Spencer is the sweetest man who has ever hired a hooker.

I know that is a blanket statement that I can't possibly have evidence for, but I speak from personal experience that I have never seen a less sexually deviant man pay for sex. On our normal Thursday nights, I go to his apartment and he politely invites me in, offers me a drink, a coffee, a tea, anything. It takes a bit of convincing before we can actually get to the sex bit of the night, as though he is ashamed of his desire. He seems pleased enough to pay for the convincing, so it doesn't matter to me.

When Spencer calls me for an additional night, it means something has gone wrong in his life. Last time it was that he was passed over for a promotion he had been sure of getting. I knocked on his door, expecting him to answer with the same shy look in his downcast eyes, the same polite offering of coffee, the same polite sex we usually had.

I was not expecting what I got.

After leaving Jackson's, I race home and change into a black bra with pink lace covering it, pink underwear, and a pink bodycon dress that hugs my skin. Everyday Bridget refuses to wear pink, she feels too girly in it. Hooker Bridget feels sexy in the clothes requested by her client.

I grab an Uber to Spencer's apartment and check the time. I am set to arrive exactly at 11, provided my Uber driver doesn't take any unnecessary detours. I text to let Spencer know I'm almost there and I absurdly feel a nervous flutter through my stomach.

When something is wrong, Spencer fucks me hard.

It has only happened a few times now, but each time that he requests me on an extra night, each time he texts me asking me, ever so politely, if I can wear pink, I knock on his door, I walk inside his apartment, and I am ravaged. His touch is rougher, his lips are needier, his movements are quicker.

I love it.

Don't get me wrong - I love all sex. I think all prostitutes have to inherently be addicted to sex, at least a little bit, or it would get intensely dull. It's like they always say, do what you love, and what I love is sex.

Normally, Spencer is the very definition of 'vanilla' sex. We fuck in missionary, him on top, then me on top. Sometimes we get wild and I give him a blow job. Nights like this one, though, he takes control and he wants more. It isn't anything too crazy, it is just rougher and more demanding - the perfect increase in intensity to excite me and make me remember that I'm actually doing this for me as well as him.

I step out of the car and glance up at his building, gray stucco walls broken up by small windows and minuscule balconies. It's downtown, so the rent would be higher than most other areas in town, but it isn't the nicest apartment I've seen. It certainly isn't a place I would expect someone who can afford my services to live, but as long as the money comes into my account, I don't ask questions about where it comes from.

I press Spencer's buzzer and his voice pipes through, a sweet "Hello?" that reminds me how cautious he is. Most people would buzz me in without checking who I am. Spencer is essentially a boy scout with how concerned he is about his neighbours' safety.

"It's me - Bridget," I clarify.

"Oh!" He sounds surprised, as though he didn't just text me and ask me to come for a fuck. The door buzzes and I push through, then take the steps quickly to his third floor apartment.

He opens the door with a shy smile that immediately transforms to a lascivious grin once the door is safely shut with me inside. He grabs my arms and holds them over my head, pushing my back against the door. The doorknob juts into my hip.

"You're so fucking hot," he whispers as he thrusts his tongue into my mouth, and I feel that nervous little flutter again as my ego inflates. I lift my hips to his eagerly, but he pulls away.

"Bedroom. Now," he pants. I almost laugh at the fact that he still refuses to have sex with me anywhere other than within the confines of his bedroom. I do grin at the idea that he is so worried that we can hardly even kiss in his living room. I follow him obediently to his bedroom and shut the door, even though there is no one to see us.


Spencer opens the bedroom door with a creak of the hinges and walks across the hall to the bathroom. I searchingly pat the table beside me and grab my phone.

Jackson texted me twice. The first says, You're missing the best part of the night. The second is a picture of him and Edward holding a bottle of wine between them, looking significantly drunker than they were when I left.

I smirk and text him back.

Did you even offer poor Paul any?

I already have a little soft spot for Paul. In some ways, he reminds me of my brother Caleb, if only for the utter normalcy of his life. If Caleb was still alive, he would be working in some office, drinking two beers on a weeknight with his buddies, playing video games with them poorly, and shaking girls' hands when he met them. I am surprised that I didn't make the connection right away when I shook Paul's hand, but Caleb thought handshakes were still important. No one else shook hands unless they were in a job interview, but Caleb made it a point to stretch his palm toward a new friend, even if they looked at it a little uncomfortably. Eighteen year olds aren't much for formality.

