Chapter Thirteen – Jack
Chapter Thirteen
Jack
“So what’s your name, Mr. Tourist?” the girl asked.
This, I couldn’t lie about, seeing as it was tattooed across my knuckles. “Jack,” I said, showing her. “Yours?”
“Amber,” she said. She hadn’t really noticed my tattoos before, I could see her trying to make them work with the rest of me, my hair slicked back with Paco’s hair gel, and in his boyfriend’s too crisp shirt. “What do you do, Jack?”
I picked the safest occupation, given the room. “I work in IT. Back end server maintenance. It’s incredibly lonely.”
She gave me a mischievous look and then nodded sympathetically. “I bet.”
I measured her for a moment. She was drinking, and this was clearly her home, so she was likely over twenty-one or at least eighteen. But there was something a little too knowing about her—maybe even a little scared. And Bella had been scared too, hadn’t she?
“So what do you do, Amber?” I asked.
She took a long sip of her beer before answering, “Wouldn’t you like to know?
” Then she rested her a cowboy boot on the rail going around the bottom of the bar, revealing a line of wolf print tattoos padding up the inside of her left thigh—the same size and spacing as the ones that’d run under Bella’s breast.
“I would,” I answered, and took advantage of the rising bar sounds to lean in. “Completely,” I said, my voice low.
I’d meant it when I said it, and I saw her eyes start to glaze. Dammit. I couldn’t whammy her here, not with so many people around, she’d have repercussions if she told the truth to me in public—I slid back into tourist mode fast.
“I’m so sorry that other girl and I couldn’t meet up. I took a taxi out here special….” As I yammered on I saw her attention return, none the wiser. “You know how you meet someone sometimes and you think you just know?”
“Yeah,” she said, and I could see her playing a memory of her own inside her mind.
“And Vegas is the kind of place—it just leads to hoping.” I stared woefully into my beer.
She put a sympathetic hand on my arm. “How long are you here for?”
“Just another day.”
“Work, or vacation?”
“Bit of both.”
“Well hopefully you’ll get the chance to see a few more sights.
” Her hand squeezed my arm and didn’t pull away.
I looked from it to her and finally everything fell into place—the youth mixed with wisdom mixed with being here in this place—she was a prostitute.
Possibly off the clock here, maybe one of these fine angry gentlemen surrounding me was her runner.
Vegas was full of schemes like these, even where sex work was legal.
Bella, baby, what the hell did you get yourself into?
To find out, I looked at Amber like a drowning man looked at a life raft. “There is one thing I know I’d like to see.”
“What’s that?” she asked, all innocence.
I jerked my chin toward her leg, and used a tone of voice rich with promise. “That tattoo of yours. Very, very close up.”
Her lips crinkled into a half-smile. “The Midnight Inn. Room seven. Gimme half an hour.”
“Excellent,” I said, giving her a sly nod, and put a twenty on the bar.
The Midnight Inn was on the outskirts of town, and it was the kind of hotel where questions were not asked.
If you’d had to point to Vegas’s seedy underbelly on a map, your finger might not wind up here, but chances were you’d be nearby.
I parked Paco’s sedan down the street, and then made my way to room seven like the lady’d said, ready for anything—for all I knew ten bikers’d be on the other side of the door.
But I knocked as politely as I figured an IT guy would and was pleasantly surprised when Amber opened the door, waving shyly from across the doorjamb. Public doorways were fine, and places with OPEN signs were usually okay, but private homes—or places private by the hour—still required permission.
“Can I come in?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said, and the wall that’d blocked me and only me from entering lifted.
We were in a small dim room with a desk and a queen, and I took the bed, since she was sitting on the desk.
“You know what this is, right?” she asked.
“I do,” I said, reaching for my wallet again. If someone was running her, then I had to pay and for all I knew whoever he—or she, it’s the new millennium—was, was outside with a stopclock. If she came out too early, or without enough cash—
“Good,” she said, interrupting my train of thought.
“Sometimes guys really do think they’ve gotten this lucky.
” She leaned back, gesturing up and down at herself.
One of her legs was on the seat of the chair and her legs were intentionally open, showing me both her tattoo and the fact that she wasn’t wearing underwear.
She tilted her head and smiled. “I’m mostly surprised that you’re not drunk. ”
“Why, should I be?”
