RHYS

We make it through a couple of traffic lights and pass a Wal-Mart when I spot a sign for Goodwill and pull into the shopping plaza.

"Oh, my God, we're really going to Goodwill?" The question is asked with way less excitement than I was expecting. I thought I'd get Del Taco excitement but her response was more trepidation than thrill.

"You said this is what you do," I reply, confused.

"I don't think Goodwill is what you think it is and it's really not going to be your thing. I don't even need anything today so we don't have to do this."

I ignore her and park. She grabs her iced coffee with a small groan and opens the car door.

"‘Retail store and donation center,’" I read from the sign once I've met her at the bumper of my car. "We're at a thrift shop?"

She hesitates, the toe of her sneaker dragging across the pavement and her body half turned back towards the car. "You're way too busy for this, Rhys. I really don't need to go today. Let's just leave."

"We're already here." I motion to the doors and start walking knowing she'll follow—mostly because I've already locked the car. When I get to the door I hold it open for her and then follow her inside.

Used shit. That's my first thought upon entry. This is not the source of her debt. Lydia has raised the cup of iced coffee to her lips and is taking a long sip, the straw pressed tightly between her lips. I wonder why we're in a thrift shop instead of back at the hotel with my dick between her lips but coming here was my idea. I think. She's standing on one foot, the toe of the other again pivoting on the ground, this time on linoleum instead of asphalt, and now that we're inside the dread on her face has given way to a look of anticipation.

"The color of the week is blue. I always get lucky with blue," she says and I wonder if I'm having a stroke of some kind because nothing, not one thing about the last twenty or so hours makes any sense.

Lydia grabs a cart and drives it towards the back of the store, past industrial shelving set up with piles of crap. I watch her make a quick scan of the shelves as she passes, but clearly she's got some kind of strategy or destination already in mind because she keeps moving, even when an orange ceramic lamp in the shape of a cat catches her eye. It's missing a shade and it's hideous. I'm still staring at it wondering what would have possessed anyone to buy it in the first place, wondering if it was mass-produced or if it's a godawful one-off, when I see Lydia has reached her destination. She's placing a used sheet into the cart when I catch up. A used sheet that looks like it came from the home of a Vegas entertainer circa the fifties.

"When is Vince paying you?" I ask, because I cannot understand what is happening right now. Is she this hard up for money? The sheets aren't labeled as far as I can see so how does she know if they'll fit her bed? I don't think she even got a fitted sheet, just one random top sheet with a shady unknown past.

Which I can't even judge because she's sleeping with me and I don't doubt that my dick has a shadier past than this sheet.

"What?" She stops, and looks at me. She's holding a pants hanger with a pillowcase dangling from the clips, running the material through her fingertips with her other hand.

"When is Vince paying you?” I prod. "Do you need money?"

"Oh." She blinks and drops her eyes from mine, a flicker of hurt or discomfort crossing her face. "I don't know." And then after a pause, "No. I don't want any more of your money. Thank you."

What does she mean she doesn't know? That fucker made me wire him the money before we left, as if I wasn't good for it. Asshole.

"So you didn't get it last night?"

"No. We have to figure out something about taxes first."

Something about taxes? I roll that through my head and I'm sure my face conveys my confusion because she stops, her hand hovering over the rack of pillowcases, and turns to me. "Sorry, is that not a part of your fetish? Should I not have mentioned the taxes?"

"What fetish?"

"Um, the paying for sex thing. I'm not sure how you normally do it. Is it the actual sight of cash that turns you on? Because if you want to leave a pile of money on the nightstand every morning I can slip it back into your nightstand when you're not looking and then you can put it back on my nightstand after you come. Whatever you need."

Do you want to know what the oddest part of that speech was? I don't think she's fucking with me. Not one tiny bit. There wasn't an ounce of reprobation in her tone, just blunt acceptance.

"It's not really a fetish, Lydia. More of a convenience. Like two-day shipping." Fuck me. Did I really just compare her to the convenience of getting a stick of deodorant delivered in under forty-eight hours? I'm not emotionally equipped for her. She's a deep-emotional-attachment kind of girl, not a minimal-expectations kind of girl.

"Oh, okay." She blinks a few times and drops a pillowcase into the cart. "I can be convenient."

"Great." I'm annoyed with this entire conversation and I'm not sure why.

"Great," Lydia replies and I don't get the sense that she's annoyed about anything at all. She takes another sip of her iced coffee and smiles at me around the straw and I want to kiss her. Or fuck her. Or take her back to Vince and forget this entire thing ever happened. That's what she said yesterday, didn't she? Just take me back. Just take me back, Rhys.

Take her back to Vince? To Double Diamonds? When the hell did she get involved with him to begin with?

When did this get so convoluted?

I've got responsibilities. A hotel to open. A legacy to build. I'm too goddamned busy for complications right now. Which is why I pay for strippers and lap dances and blow jobs and sex. Which is why I gave half a million to a girl putting an orange cat lamp into a shopping cart right now.