Spencer lies down next to me, staring up at the ceiling with a cloudy look in his eyes. We don't normally talk too much, or at least not as much as Ryan and I do, and I wonder if he would prefer if I ask him what's wrong or not.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask gingerly, sensing that he would at the very least like for me to keep my distance from him. I don't run a finger across his chest or stare lovingly into his eyes like I would pretend to for Ryan.

He sighs. "It's a little too weird, if that's okay."

I hold a hand up in surrender. "Totally okay. I just wanted to make sure you know, it's okay to talk to me about things."

He leans up on his elbow and assesses me. I am still wearing my bra but the rest of me is covered by a thin sheet, and I look up at him shyly. I am not shy, but I can tell he likes it sometimes, the feeling of being larger than me, stronger than me. He likes the look in my eyes of modesty, even if he knows it isn't real.

"Okay, I have a girlfriend."

I raise my eyebrows. That is not what I expected to hear. Every time I take on a client, I make it my business to find out why they are paying me. That's the only way I can make sure I give them what they want, because half of the time they don't even know what they want. It turned out that Spencer doesn't date - he came out with a stereotypical "girls freak him out" vibe that fit right in with his research position at a university. He essentially was too nervous to date anyone, much less have sex with them - that's why he came to me. I'm not anyone.

"Is that okay?" he asks me, a sudden nervousness in his voice.

I can't help myself, I laugh. "Of course that's okay! I'm just surprised to hear it is all. I thought you couldn't - well. You know." For someone who deals in sex, I am not the best at talking about it.

He grimaces. "I can't. That's - well, obviously that's a problem."

"How long have you been together?"

"Too long to have it be a problem." He covers his face with his hands and groans. "I've - I've been able to - help her out. I just can't-" he sighs and looks at me. "Why is this so awkward? We just had sex and I can't even talk to you about sex, why is that?"

I laugh again. "It's fine. Really."

"Well, you know what I mean. I'm a little frustrated. You can imagine."

I nibble on the corner of my lip, a habit leftover from my teenage years that still comes out when I'm thinking, or feeling awkward, or doing some combination of the two. I hate myself for the words that come out of my mouth. "If you want, I can come over more."

What kind of solution is that? Who am I? But I know it's what I should be offering, because I know that means I can charge him more. I know that means I can retire a little earlier - even though I'm a prostitute, I do have a retirement fund.

He flops his head back onto his pillow. "I would like that. I really would. It's just getting harder and harder to get out of the situations, you know? So I think I have to - you know-" He clears his throat uncomfortably. "Do it."

"What's wrong with that? You do just fine with me," I say with a cheeky grin.

"You don't count." His eyes widen and he reaches to take my hands in his. "Oh my God, Bridget I am so sorry, I didn't mean that. Seriously, I didn't-"

I cut him off. "It's fine, I know I don't." I smile to show that it didn't bother me, but I wonder if the shame is still visible in my eyes. "It's fine, Spence, really, don't worry about it!"

His phone rings. He shifts his eyes off of mine quickly, then moves them back. I can still see the pity in his irises. "I need to get that - it's…"

I nod, my stupid smile still plastered on my lips. He takes his hands away from mine and picks his phone up from the side table. He pauses while bringing it up to his ear and unnecessarily puts a finger on his lips in a motion to shush me. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. It isn't like I'm about to announce to his girlfriend that he's been having sex with a hooker.

"Hey sweets," he says and I want to puke. Pet names annoy me. I try to convince myself that it isn't envy that turns my stomach when I hear one.

I stand up and stretch, careful not to make any noise. I want to get out of here. I want to go back to my apartment, drink a shit ton, and forget that Spencer said that I don't count. I know I don't. Logically, I obviously know that I am nothing to these men, that I am practice, a distraction, or an object to fuck. Illogically, there is a part of me that I can't control, a part that feels betrayed when Spencer tells me he has a girlfriend, a part that feels a clenching in my gut when I think of him fucking her instead of me, when I think of someone else wearing pink.

His hand snakes around my wrist, and I glance back to see he has hung up the phone. "Sorry about that. Are you heading out?"

I take that as my cue to leave. Spencer always asks me if I'm heading out, never tells me to leave, and I wonder again why he is so polite to a prostitute.

I kiss his cheek. "Good luck with the girlfriend," I whisper. He grins sheepishly, obviously happy that I am not offended by her existence.

I can not wait for a goddamn drink.

A/N: I'm not very good at writing sex scenes, which I know is a little silly given that I have a character who is a sex worker. So I'm sorry if you were expecting some in-depth sexy times, you will have to look forward to more awkward time skips instead :)