And the little dyke liked that, Cookie could tell. She smiled smooth as cream, danced closer, saw the stain creeping up the woman's cheeks, the way her lips parted and her hands opened. Professionally manicured hands; clothes of beautifully cut linen, shoes handmade. The men in the room faded to irritation. This was the prize.
One of the men at the table reached out and slipped a twenty between the rawhide tie of her breechclout and her hip, but Cookie barely took her eyes from the woman. Twenty here or fifty there was small change compared to this. For you, she mouthed and turned slightly, and tightened down into a mushroom of skin-sheathed muscle, took off her hat, and reached back and pulled the flap of her breechclout out of the way.
She was aware of some shouting, the tall guy with the red face and the fifty, but she kept her eyes fixed on the woman.
And then the music changed, and Ginger was back from her lapdance, and she saw Donna was hand in hand with a glazed-looking mark, about to leave for the backroom, and it was time for Cookie to put some of her clothes back on and work the floor.
Five minutes, she mouthed to the woman.
Cookie, Cody thought, as the dancer flicked the suede flap back in place, stood gracefully, and put her hat back on. Cookie. She watched as Cookie left the stage and took all the heat and light with her. She would come back, wouldn't she? Five minutes, she had said.
"Cunt!" Dave shouted again, "my money not good enough for you? Goddamned-No, you get off of me." He pushed Boone's hand from his arm, then realized what he'd done. "Shit. That's-It's just-You know how it is, man. But fifty bucks…"
"Hell, Dave, maybe she knew it was counterfeit," Boone said jovially.
Dave forced a laugh, thrust the bill in his pocket. "Yeah, or maybe she just doesn't understand size matters." Boone laughed, but everyone at the table heard the dismissive note.
"Maybe it's time to call it a night, folks."
But Cody wasn't listening because Cookie was standing before her: no hat, buckskins and g-string back in place.
"Okay guys, looks like we lost Cody." Boone laughed, nothing like the laugh he'd given Dave. "Hey, girl, you make sure you get a cab home, hear? Mention my name to the doorman. Come on guys, we're outta here."
"Cody. Is that your name?" said Cookie, and took her hand. Cody nodded dumbly. "I'm Cookie. It's so good to find another woman here."
Another nod. How are you? Cody wanted to say, but that made no sense.
"Would you like to dance with me? Just you and me in private?"
"Yes."
"We'd have to pay for the room."
"Yes."
"But it wouldn't be like work, not with you. I love dancing for women. It gets me going, turns me on. I understand what women want, Cody. Would you like me to show you?"
"Yes," said Cody, and was mildly amazed when her legs worked well enough to follow Cookie to the frosted-glass door.
Midnight in her hotel room. Cody sat on the bed, naked, too wired to lie down. Streetlight slanted through the unclosed drapes, turning the room sodium yellow. The air conditioning roared, but her skin burned. Cookie. Cookie's lips, Cookie's hips, Cookie's cheek and chin and belly. Her thighs and ass and breasts. Oh, her breasts, their soft weight on Cody's palms.
She lifted her hands, turned her palms up, examined them. They didn't look any different. She unsnapped her watch and rubbed her wrist absently. Cookie.
Stop it. What the fuck was the matter with her? She'd gone to a strip club and paid for sex. It was a first, okay, so some confusion was to be expected, but it was sordid, not romantic. She had been played by an expert and taken for hundreds of dollars. Oh, God, and Boone… She had made a fucking fool of herself.
So why did she feel so happy?
Cody, you're so beautiful, she'd said. Oh, yes, yes, don't stop, Cody. Give it to me, give me all of it. And Cody had. And Cookie had… Cookie had been perfect. She had understood everything, anticipated everything. What to say, what to do, when to cajole and goad, when to smile and be submissive, when to encourage, when to resist. Like a mind reader. And she had felt something, Cody knew it. She had. You couldn't fake pupil dilation, you couldn't fake that flush, you couldn't fake that sheen of sweat and luxuriant slipperiness. Could you?
Christ. She going mad. She rubbed her eyebrows. Cookie was a pro, and none of it was real.
She got up. The woolen carpet made her bare feet itch. That was real. Her clothes were flung across the back of the chair by the desk; they reeked of cigar smoke. No great loss. She'd no idea why she'd chosen to wear those loose pants, anyway. Hadn't worn them for about a year. Hadn't worn that stupid watch for about as long, come to think of it. Cookie hated the smell of cigars, she'd said so, when she was unbuttoning-
Stop it. Stop it now.
