She scanned the lot again, aroused that she was aroused. A tired neon sign flickered in the darkness:
Videos. Booths
. It was a dingy little strip mall off a street filled with generic fast-food outlets, miles from home, which was exactly the point. No such thing as being too careful.
She had parked well away from the entrance and its bright, overhead light. As she watched, another car turned into the lot, the driver pulling up as close to the storefront as possible. An overweight, middle-aged loser pulled himself out of the car and gave a quick- furtive?- look around.
Nobody cares, buddy
. Six or seven other cars sitting there, even this late on a Thursday night, so everyone was on the same wavelength. The man headed for the entrance and disappeared inside. Judging by the way he went in, it wasn't his first time.
One more careful scan; no shadows lurking in cars- other than her own- no one showing the least interest in yet another tawdry business in a grimy corner of the Valley.
She checked herself in the mirror, momentarily surprised by the face staring back. Which was good. Sure, the wig helped- hell, for that amount of money, it better- but the real art was in the make-up, or make-down as she like to think of it. Bit of putty in the nose, inserts in the cheeks, and truly gifted touch with eye-liners, brushes and pencils. She had given herself as look that was- well, a whole county away from what everyone else was used to. The one little glimmer of doubt was her curse, although she recognized that 'curse' was ironic. No amount of prosthetic make-up could erase the fact that she was good-looking. She could soften it, but even with the putty, the wig and the make-down, her beauty wasn't far below the surface.
So she had an act, and so far, it had passed muster: she was a soccer mom out for a few thrills.
"Soccer mom, my ass," she murmured to herself.
She felt her heart pick up as she climbed out of the car. Her ride was about as non-descript as you could get, registered in some shelter company that wouldn't arouse any suspicions, on the street or with an accountant. No real connection to her, or anything she did, as long as she played it carefully.
When she pushed through the door, she was hit by the odor- sweat and cum and male- and she felt herself getting more aroused. She kept a lid on it, though. Had to: she knew how carried away she could get, which was the reason for the meticulous preparation, and for the self-discipline.
The guy behind the counter looked up from his phone and stared. She would have given a million dollars to know what he was thinking. Always interesting trying to balance anonymity with the need to look enticing. She always defaulted to the anonymity- she had to- but that didn't mean that she couldn't show it off a bit. Although- it really didn't matter one way or another in this place, did it? She was female, she was here, that was enough.
Still... what was he thinking?
Wowsa. Didn't see
that
every day.
Ray was used to guys walking through the door, not some chickie, and a sexy one at that. Short skirt, tube top, big hair. Probably a wig, but a pretty good one. Once in awhile a chickie would come in, but always with a guy, a husband or boyfriend who had talked her into it, although some of them seemed pretty damn eager. They browsed though the racks of slutwear, and maybe even glanced at the tired video section, but their eyes always came up to the monitors playing the latest escapade. Truth be known, if some really hot chick walked in, he made sure the wettest, messiest sex was up their on the screen.
This one wasn't one of those dumb girlies, not with that attitude. She knew was she was doing. Sort of plain-looking, but... not really. She could use better make-up, but you couldn't hide her bod, and the almost regal lines of her face. Crooked nose, but still: she'd probably be pretty hot if she tarted herself up a bit.
But she was here, alone, and that was something. Some of the wives maybe looked pretty good, and some of them even got funky with the other customers, flashing tit and pussy all over the place, but this one was not bad at all. And she was here, looking for... whatever.
Not as if she wouldn't know what went on in a place like this, so Ray looked, making it obvious. No bra underneath the tube top, and he could see the shimmy of her tits. Oh lordy.
So fucking hot, the guy staring at her like that. She was used to people staring, but this was different: there were none of the usual social constructs of what was or was not appropriate. He was looking at her tits, and he didn't care that she knew, and it turned her on. So she put some English into it as she walked up to him.
Her tits jiggled tightly in the tube top, and he looked up at her face and grinned. "Help you?" Might as well put lock on things before it went too far. What happened is she was Mrs. Innocent who had a flat, and her phone was dead, and she needed help? Didn't look like it, but he had to cover all the bases.
She dropped a ten dollar bill on the desk in front of him. "Booth," she said simply.
Well. You could have knocked him over with a feather. Why to hell was a chickie like this wanting a booth? Did she even know...? Flat voice, no inflection, as if she didn't want to talk much. Well, no one wanted to talk, did they?
He couldn't help it. "Booth?" After 15 years, nothing surprised him. But this did.
She looked into his eye and nodded.
He shrugged, trying to regain his cool. He reached for a key and scooped a handful of tokens from the till. Piled the tokens in front of her, then handed her the key, letting his fingers drift over her wrist. What to hell, she was going to get all upset- in place like this? Hell, she even knew how it worked with the tokens.
"Booth five." He slid the ten back.
"Gratis," he said, and realized he was trying to sound sophisticated.
She gave him a look, then scooped up the tokens. And left the bill where it was. God
dam