The Mammoth Book of Best New Science Fiction: 23rd Annual Collection (78 page)

Stop it. Stop it now.

She carried her pants to the bed and pulled the receipts from the pockets. Eight of them. She’d paid for eight lap dances, and the size of the tips . . . Jesus. That was two months’ rent. What had she been thinking?

We have to pay for the room, Cookie said, but I’ll pay you half back. It’s just that I can’t wait. Oh, please, Cody. I want you again.

“God damn it!” Her ferocity scared her momentarily and she stilled, listening. No stirrings or mutterings from either room next door.

Give me your hotel phone number, Cookie had said. I’ll call you tomorrow. This has never happened before. This is real.

And if it was . . . She could reschedule her flight. She’d explain it to Vince somehow.

Christ. That huge contract gone, in a flash of lust. Vince would kill her.

But, oh, she’d had nearly three hours of the best sex she’d ever had. It had gone exactly the way she’d imagined it in her fantasies. I know just what you want, she’d said, and proved it.

But Cody had known too, that was the thing. She had known when the hoarse breath and clutching hands meant it was Cookie’s turn, meant that Cookie now wanted to be touched, wanted to break every single personal and club rule and be fucked over the back of the chair, just for pleasure.

Cody stirred the receipts. She couldn’t make it make sense. She had paid for sex. That was not romance. But she had felt Cookie’s vaginal muscles tighten, felt that quiver in her perineum, the clutch and spasm of orgasm. It wasn’t faked. It hadn’t been faked the second time, either.

Cody shivered. The air conditioning was finally beginning to bite. She rubbed her cold feet. Cookie’s feet were long and shapely, each toe painted with clear nail polish. She’d twisted her ankle, she’d said. Cody had held the ankle, kissed it, stroked it. Cookie’s smile was beautiful. How did you sprain it? Cody had asked, and Cookie had told her about falling five feet from the indoor climbing wall, and they had talked about climbing and rafting, and Cody had told her of the time when she was seven and had seen Cirque du Soleil and wanted to be one of the trapeze artists, and that led to talk of abdominal muscles, which led to more sex.

She padded into the bathroom, still without bothering with the light. When she lifted her toothbrush to her mouth, the scent on her fingers tightened her muscles involuntarily. She dropped the toothbrush, leaned over the sink, and wept.

A blue, blue Atlanta morning. Cody hadn’t slept. She didn’t want breakfast. Her plane wasn’t until four that afternoon.

She’d lost the contract, lost a night’s sleep, lost her mind and her self-respect, and flushed two months’ rent down the toilet. She would never see Cookie again – and she couldn’t understand why she cared.

The phone rang. Cookie! she thought, and hated herself for it.

“Hello?”

“Your cell phone’s off, but I called Vince back in Frisco and he told me you were at the Westin.”

Boone. She shut her eyes.

“Plane’s not til four, am I right? Cody, you there?”

“Yes. I’m here.”

“If you’re not too tuckered out, maybe you wouldn’t mind dropping by my office. We’ll give you lunch.”

“Lunch?”

“Yep. You know, food. Don’t they do lunch on the West Coast?”

“Yes. I mean, why?”

He chuckled. “Because we’ve got a few details to hammer out on this contract. So should we say, oh, eleven-thirty?”

“That’s, yes, fine. Good,” she said at random, and put the phone down.

She stared at her bag. Clothes. She’d need to change her clothes. Was he really giving her the contract?

The phone rang again. “Hello?” she said doubtfully, expecting anyone from god to the devil to reply.

“Hey, Cody. It’s me.”

“Richard?”

“Yeah. Listen, how did it go?”

“I don’t . . . Things are . . .” She took a deep breath. “I got the contract.”

“Hey, that’s great. But how did last night go?”

“Christ, Richard, I can’t gossip now. I don’t have the time. I’m on my way to Boone’s, iron out a few details.” She had to pull it together. “I’ll call you in a week or two, okay?”

“No, wait, Cody. Just don’t do anything you – ”

“Later, okay.” She dropped the phone in its cradle. How did he know to call the Westin? What did he care about her night? She rubbed her forehead again. Food might help with the contract. The headache, she meant. And she grinned: the contract. She’d goddamned well won the contract. She was gonna get a huge bonus. She was gonna be a Vice President. She was gonna be late.