Fuck my fucking life.

I'm under too much stress, I decide. Stress Lydia is going to help me relieve for the next month. Whatever this thing we have is will be out of my system by then. That thought eases some of the tension from my shoulders and I put the rest of it out of my mind.

It seems Lydia's done shopping with the addition of the lamp—a lamp I can only assume is a joke—so once she pays eleven dollars and seventy-four cents for her purchase we leave. She mentions something about what a great find the lamp was as I unlock the car. I don't reply because I haven't a clue what the fuck she's talking about.

She's quiet on the way to her place save for asking if she can have the rest of my coffee. She seems pretty content with the silence, happily sipping away on her second coffee between giving me directions to her place. I already know that she lives near Hennigan's but I don't let on, instead following her directions to take the 515 towards Henderson without comment.

When we exit the highway onto Galleria she starts talking. Sort of.

"The thing is," she starts and then stops, digging the straw around in the cup to distribute the ice or procrastinate, I'm not sure which.

"What's the thing?" I prompt.

"The thing is I didn't know this was a month-long thing," she says. "I know I made a deal with the devil and it's my problem not your problem, blah blah."

Blah blah. That's one way of looking at it.

"But I'm not sure what you're expecting of me."

"I'm expecting you to be available when I want to have sex."

"I mean, yeah. I got that. That's pretty much the job description, duh."

"Did you just duh me?"

"Sure did."

"You're a terrible hooker."

"I know!" She slaps her palm onto her knee and turns towards me in her seat. "I cannot believe you paid so much for someone with no references or experience. It's not even logical! You're the one giving me a sexual education and you're paying me for the privilege. You should really work on your negotiation skills, because I think Vince hosed you." She finishes that speech with a little shake of her head before continuing. "I don't think buying me was a sound financial purchase. I bet your financial advisor is going to be very disappointed when he finds out."

I glance over at her to gauge if she's serious right now. My guess is one hundred percent serious.

"I'm sure Anthony will manage his disappointment accordingly."

"Maybe he can find a way to put me on your taxes as an expense. Like the swag. Filed under grand opening entertainment or something? I'm sure Vince will give you a receipt, right? If he invoices this as entertainment it wouldn't be a lie. Sex in and of itself is sort of entertaining."

My certainty about if she's fucking with me or not just dropped to eighty percent so I keep my mouth shut, which she takes as an invitation to keep talking. I miss quiet Lydia. I enjoyed her for the five minutes I knew her.

"It would be one thing if you were terrible at sex and you needed to pay someone to fake having a good time, but you're super-good at sex! I didn't have to fake anything."

"Thank you," I deadpan in reply.

"Oh, shoot, was that rude? I bet you're good at other stuff too. You must be, you're very successful. I bet you're good at CEOing stuff.”

"Besides negotiating."

"Yeah," she says with a small sigh. "Besides that. But you know, you're probably just not thinking clearly right now, what with the grand opening just around the corner. I'm sure you're a much better negotiator when you're not under so much stress. But it's fine because you're good at so many other things, like working out and making your own bed and recycling." She's counting off on her fingers as she rattles my accomplishments off, pausing after the third finger. "And sharing. You're an excellent sharer." She jiggles the iced coffee with one hand and holds up a fourth finger on the other. “And—" She pauses again, clearly having run out of accomplishments she can praise me for, which vaguely disappoints me. It also makes me wonder what sorts of accomplishments might impress her enough to win her respect. "Did you by chance have anything to do with the coffee machine in the break room? Because it's phenomenal."

"What was the thing, Lydia? To begin with? Remind me why we're having this conversation?"

"Oh! Right. The thing is I didn't realize this was for a month so I only purchased one set of sexy underwear. My regular stuff is all cotton bikini bottoms. Not even thongs ’cause I prefer underwear that covers my butt."

The idea of Lydia with a drawer full of boring cotton panties that she doesn't expect anyone to see has me hard again. Maybe there's something wrong with my cock? Like some kind of stress-induced permanent semi-hard-on? That doesn't sound right.

"And I don't have any sexy pajamas either. So I'm not sure what you expect me to pack. That's what I was trying to ask you about expectations. I got the sex part, I'm just not sure what you expect from me the other twenty-three and a half hours a day."

"Last night was a hell of a lot longer than half an hour," I gripe as we hit another stoplight.

"I know! I'm sorry! But you kept going down on me and kissing me and doing all those things that were not putting your penis inside of me. I don't think that article I read was counting all that other stuff when they came up with that seven- to thirteen-minute average and I didn't know yet about that other stuff or how long you'd want to do it."

I'm going to need Jesus to take the wheel of this car if she doesn't shut up soon.

"Anyway, we can be quicker, I'm sure. I know you're busy so maybe we can have a couple of quickies and that will bring our average down. Like if we have sex a couple times for five minutes and one time for an hour, then that's an average of like twenty or twenty-five minutes per sexing. Shoot, is that still too long? Maybe three quickies for every long one? You're the one with a schedule so it's up to you."

