Part I -- Evening -- Very Late
She knew it; everybody did. Certain things are certain after all, and like it or love it, Zuccotti Park in New York City had turned into the most identifiable spot on earth.
To Lissette, the place was scary, and as they approached, she sought protection on Troy's arm. She wondered, why risk it? He was everything the Occupiers hated—the perfect object of scorn for zealots whose mission in life is protesting—him.
"Troy, can't we go another way?" she asked. "It's creepy here."
It was late. She was tired, her tender feet, a reminder of trudging home in sodden shoes after servicing the peeing Brazilian. Exactly as Eileen had wanted, the long day clawed at her.
"It's the park or nothing, girly girl," Troy acerbically replied. Nervously, her thoughts reverted to the angry madam's stern ultimatum: 'Vixens will not tolerate more complaints, young lady. In ten minutes, I can find ten girls to take your place.'
Troy Garrity was the last of the hellish day's triple. So far, Lissette had seen two men, thinking back to the Brazilian and the artist; she knew she had not left anything undone; there was nothing to complain about, and neither had been an easy assignment for the exhausted call girl.
A hodgepodge of trees came into view, under which she saw the small but instantly recognizable tent city of the 'Occupy' people. NYPD officers, flushed with annoyed looks, hemmed in the little area. She hesitated. "I'm afraid, Troy. Can't we..."
"...no," he replied curtly. "Where we go is the client's choice, right?" She did not answer. Having won the round, he smiled. "I'll have you here in the tent city, or we can call this off. I'll order up a different girl tomorrow."
With his Rothman suit, his neatly cut hair, and his too-perfect manners, she had hoped for a nice, warm hotel room, maybe the Tribeca Grand. Her aching body needed a bed, room service, and a soothing whirlpool bath.
Something else troubled Lissette, however. Troy Garrity did not fit into this ragged place; he did not belong. Suspicious, she wondered why he was so insistent. She was sure of one thing; here, Troy stood out in the crowd, meaning she would. But he was right about the rule; Vixens allowed the customer to decide where a girl got fucked.
Casting him a casual glance, Lissette could not help thinking Troy was a poster-child for what haters hate about Wall Street, with its evil speculators and hard-hearted bankers.
They had met an hour ago, and instantly, she could taste his greed, his yearning for more. He was patronizing, objectifying. Squeezing her a little too tightly, he pressed his lips to her forehead but instead of the welcoming kiss for which women hunger, he breathed in her skin's fragrance, then pulled away.
Stepping back, Troy ran his eyes the full length of her, observing, "So they've sent me a girly-girl."
Playing coy, Lissette, though already knowing full well, countered and asked, "And, what, pray tell, is a girly girl?"
"You know," he said indifferently, "a girl who is too pretty, too delicate, too ladylike. Anyway, it's too late to request someone else. You'll have to do." His condescension bit her, and she wanted to slap his face.
'Girly girl,' she thought to herself, 'whores aren't girly-girls—fuck you.'
"But you ordered up a Vixen, Mr. Garrity," she observed, offering a fake smile. "What did you expect?"
A few quiet steps later, he scornfully answered. "Expect?" He turned, seized her narrow shoulders, and effortlessly lifted her off the sidewalk. "Maybe—maybe, a bitch with rougher edges."
Managing a pair of lazy eyes, and despite the caustic comment, she chanced a whisper. "If it's rough edges you want, maybe Vixens isn't for you."
Smiling wryly and setting her back on her heels, he chuckled. "For the moment, I'll yield the point."
He was not bad-looking, but his icy eyes burned holes in her. Standing straight and tall, his hair was dark, his strong arms handily manipulating her modest frame. But much as she liked liking her clients, Lissette did not like Troy. Self-importance turned her off.
She reminded herself that although detesting clients was typical, showing it was not. Putting on a happy face was the rule of all rules, and Eileen punished girls for violating it, leveling stiff fines, which Lissette could ill afford.
So straining to mind the very manners her exacting boss insisted she mind, Lissette forced herself to stroll under the streetlights with a mystery man she was not sure she could handle and about whom she felt an ill wind.
A moment later, the couple stood at the entry to Zuccotti Park.
Part II - Evening Performance
