“It’s what you’ve paid for,” she said.
“Actually, I don’t look at it that way.”
She flashed me a skeptical look. “You don’t, huh?” There was an edge of sarcasm in her voice.
I said, “Sex isn’t the same as intimacy. Intimacy only works if it’s a choice you’ve made about me.”
She stiffened a bit. “A choice,” she said.
“That’s right.”
“Like letting you beat me up?” I saw the anger flash through her eyes. Now that she trusted me not to hurt her, she was fired up.
“It’s nothing personal,” I said, hoping to diffuse the fireworks I could see coming.
“Really? Nothing personal, huh? So your offer had nothing to do with the fact that I’m just a low-life hooker? Tell me, Scarface, how many teachers, nurses, and housewives have you offered to beat up for money?”
I heard her. I don’t mean I listened to her; I mean that what she said and the way she said it made me see it from her point of view. Now what could I say, except that she had a point.
“Lauren, you’re right, of course. That was a big part of it, the fact you do things for money.”
We sat there quietly and looked at each other, neither of us knowing quite what to say.
“There was something else,” I said. “I didn’t give you my reasons, but a big part of it had to do with an uncanny resemblance. But again, I’m sorry I brought it up. I feel terrible for scaring you. I really care about you and always have.”
We were out of orange juice, but she reached for the champagne and poured some into a clean flute. She glanced at her champagne glass and a strange look crossed her face. She picked it up and held it to the light and stared at the amber liquid. What now? I wondered. Maybe there weren’t as many bubbles floating to the surface as she thought there should be. Maybe…
“It’s not drugged,” I said.
“Then you drink it.”
I sighed. “I’ve lost your trust, and for that I apologize.” I took the champagne flute from her hand, put it to my lips, and drained it. Then I refilled the glass, handed it back to her. She nodded slowly and took a sip. Then, to her credit, she winked at me.
“Hookers have feelings, you know.”
I smiled. “It’s not because I think you’re unworthy of being treated well. It was never that. If it makes you feel any better, you’re the only person I’ve ever offered to pay to beat up.”
Lauren had a light, airy laugh. Now, for the first time since she’d run out, she showed it. “Why the hell would that make me feel better?” she asked.
I laughed, too. “I’m sorry, Lauren. You’re right. I prejudged you. Now I’m making it worse trying to talk about it. Big surprise: I’m not very smooth with women.”
