A week or so

A car rolled slowly by the street. The neon lights flooded the street with numerous colors. A thick rain was falling, hitting both the pavement and the cars. It was night and at night the rare birds flew in high heels, miniskirts and almost falling tops.

The car finally came to a halt and the passenger's window rolled down. A curly red-haired prostitute who was walking with her back turned to the car noticed the movement of the window and started walking in its direction. She was exceedingly beautiful for a mere prostitute, with green eyes, perfect smile and a great natural body. Still, that was the career she had chosen.

Hi, hun, she said. A man's voice, as would be expected, came from the darkness inside the vehicle.

Get in, the voice asked. The prostitute opened the door and got in. After closing it, the girl rolled up the window. The car started moving again. She turned to the man.

So, what do you want? asked the prostitute. The man had normal wavy hair, not long nor short. His beard hadn't been shaved in a couple of days. To her, he wasn't unattractive, not a prince charming either, but the plain average man.

You, he answered. The girl smiled.

Okay.

How much?

It's fifty an hour. I only do the normal stuff, she added.

Such as...

Such as everything normal, except through the back door. Just me and you. How does that sound, sailor?

Good enough. Just one question. How much for a week? the man asked, in the same tone of voice he'd been using since the beginning. The prostitute blushed, but in the darkness of the car, the man did not see it.

Well, nobody has ever wanted me for more than a night. I don't know, she said, smiling.

Would ten thousand be enough? the man asked.

Jesus, you're not kidding, are you?

Nope.

Well, ten thousand is a hell of a lot more than a make a month. Are you some kind of eccentric rich man?

No, just a regular guy.

You're starting to scare me a bit. How do I know you're not gonna have your way with me then kill me and bury me in your garden? she remarked, only half kidding.

For starters, I don't have a garden. And there's no way you can know that. But I do have the money. It's in the back seat, inside the bag.

The prostitute was staring him. He didn't look at her this whole time, he just kept driving. She didn't say anything.

If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't bother bringing that much money, the man said.

How do I know that money is really for me?

Take it, he said. The prostitute hesitated. Go on, he added, it ain't gonna bite you. She started turning carefully to the back of the car. There was a dark backpack on the floor behind the driver's seat. Slowly, she leaned her body and grabbed hold of the backpack and got back to her place, holding it with both hands.

Open it, the man invited. And so she did. There was the money. Several, thick rectangular bundles of bills. Red rubber bands holding them together. The prostitute took randomly one of the bundles from the bottom of the backpack and browsed through the bills with her thumb. She repeated this procedure with four more random bundles.

Okay, she sighed. The prostitute was holding one of the bundles near the steering-wheel, showing it to the man.

There's ten bills of one-hundred in each of these, she said. There's way more than ten of these here. A hell of a lot more than ten-thousand grand.

I know. Take ten of those and put it in your purse.

Why?

Just for your time, he concluded. He stopped the car, leaned over the girl and opened the door.

If you want to, just walk away, he said, looking into her eyes for the first time. The money is all yours. If you want all of it and even more, stay with me for the rest of the week, until next sunday. The choice is all yours.

The prostitute looked at the money and then to the man. His eyes seemed honest and completely alien to the world she lived in, she thought, the one of the streets. After what seemed like a longer moment than it actually was, she closed the door.

Fine, you have me for the week, Mr. Hot-shot-who-is-very-likely-to-be-a-criminal-or-something-like-that, the girl said. Now what?

The engine started and the wheels were once again rotating normally.

We go to a motel.

How original, she ironized.

Once inside the room of a side of the road motel, the prostitute laid her purse and the backpack on a chair. The room was reasonably large. Besides the chair, there was another chair, the king-size bed, a bedside table, a large wooden drawer, a minibar and a closet. There was also a door that lead to the bathroom. In it, there was the toilet, the sink and a bathtub that seemed more like a jacuzzi than an actual bathtub. The prostitute sat down on the edge of the king-size with her legs spread wide open.

So, you wanna fuck me now?

Not just yet, he answered. What's your name?

Whichever you want, she said, smiling sensually.

Cut the crap, he said abruptly, with a bit of aggressiveness in his voice. I want to know who you are. I'm sorry if I sound angry, but I'm sick of bullshit, lies and circular conversations. Please, tell me your real name.

She wasn't smiling anymore and now her legs were crossed.

My name is Andrea, but you can call me Drea. Or Ann. Whatever. I'm twenty-four. I was born in the countryside. I ran from home when I was seventeen. I became a hooker when I reached nineteen and have been doing the same thing ever since. What else you wanna know?

Listen, I don't want you to be angry or cold. I want you to be you. The money isn't for you to play a part or be whatever you think I want you to be. I just want to be with you. For a week. The money is already yours, so forget about it, okay?

She looked straight at him. Nothing was said for about thirty seconds.

Alright, she said finally. But for that, I think I need a beer. She stood up and walked to the minibar, while the man sat down on the floor, with his back leaned against the side of the bed.

Since the minibar was placed directly on the floor, Drea leaned down to open it. The man looked in her direction. Her ass was completely exposed, along with the red G-string panties. His attention was entirely focused on it and when Drea turned her head in his direction, he didn't noticed until she spoke.

See anything you like? Drea asked, smiling.

