Naked Montreal: Excerpt 4

This is an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Naked Montreal. New 500-word excerpts are posted every Monday, so be sure to subscribe to avoid missing a thing!

Need to catch up? Here’s Excerpt 1. And 2. And 3.

Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)

I check a few of the boxes on the restaurant’s sushi menu as my Catch of the Day pores over my special offerings. The waitress passes by, and I discreetly hand off my tick-marked order page. She doesn’t even blink when she glances over his shoulder at his lusty list.

"Sushi" (photo by Flickr user Tom Allender)
“Sushi” (photo by Flickr user Tom Allender)

The Golden Eel is a slippery fish, but its atmosphere is just right for snagging the big ones with my simple lures. It probably helps that the restaurant’s owner, Yamamoto, is a bit of an eel himself, electric with desire for yours truly. I’ve got plenty of line to string him along, and my angling continues with just enough bait for his greedy mouth. Every woman in this line of work has her safe spaces, and those cost money. Yamamoto’s restaurant is cheaper than renting a second apartment or outfitting my own dungeon, or even booking hotels by the evening, so I’m here most evenings, baiting my hooks and flaunting my mermaid’s charms.

The Catch of the Day hands me back my menu with several nasty little tricks in store for my associates. I glance over his roster, which begins with golden showers and ends with a bit of spanking and stilettos. What is it with Americans and their ball-busting? I smile, tally up the total, and hand him a bill for $850.

“Canadian dollars only,” I remind him. “Cash. No checks, no plastic. I’m an independent businesswoman, you know, and those credit card fees are such a drag.”

He smiles and nods, fishing fifties from his wallet by the fist-full.

My date for tonight, an overstuffed businessman with slicked-back hair in a greasy little ponytail and a vaguely Bostonian accent, is so chuffed to be here with a beautiful woman that he’s practically salivating over my white flesh, my smooth black hair, my pouty red lips. Little does he realize, I’m just the appetizer. The main course is on her way, ready to beat him into submission. She goes by the name Lady Evelyn, but I’ve never seen any evidence of her title’s origins. I keep getting texts from her that say she’s on her way, which usually means she’ll be 15 minutes late. I’ve got to keep the Catch wriggling on the line for a few more minutes, until she shows.

Our order arrives, and the Catch begins scarfing it down, licking the ends of his fingers before I can explain that the concept of Japanese food involves careful balancing acts with chopsticks. There’s nary a morsel left for me, so I just flag the waitress with a discreet flick of my finger, and another plate is fried up special for me by Yamamoto himself. I deign to share it with my date, more in the interest of keeping him busy, as his conversation is proving mostly useless.

“What do you do for a living?” I ask.

“Don’t bother your pretty little head about that,” he says, “All you need to know is that I’m loaded, and I’ve got plenty of cash to spend on your cute little ass.”

Obviously, or else I wouldn’t be here taking this kind of abuse. I figure he must be in politics a pollster or consultant near the top of the food chain. No one talks shit about their cash flow like these pompous twits. You’ll see their fat faces on FOX News and CNN, spouting off about all manner of corporate greed, sure of their own abilities to make it rain. Come to think of it, he does look familiar. I may have seen him on TV while I was running the treadmill at the gym. What a windbag.

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