In the bathroom, she picked up the toothbrush, rinsed off the smeared paste, and resolutely refused to think about last night.

Cookie dialed the hotel.

“This is Cody. Leave a message, or reach me on my cell phone,” followed by a string of numbers beginning with 216. San Francisco. That’s right. She’d told Cookie that last night: San Francisco with its fog and hills and great espresso on Sunday mornings.

That might be okay. Anything would beat this Atlanta heat.

Boone didn’t want to talk details so much as to laugh and drink coffee and teach Cody how to eat a po’ boy sandwich. After all, if they were gonna be working together, they should get to know each other, was he right? And there was no mention of strip clubs or lap dances until the end when he signed the letter of intent, handed it to her, and said, “I like the way you handle yourself Now take that Austin fella, Dave. No breeding. Can’t hold his liquor, can’t keep his temper, and calls a woman names in public. But you: no boasting, no big words, you just sit quiet then seize the opportunity.” He gave her a sly smile. “You do that in business and we’ll make ourselves some money.”

And somehow, with his clap on the back, the letter in her laptop case and the sun on her face while she waited for the car for her trip to the airport, she started to forget her confusion. She’d had great sex, she’d built the foundations of a profitable working relationship, she was thirty-one and about to be a vice president, and she didn’t even have a hangover.

The car came and she climbed into the cool, green-tinted interior.

She let the outside world glide by for ten minutes before she got out the letter of intent. She read it twice. Beautifully phrased. Strong signature. Wonderful row of zeroes before the decimal point. If everything stayed on track, this one contract would keep their heads above water until they could develop a few more income streams. And she had done it. No one else. Damn she was good! Someone should buy her a great dinner to celebrate.

She got out her phone, turned it on. The signal meter wavered as the car crossed from cell to cell. Who should she call? No one in their right mind would want to have dinner with Vince. Richard would only want all the details, and she didn’t want to talk about those details yet; he was in the Carolinas, anyway. Asshole.

The signal suddenly cleared, and her phone bleeped: one message.

“Hey. This is Cookie. I know you don’t go until the afternoon. If you . . . I know this is weird but last night was . . . Shit. Look, maybe you won’t believe me but I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to see you, okay? I’ll be in the park, the one I told you about. Piedmont. On one of the benches by the lake. I’m going there now, and I’ll wait. I hope you come. I’ll bring doughnuts. Do you like doughnuts? I’ll be waiting. Please.”

Oooh, you’re different, ooh, you’re so special, ooh, give it to me baby, just pay another thousand dollars and I’ll love you forever. Sure. But Cookie’s voice sounded so soft, so uncertain, as though she really meant it. But of course it would. That was her living: playing pretend. Using people.

Cody’s face prickled. Be honest, she told herself who really used who, here? Who got the big contract, who got to have exactly what she wanted: great sex with no complications, and on the expense account no less?

It was too confusing. She was too tired. She was leaving. It was all too late anyhow, she thought, as the car moved smoothly onto the interstate.

A woman sitting on her own on a bench, maybe getting hot, maybe getting thirsty, wanting to use the bathroom. Afraid to get up and go pee because she might miss the one she was waiting for. Maybe the hot sweet scent of the doughnuts reminded her she was hungry, but she wouldn’t eat them because she wanted to present them in their round-dozen perfection to her sweetie, see her smile of delight. She would pick at the paint peeling on the wooden bench and look up every time someone like Cody walked past; every time, she’d be disappointed. This one magical thing had happened in her life, something very like a miracle, but as the hot fat sun sinks lower she understands that this miracle, this dream is going to die because the person she’s resting all her hopes on is worried she might look like a fool. Or doesn’t want to admit she had used a woman for sex then thrown her away.

Cody blinked, looked at her watch. She leaned forward, cleared her throat.

The driver looked at her in his mirror. “Ma’am?”

“Where is Piedmont park?”

“Northeast of downtown.”

“Do we pass it on the way to the airport?”

“No, ma’am.”

She was crazy. But all that waited for her at home was a tankful of fish. “Take me there.”

Without the hat and boots, wearing jeans and sandals and the kind of tank top Cody herself might have picked, Cookie looked young. So did her body language. Her hair was in a braid. She was flipping it from shoulder to shoulder, twisting on the bench to look to one side, behind her, the other side. When she saw Cody, her face opened in a big smile that was naked and utterly vulnerable.

