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You could practically see the light bulb go off
over my head. Yes, I had been very naïve—I assure you, I just didn’t see it
coming—but it was now plainly obvious to me what the evening had been about.
And I didn’t quite know how to respond to what she was saying—or doing—to me.
So I said nothing and I did nothing. I merely allowed her to stroke my knee and
drink me in with those sea-blue eyes of hers.
She continued. “I saw how you were with Leonard;
the passion you had for your work, for your writing.” Now she was raking her
nails along my inner thigh. “I admire that kind of passion, that kind of
dedication to your art. It’s what makes you”—this is when she offered the
sultriest of sultry smiles—“so very special.”
Before I could say, Mrs. Robinson, I think
you’re trying to seduce me, her hand was upon mine, squeezing it gently. “I’d
like you to stay with me tonight, Trent
I nearly felt sick to my stomach as I ripped
myself away. “Mrs. Hammerstein… you’re married! Married to a man I have great
respect for!” (That last part about “great respect” was a load of bullshit, but
I thought it sounded pretty good.)
I got on my feet and went to retrieve my coat.
Then I said, in a somewhat calmer tone, “Thank you for a nice evening, Mrs.
Hammerstein. The food was delicious and it was great seeing you again.”
Mrs. H could only look up at me, a determined
look in her eyes. “Is it money you want? Because if that’s what it takes…”
I
was somewhat offended by the offer; then again, another part of me was, well…
not so offended. I mean, c’mon, not once did I ever think I could make a buck
by sleeping with a woman!
Mrs. H rose from the couch and stepped over to
me, cradling my face in her hands. That sultry little smile was back. “Now
don’t tell me you couldn’t use a little walking-around money.”
She had piqued my interest and she knew it. Her smile widened considerably.
She had piqued my interest and she knew it. Her smile widened considerably.
“Three hundred dollars, cash,” she said, her
tone now all business. “Just sex. No strings, naturally.”
I was definitely interested now. But there was
still the matter of our age difference—and that rather prominent diamond ring
on the third finger of her left hand.
I broke away from Mrs. H and ambled about the
spacious living room and across the hardwood floors, my eyes roaming over the
artwork and the photos of that forty-seven-foot sailboat, and I gave it all
some thorough consideration.
Three hundred bucks is BULLSHIT. For a chick
like Mrs. H, that’s fucking lunch money!
I had a sudden flashback to that asshole Jeff
Rowland, remembering his lowball offer and the lack of respect he showed me.
And, of course, there was the embarrassingly insignificant three hundred bucks
Georgia Stanley paid me for that script. I turned quickly to Mrs. H, looked her
right in the eye. “Make it a grand.”
There
was that smile again. She moved to me, draped an arm over my shoulder—and now
she was looking me right in the eye. She said softly: “Are you even worth it?”
That’s all I needed. I gave her a playful push
backward and she collapsed onto the couch, giggling like a school girl. I
climbed on top of her and gave her exactly what she wanted.
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