupid all he wants. At least there's champagne.

I get to know small but significant details. He doesn't love his wife. He has a three year old daughter who is his world, and his reason to stay with his wife. He is rich and spoils his daughter. He is still in contact with the pimpled boy Mike who was in our class in Forks Middle School. His mom is still as crazy as she was back then. His sister is still a bundle of energy and starts most conversations with 'Oh my God'.

He even tells me that it makes him uncomfortable that I do this for a living.

"Technically, I pole–dance," I correct him.

"I know that," he says. "I saw downstairs. You've got some stellar moves."

I smile at his attempt to bring normalcy to this whole conversation. "Your hour is almost up."

He frowns. "Will you call me?"

I force my face into a blank mask. "I don't do morning–after."

"Come on, Bella, you know that's not what I'm talking about."

"You are completely ignoring the fact that I'm a whore."

He flinches. "Just call me. Here's my number." He hands me his card. "Please," he adds in a whisper.

I let out a long breath. "I'll think about it."

I take off his jacket from around my shoulders – he put it there because seeing so much of my skin, erm, bothered him – and usher him out of the room with a smile and an 'It was nice to see you'.

Because it was. For the first time, it was nice to see someone in this room.

–

This is how we begin. I eventually end up calling him a couple of weeks later – of course – because even whores need friends sometimes. And he is a great friend. He totally cleans the vomit I am passed out in when he arrives to my apartment for the first time. Somehow, I managed to call him, give him my correct address, and tell him where the spare key was hidden, minutes before I passed out from the alcohol.

He cleans me up, hears me cry, lets me wipe snot on his crisp shirt, and lets me sleep, wrapped around his arm like a baby koala. He leaves god–knows–when, and I wake up to a cup of coffee (gone cold, though) and a note under the cup.

'You said in your sleep that you are so alone. You're not. I'm here. – E'

––x––