“How old are you?” Cody blurted.

The face closed. “Twenty-six. How old are you?”

“Thirty-one.” Cody didn’t sit down.

They stared at each other. “Dirt on my face?”

“No. Sorry. It looks . . . you look different.”

“You expect me to dress like that on my day off, too?”

“No! No.” But part of her had. “So. You get a lot of days off?”

A short laugh. “Can’t afford it. No expense accounts for me. No insurance, no 401(k), no paid vacation.”

Cody flushed. “Earning two thousand bucks a night isn’t exactly a hard luck story.”

“Was I worth it?”

Her smell filled Cody’s mouth. Yes! she wanted to shout. Yes, a hundred times over. But that made no sense, so she just stood there.

“You paid twenty-two hundred. The house takes sixty per cent off the top. Out of my eight eighty, Danny takes another twenty percent and, no, he’s a bouncer, not a pimp, and I’ve never done that before last night. And, no, I don’t expect you to believe me. Then there’s costumes, hair, waxing, makeup . . .” She leaned back, draped both arms along the back of the bench. “You tell me. Would fucking a complete stranger for three hours be worth five hundred dollars?”

Her mouth stretched in a hard smile but her eyes glistened. She put one ankle up on the other knee.

“Does your ankle still hurt?” It just popped out.

Cookie turned away, blinked a couple of times. Cody found herself kneeling before the bench.

“Cookie? Cookie, don’t cry.”

“Susana,” she said, still turned away.

“What?”

“Susana. It’s my real name. Susana Herrera.” She turned to Cody, and her face was fierce. “I am Susana Herrera. I’m a dancer, I’m not a whore, and I want to know what you’ve done to me.”

“What I’ve . . . ?”

“I dance. I tease, I hint. It makes you feel good, you give me money, which makes me feel good. Sometimes I give a lap dance, but always by the rules: hands on the armrest, clothes on, a little bump and grind, because I need the extra tips. I dance, you pay. It’s my job. But this, this isn’t a job! I don’t know what it is. It’s crazy. I let you— ” Her cheeks darkened. “And I would do it again, for no money. For nothing. It’s crazy. I feel . . . It’s like . . . I don’t even know how to say it! I want to talk to you, listen to you talk about your business. I want to see your house. I didn’t sleep last night. I thought about you: your smile, your hands, how strong it made me feel to give you pleasure, how warm I felt when you wrapped your arms around me. And I’m afraid.”

“Me too,” Cody said, and she was, very, because she was beginning to get an idea what was wrong with them and it felt like a very bad joke.

“You’re not afraid.” Susana folded her arms, turned her face again.

“I am. Cook – Susana, do you suppose . . . Shit. I feel ridiculous even saying this. Look at me. Please. Thank you. Do you suppose this is what I—”

She couldn’t say it. She didn’t believe it.

After a very long pause, Susana said, “Dancers don’t fall in love with the marks.”

That cut. “Marks don’t fall in love with whores.”

“I’m not a – ”

“Neither am I.”

They stared at each other. Cody’s phone rang. She thumbed it off without looking. “My full name is Candice Marcinko. I have to fly back to San Francisco this afternoon but I could come back to Atlanta at the end of the week. We could, you know, talk, go to the movies, walk in the park.” Jesus, had she left any stereotype unturned? She tried again. “I want to meet your, your cat.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“Or your dog,” she said. Stop babbling. But she couldn’t. “I want to learn how long you’ve lived in Atlanta and what kind of food you like and whether you think the Braves will win tonight and how you feel when you sleep in my arms.” She felt like an idiot.

Susana looked at her for a while, then picked up the box at her side. “Do you like Krispy Kreme?”

*  *  *

When Cody turned her phone on again at the airport, there was a message from Richard: Call me, it’s important. But she had to run for her plane.

In the air she leaned her head against the window and listened to the drone of the engines.

Susana, sitting on the bench while the sun went down, thinking, Love, love is for rich people.

A cream labrador runs by, head turned to watch its own er, running alongside. Its tongue lolls, happy and pink. Dogs love. Dogs are owned.

She tears the last three doughnuts to pieces and throws them to the ducks.

On Thursday, Vince and the executive team toasted her with champagne. She took the opportunity to ask for Friday and two days next week off. Vince couldn’t say no without looking chintzy, so he told her VPs didn’t have to ask permission.