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…now what?

What am I supposed to do now?

God, I don’t like the question. And if I’m being honest, I don’t even wanna know the answer. Or I don’t wanna have to think of the answer. I just want it to be obvious, instinctive. But I’m not even having an impulse of what to do. And that’s…

I don’t like it.

I rake my hands over my face and groan. When that doesn’t get Blue’s attention, I prop myself up a little and ask outright.

“What are you doing?”

“What was I doing, you mean?” He’s leaning against his dresser, swiping through his phone, without looking up. “Nothing.”

Liar. His computer’s on—must have been working before I barged in. So I crane my neck at his screen. He’s got the backend of his site open, browsing what looks like profile pictures of his fellow professionals.

Girls, that is. Girls in bikinis and bodysuits, thongs and teddies, cropped shirts and high socks.

And all of them, curiously, with long legs, small tits, and short hair.

Bzt. The screen goes dark. From the side of the desk, Blue’s got his finger on what must be some kind of kill switch.

“Hey!” I cry, sitting up a bit. “I was watching that.”

“So buy a subscription.” Blue drops into his chair, further blocking his station from view. “No free lunch.”

“You know, for a sex worker, you’re awfully fuckin’ conservative.” I wipe my hand over my mouth, which is still a little sticky and smells like tequila, and the gesture makes another wet chunk of hair fall into my eyes.

Fucking Mermaids. Fucking girls. Think they’re so clever⁠—

“Are you gonna explain,” Blue interrupts my thoughts, “or…”

I scowl at him. “No. It’s…just Treasure being dramatic.” That’s enough, I decide, and fall back on his bed with a sigh. Might as well get out with the topic at hand. “I need money, dude.”

A soft snort from Blue. “That’s your big concern right now?”

“As a matter of fact, it is,” I retort.

“You’ve got a mob boss up your ass, all but threatening to throw your ass in the marina in concrete shoes, and you’re worried about money.”

“We’ve got a mob boss up our ass,” I correct. Then frown. “Asses?” Whatever. “And yeah, I know, and money is what will fix it. Hence my problem”—God, it’s like talking to a kindergartener—“which is that I need money.”

Blue grunts. “So get a job.”

“Seriously?” I groan. “What’s with this bootstrap attitude all of a sudden? You’re, like, the Ronald Reagan of internet whores.”

Blue says nothing. No sound at all, save the clicks of his keyboard. Which annoys me even more. I sit up again, gesture at his computer.

“Maybe I’ll just do that.” I grin at him. “Join you in the trade.”

He snorts. Doesn’t turn around.

“Aw, c’mon! Why not?”

“You…don’t have the skill set.”

I beg to differ, but I’m not trying to start an argument here. “So show me the ropes,” I plead. “We could have a double act. You do guy-on-guy?” It’s not my thing, but get me drunk and hard enough and I could holler for a dollar, I figure.

“With you?” Blue glances over his shoulder. “No.”