Jesus. Wheel. I adjust my cock as she continues chatting away.

"Anyway, that wasn't really my point," she says, taking a breath.

Thank fuck for small favors.

"My point was that I don't have any sexy stuff but I can run out and buy some today. I just need to know what you're into because that stuff is expensive and you didn't seem that impressed with the negligee thing and I'm not a mind reader."

The negligee thing she was wearing on stage in front of other men. She's right about that. I hated it.

"Just pack whatever you'd normally wear, Lydia."

"Whatever I normally wear is not what you think it is, Rhys. Are you sure you don't want me to run out and get some stuff? Or I could ask my new friend Staci for help. She could probably tell me where to order online if you're into something a little more hardcore than what I can find at the Fashion Show mall. Do you want me in leather or netting or dressed like a pony or something? Just tell me."

She brings the straw to her lips and takes another sip, blinking at me in innocent curiosity and without a hint of judgment.

"I want you exactly the way you are."

"Oh." A tiny line furrows her brow as if this is confusing to her. Or perhaps she was hoping I was into bondage or some shit, it's hard to tell with her.

"Were you hoping to experience something extreme, Lydia? Did you want me to get you a butt plug with a tail and ask you to crawl around my apartment? Pierce your nipples? Paddle you?"

"Not particularly, no. I just want to be good for you. I like it when you tell me I'm a good girl. That really does it for me."

"Does it?"

"Mmm-hmm," she murmurs and wiggles in her seat.

I tell her I need some quiet time after that.

The complex she lives at is nice. An upscale development just twenty minutes from the Strip, close enough to be convenient but far enough to have a relaxed residential feel. She lives in a unit near the clubhouse which must have a gym, as some sweat-covered asshole passes us on his way out. He calls out a “Hey, Lydia,” as he passes, which pisses me the fuck off.

"Friend of yours?" I question as I trail behind her to her door, carrying the orange cat lamp.

"I met him at the pool once," she says, flashing me a chagrined smile over her shoulder. "But I can't remember his name so I'm always just like 'Hey, you!' when he tries to talk to me."

I'd tell her that he wouldn't give a shit about reminding her what his name is if she'd be willing to give him the time of day, but fuck that. I'm not paying her to give her tips on picking up other men.

She unlocks her apartment door and calls out for her roommate, who doesn't appear to be home.

"Weird, I thought she was here," Lydia says. She looks sad about missing her. "I guess I'll see her tomorrow," she says with a shrug.

"Are you close?" I ask for lack of anything else to talk about.

"She's my best friend."

"Have you known her long?"

"A couple of years. We met in college, then we both got hired at the Windsor so we decided to move here together and be roommates."

"Ah." I hadn't realized her roommate was an employee too, but it makes sense. I know we did a lot of hiring at college job fairs. Fuck, I hate the reminder that Lydia was in college so recently.

"I'll take this," she says, taking the lamp from my hand. I'd forgotten I was even holding the hideous thing. She disappears into one of the bedrooms so I take stock of her apartment. I think this is a relatively new development. The apartment itself isn't huge but the floor plan is open and the appliances look new. The couch looks new, along with the end tables and lamps. Normal lamps, I note, not shaped like a cat or a unicorn or whatever the fuck else she's into. There's an old dresser that's been painted teal being used to hold the television and a kitchen table with mismatched chairs that I suspect came from Goodwill. There's a sash of some kind hanging from a cork board near the kitchen table. Like a pageant sash, but uglier. I walk closer to check it out as Lydia calls out from the bedroom that she's packing normal stuff.

This sash is even more ridiculous than the lamp. There's something called a bar badge sewn onto it. And a dating app badge. And a confidence badge. Pinned to the bulletin board but not sewn onto the sash is a Rhys badge. And a sex badge. And a butt stuff badge.

My cock throbs at the idea of taking Lydia's ass but my mind is stuck on the Rhys badge. Am I some kind of a game to her?

The front door opens and Payton appears. I step away from the bulletin board as Lydia pops out of her room with a happy exclamation over her friend's arrival. She introduces us and then pauses, taking a second glance at her friend.

"Payton, why are you still wearing the same thing you had on last night?"

"Um," Payton replies, glancing down at herself as if in confusion. "Am I? Enough about me. How was the sex last night?"

"Payton!" Lydia's eyes widen and she shoots me a look, her expression mortified. "I'm not going to tell you what Rhys is like in bed when he's standing right here."

"Okay, so tomorrow at lunch?" Payton seems totally nonplussed over Lydia's rebuttal. Lydia's eyes dart back and forth between me and Payton.

"Probably not then either, Payton."

"Ohhh," Payton drawls, looking between us. "Of course not. We'd never discuss such a thing. Wink, wink."

She actually says ‘wink, wink’ out loud.

"Are you almost ready? I've got a lot of work to get done this afternoon." Including giving Lydia multiple orgasms so they're fresh on her mind when she recaps it during her lunch. Because impressing this virgin has somehow, inexplicably, become my thing.