“Baby,” he tells you thickly. “Baby, you know I love you. You know it.”
And you’re not even really thinking about him. You’re thinking about getting out of these fucking heels and getting a cigarette. You’re wondering whether you paid the gas bill. You’re reminding yourself to call your mom tomorrow, because it’s her birthday.
But you smile and sway just the same. Sure, baby. You know he loves you. As long as he’s got the money. And keeps his fucking hands to himself.
“Baby, come back to my hotel. I’ve got $1000. We could have a real good time.”