That was wrong.
Nooks and crannies of my brain screamed it over and over again, a chorus of doubt. I’d had the debate before, a hundred times over, an argument always ended by the reassuring feel of cash in hand.
This was different.
This came with more subtlety, warning from the periphery, the watchmen upon the tower. The smirk had said more than the usual lustful triumph. The hands had gripped with more fervor. The face had looked up with such familiarity, some uncanny sense of knowing, though I couldn’t place he of me or I of him. The eyes hadn’t stared with the same longing, always wondering off to…
“Flip a u-turn, buddy, at the light, and right back where we came from. Put some muscle on it, stud.” The cab driver didn’t need asking a second time. Always a kick how much men like to show off for me. Men like to do things for me…or pay to do things with me, the latter somewhat taking the shine off the situation.
This situation was going to be ugly, no shine at all.