She carried her pants to the bed and pulled the receipts from the pockets. Eight of them. She'd paid for eight lapdances, and the size of the tips… Jesus. That was two month's rent. What had she been thinking?
We have to pay for the room, Cookie said, but I'll pay you half back. It's just that I can't wait. Oh, please, Cody. I want you again.
"God damn it!" Her ferocity scared her momentarily and she stilled, listening. No stirrings or mutterings from either room next door.
Give me your hotel phone number, Cookie had said. I'll call you tomorrow. This has never happened before. This is real.
And if it was… She could reschedule her flight. She'd explain it to Vince somehow.
Christ. That huge contract gone, in a flash of lust. Vince would kill her.
But, oh, she'd had nearly three hours of the best sex she'd ever had. It had gone exactly the way she'd imagined it in her fantasies. I know just what you want, she'd said, and proved it.
But Cody had known too, that was the thing. She had known when the hoarse breath and clutching hands meant it was Cookie's turn, meant that Cookie now wanted to be touched, wanted to break every single personal and club rule and be fucked over the back of the chair, just for pleasure.
Cody stirred the receipts. She couldn't make it make sense. She had paid for sex. That was not romance. But she had felt Cookie's vaginal muscles tighten, felt that quiver in her perineum, the clutch and spasm of orgasm. It wasn't faked. It hadn't been faked the second time, either.
Cody shivered. The air conditioning was finally beginning to bite. She rubbed her cold feet. Cookie's feet were long and shapely, each toe painted with clear nail polish. She'd twisted her ankle, she'd said. Cody had held the ankle, kissed it, stroked it. Cookie's smile was beautiful. How did you sprain it? Cody had asked, and Cookie had told her about falling five feet from the indoor climbing wall, and they had talked about climbing and rafting, and Cody had told her of the time when she was seven and had seen Cirque de Soleil and wanted to be one of the trapeze artists, and that led to talk of abdominal muscles, which led to more sex.
She padded into the bathroom, still without bothering with the light. When she lifted her toothbrush to her mouth, the scent on her fingers tightened her muscles involuntarily. She dropped the toothbrush, leaned over the sink, and wept.
A blue, blue Atlanta morning. Cody hadn't slept. She didn't want breakfast. Her plane wasn't until four that afternoon.
She'd lost the contract, lost a night's sleep, lost her mind and her self-respect, and flushed two months' rent down the toilet. She would never see Cookie again-and she couldn't understand why she cared.
The phone rang. Cookie! she thought, and hated herself for it.
"Hello?"
"Your cell phone's off, but I called Vince back in Frisco and he told me you were at the Westin."
Boone. She shut her eyes.
"Plane's not till four, am I right? Cody, you there?"
"Yes. I'm here."
"If you're not too tuckered out, maybe you wouldn't mind dropping by my office. We'll give you lunch."
"Lunch?"
"Yep. You know, food. Don't they do lunch on the West Coast?"
"Yes. I mean, why?"
He chuckled. "Because we've got a few details to hammer out on this contract. So should we say, oh, eleven-thirty?"
"That's, yes, fine. Good," she said at random, and put the phone down.
She stared at her bag. Clothes. She'd need to change her clothes. Was he really giving her the contract?
The phone rang again. "Hello?" she said doubtfully, expecting anyone from god to the devil to reply.
"Hey, Cody. It's me."
"Richard?"
"Yeah. Listen, how did it go?"
"I don't… Things are… " She took a deep breath. "I got the contract."
"Hey, that's great. But how did last night go?"
"Christ Richard, I can't gossip now. I don't have the time. I'm on my way to Boone's, iron out a few details." She had to pull it together. "I'll call you in a week or two, okay?"
"No, wait, Cody. Just don't do anything you-"
"Later, okay." She dropped the phone in its cradle. How did he know to call the Westin? What did he care about her night? She rubbed her forehead again. Food might help with the contract. The headache, she meant. And she grinned: the contract. She'd goddamned well won the contract. She was gonna get a huge bonus. She was gonna be a Vice President. She was gonna be late.
In the bathroom, she picked up the toothbrush, rinsed off the smeared paste, and resolutely refused to think about last night.