Page 2 of Doxed

Slick, sticky skin clings to mine as I climb off of Winston Lowe’s lap, his limp dick flopping to the side as it slips out of me. My head lands on the pillow next to his and he gulps down deep breaths, his chest heaving like he was the one getting a thigh workout for the past twenty minutes.

Now he’ll want to talk for the remaining thirty-five minutes; like I'm his therapist. I’m sympathetic, I really am, but there comes a point when he really should go to a professional for this type of stuff.

I'm only trained to get him off. But I guess six hundred an hour makes me whatever he wants me to be for him.

He drones on about his company, his new property, his overbearing mother. All while I'm planning my breakfast and making a mental reminder to book a hair appointment. While I was riding Winston in reverse, I caught a glimpse of some split ends.

At the end of the hour, I grab my silk robe off the armchair in the corner of my room and bind it around myself.

Mr. Lowe takes his time sitting up, retrieving his khaki pants off the floor and sliding them up his stump legs.

“You know, B,” he starts, and it takes everything in me not to roll my eyes; he does this every time.

“I could give you a fantastic life. Caviar in my waterfront home, a closet filled with designer goods, a personal chef.

You wouldn't have to sell yourself here anymore.” He ought to realize, based on what he pays me, that I already have all of that.

Or most of it. I guess the chef would be convenient.

Not enough to give up my job and date him, though.

I turn my back to him and walk into the attached bathroom, pretending to search for my hairbrush.

I hear his footsteps follow me and I internally groan before turning to face him.

In his hands is a black leather ring box with a three carat marquise diamond with a thin, diamond-encrusted band.

Scratch that, a chef is not enough to give up my job and marry him. What the fuck?

I quickly close the box and push his hands back to his chest. “Winston, I think you know I deserve more than being proposed to in a sex club.” A sex club?

More like a brothel, a whorehouse, whatever you want to call it.

Granted, it is a very illegal, very high-end, very exclusive whorehouse, but still.

“And you should know that I’m worth more than three carats. ”

He nods, mulling over my response. “You’re right.” He pockets the rather beautiful ring, if I'm being honest. “I’ll buy a new ring and then we can plan a proposal.”

“That’s more like it.” I nod, ushering him to the door.

After Winston has left and I’ve cleaned myself up, I stop a security guard in the lobby. “Please have Hector take Winston Lowe off of my list. He had a ring.”

The man nods. “Oof.” He cringes. “Got it, B.”

La Lujuria will no longer allow Winston back.

Obviously, I will not marry him, and it could be dangerous to reject his proposal.

Only a few people have had to be banned for this reason.

Ordinarily, our clients can keep their heads and know that this relationship is transactional and superficial.

The usual proposals I get are more along the lines of “you know I’d ask you to marry me if I thought you’d say yes.

” Those are flattering. This one was not.

I lock eyes with a stunning woman standing next to the bar. Her ample cleavage spills out of her low cut dress and I make my way to her. Onto the next.

The bright sun slowly rises above the water, reflecting off of it and into the cab of the helicopter.

“Two more minutes, Ms. Anderson,” Rafael, the pilot, says over the headset.

“Thank you, Rafael,” I coo, leaning back in the seat and watching the water under us fly by.

La Lujuria is on an island, only accessible by boat or helicopter, and I always leave early so I’m not smashed in the club’s helicopter with other girls trying to get off the island and home to sleep and shower off our clients.

Something about all the sickly sweet scents of perfume, cum, and sex makes me want to vomit when we’re all squeezed in here together.

Poor Rafé, he makes a few trips every day to bring girls back to the small, private airport on the outside of Seattle, and to bring us in to work in the evenings.

Letting the sleeves of my oversized sweatshirt slip over my hands, I pull my legs into the seat and wrap them around my bare legs.

Rafael lands the helicopter and waits until I’ve made it to my white Rivian R1S Tri before he starts the propellers again and ascends into the sky, floating back towards the island that is tucked away and out of sight of the city.

It’s not out of mind, though. All the West Coast’s most prominent individuals come to La Lujuria.

Our reach extends to the East Coast too, though not as often.

Some people are regulars, thinking they’ve got a relationship with a girl.

It’s not a relationship if you’re paying for it—or I guess it is—just not the kind they think it is.

I drive home, stopping for a breakfast sandwich and a coffee on the way, and then into the underground garage of my apartment building.

The warm morning air flows around my legs as I walk to the elevator at the end of the garage.

It’s quiet, no one is really out yet, and I enjoy the silence.

There’s not a lot of silence at the club.

Music pulses all night, male chatter and high, fake, girlish laughs until you make it back to a private room.

Then there are the moans and wet slaps of skin.

So I enjoy silence when I can. I take the elevator to my apartment on the top floor, skipping the lobby and the kind receptionist that always stares a little too long when I ask him questions.

Not creepily, just like he’s never seen a woman before.

Like in awe. It’s weird, but not unsettling.

The bright sun shines through my floor-to-ceiling windows. I have a view of the water and the Seattle Great Wheel.

Sitting on my small white sectional, I tuck my legs under me and eat my sandwich, watching the sun and the water, and the cars pour onto the roads below.

Quiet.

Peace.

Collecting my trash, I throw it away and click the button on the wall panel in the living room for the blinds.

Cream panels slide out of the ceiling and cover all the windows in the apartment, making it completely dark, mimicking night.

I step into my bedroom, slip out of my sneakers and shorts and crawl into bed, pulling the thick pink comforter over me and falling asleep.