“A lot of guys need liquid courage before they look for company. Even when they know they won’t be rejected.”
“Maybe that’s why. They’re afraid of a sure thing.”
“It doesn’t really matter to me—I charge the same for a dick, limp or hard. I just like the hard ones more.”
I gave her a wicked grin, I couldn’t help myself. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”
She looked me up and down. “All right.” She kicked the chair away and stood up, all business. “Let’s start the clock. Fifteen minutes of fucking is—"
I interrupted her. “How much is it just for me to eat you out?” It was the easiest cover, gave me the best chance to see her tattoo, and it’d take enough time to be plausible for whoever was likely waiting outside.
I wasn’t powerful enough to maintain a whammy for fifteen minutes, and there was a good chance she’d remember what I asked her—I wanted us parting on good terms.
She looked a little taken aback. “That’s…it?”
“I told you I wanted to see your tattoos up close. I meant it.” I leaned over and pulled off my own cowboy boots, before sinking back on the bed.
“That’s all you want?”
“Yep.” I used my elbows to shove myself higher up the bed. “I’m not even going to get naked.”
She stood at the bottom of the bed, dissatisfied. I wasn’t the kind of IT manager she was used to, and frankly I was shit at trying to be. Time to stop pretending.
I crossed my arms behind my head and looked at her. “I’m not paying you for pouting, Amber,” I said. “But I’ll pay you for an hour of your time, if you pull up your skirt and cowgirl up over my face.”
She inhaled, preparing to argue, then swallowed what she was going to say. “Yeah, sure, of course,” she said, walking up to the head of the bed to be by my side.
She crawled onto the mattress and slowly straddled me—she was so tiny the act hitched her skirt up to her waist, and I reached for both her lightly tanned thighs.
I rubbed a thumb over the trail of paw-prints—it was well done, with no blow-outs, evenly spaced, even on the delicate and too-giving skin where it was placed.
But the design was far from original, there were probably a thousand girls in Vegas right now with variations on wolf print tats.
Because they were free, or they ran with the wolves, or their great-great-great-great-great grandmother was a Lakota Indian.
In my time tattooing, I’d heard all the reasons, and in my experience, reasons were better off ignored—I was more interested in creating art.
“Do you like it?” she asked, looking down at me. There was a moment of vulnerability there—my current strangeness had made her afraid.
“I do,” I said kindly. “I like it a lot,” I said, and put my hands on her ass to push her pussy towards my mouth.
When she got there, legs splayed on either side of my shoulders, I reached in to pull her thighs apart, exposing her to me.
I breathed on her gently, once, twice, and then started in with the tip of my tongue, inspecting every fold, every crevice.
She made noises, pretend ones I knew, like women in cheap porn, and started to writhe, reaching back a hand for my cock.
“Stop that,” I warned, grabbing both her wrists and pulling straight down, making her sit atop me, then I continued.
She tried making the noises again—I wondered if there was someone outside she was performing for, listening in—and I ignored her this time.
Because I could sense the blood flowing down, feel the way she was becoming more swollen, scent the heat of her wetness rolling in.
My tongue played with her, played against her, I sucked here, I sucked there, only staying in one place long enough to torture her.
And the sounds she made overhead slowly became more earnest, the way her breath caught when I ground my chin up and into her pussy with its light stubble, the moans she released as I kissed her clit.
Her thighs pulsed against me, wanting to ride, trying to show me more of her and I let go of her hands and grabbed for her waist to keep her near as I cupped my mouth around her clit and sucked on it like I was drawing the juices from a peach.
Her breath caught again, this time off-kilter, as her thighs began to shudder.
Her hands were on either side of my head, clawing into the mattress, pulling the sheets beneath me tight.
I growled into her pussy, letting the sound reverberate through her, pressed my chin higher, and then rolled my tongue over her clit, swollen and fat, again and again, her juices raining down on me.
She started with a soft scream, almost soundless, and then bucked forward hard, pounding my head into the mattress.
She screamed three times after that, as her hips fucked me.
I held on, kept rolling her thick clit with my tongue, kept my chin up for her grinding, until she let out one final shout and pulled away from me, kneeling over me in disarray.
“You,” she said when she could breathe again. “You—should bottle that.”
I kissed the inside of her thigh. “I would if I could.”
She brought a hand between us and stroked my lips, slick with her. “Will you do that again? If I blow you?”