The man blushed and looked somewhere else. Drea started to laugh. She caught a long-neck from the minibar, closed it and opened the bottle. She placed it on top of the wooden drawer, hopped on it and sat down, back against the wall. As she took her pink high heels off, her lovely feet where hanging in mid-air. Drea started drinking, laughing all the while. After the first large sip, she opened her mouth.

Now we're getting somewhere.

What do you mean? he asked.

You just paid a hooker a shit-load of cash and with just a flash of her panties you blush. You're funny. What's your name?

I don't have one anymore. Call me whatever you think fits.

Well, you look like a John to me.

John it is, then, said John.

John Doe, added Drea. John looked at her and smiled with the corner of his mouth.

You ought to smile more, she said. You seem less lost when you do.

I look lost?

Yes, said Drea. John smiled all the way for the first time.

That night, both John and Drea drank all the few beers left in the room. John left for fifteen minutes to buy a six-pack and two bottles of wine in the convenience store/dinner/gas station located on the other side of the road. Drinking once again, they started flirting, not as part of the business transaction, just as John wanted in the first place.

Soon there were no clothes left and finally they were having sex. More similar to casual sex than sex with a hooker.

Now, less drunk and exhausted, they were laying on the bed naked. John had his back turned to the ceiling. His eyes were closed and his face turned to Drea's. She was laying sideways, looking at her client. She seemed less professional than earlier, more relaxed.

How do you know I ain't gonna leave in the middle of the night with all the money? asked Drea.

I don't, he rumbled, half asleep. But in case you're thinking about it, I have more money. Elsewhere, he added.

How much are we talking about?

The kind of amount you'll never have to work again for the rest of your life.

She stood silently for a couple of minutes.

Are you being funny?

Not at all, John rumbled once again.

Drea had put on a gentle, honest smile, but John never saw it.

The following morning, John woke up with a saliva stain on his pillow. He got up and opened his eyes with some difficulty. Drea wasn't there. The floor was filled with bottles and cans of beer. Clothes had been thrown all around. John found his jeans by the side of the bed an put them on. Drea's clothes were still there, scattered around as well.

Finally, he noticed the bathroom door was half open. Thick gulfs of steam entered the room through the doorway. John opened it all the way. Drea let a small scream of surprise. She was in the bathtub, inside the nearly boiling water.

Hi, said John.

Hi, replied Drea, laughing a bit. John stood were he was. The both of them kept looking at each other.

Come here, she said warmly, with the type of affection that was not present the previous night. John walked to the edge of the tub.

You really mean what you said? Drea asked.

When?

Since we met. You're really giving all that money...

And more, interrupted John.

...all that money and more, concluded Drea, for me to be with you for a week?

Yes.

I've been doing some calculations. If you paid me by the hour, in a week you'd have to pay me...

Eighty-four hundred, interrupted John once more.

Precisely. So, how about it? Just pay me what I'm worth. I'll feel less of a hustler.

You're not. And that wasn't part of our agreement. Forget the money, you already have it.

So that's that, huh? asked Drea.

Yep. That's that.

And after a week has passed?

It will have passed. You have your money and you won't have to keep doing what you do, affirmed John.

Are you some kind of messiah trying to save my live? Drea asked, starting to get angry.

No.

Good! Because I don't need to be saved.

I know.

I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself.

I know that, too.

So what?

So nothing.

Drea was in the verge of tears, both angry and sad at the same time. John let out a gentle smile. Drea's tears rolled down. John whipped her tears. Finally, she smiled as well. After a while, Drea regained her somewhat elegant composure and aimed teasingly at John's jeans.

Those pants tight?

A little, he aswered.

Drea, still in the tub, leaned out, opened his zipper and dropped John's pants. It's not sufficient to say he didn't join her in the water. It is sufficient to say she went down on him gently and with tenderness.

By noon, they were both eating in the dinner John had found the previous night, while out to buy beer and wine. They were eating a thick stake, fries and fried eggs. When they were done with the food, two cups of coffee were ordered.

So, now what? Drea asked.

Now we go back to our room.

"Our" room? she ironized.

Yes. Actually, it is yours. Part of the money goes for the expenses. Since there aren't many, it will be okay.

Okay, but what's your whole plan? Just stay in the room for a week and fuck? Stopping only to eat and drink and sleep?

No, John answered.

No?

Uh-uh. I was thinking we might do more than that.

Like what? asked Drea.

Well, we could go out and watch a movie.

Tonight?

Maybe tomorrow.

Drea started laughing.

Speaking of movies, you know which movie this reminds me of?

Yeah, I do. Only I ain't gonna drink myself 'til death.

Drea laughed louder.

You're gonna fuckg 'til death?

John opened a large grin and laughed as well.

During that night they didn't drink as much as before. John and Drea kept having sex the whole afternoon and the whole night. When it came dawn they finally fell asleep. This marathon who had started two nights before was becoming somewhat like an affair, a rendezvous when two lovers met.

The word love may not seem appropriate for the relationship between the two of them, once Drea got paid to stay with him. John's plan was still unclear to her, but the boundaries of one another were touching each other more and more every time their skins touched.

On the third day, two unusual things happened. One was consciously, carefully done. The other wasn't noticed neither by John or Drea. The first happened on the dinner, where they were having lunch once again. Drea's foot started to rub against John's ankle. They both smiled at each other, as accomplices who hold a secret even from one another.

The second thing only existed during the time they weren't awake. After what seemed exactly like casual sex, during their sleep, Drea's arms embraced John by the neck and torso from his back. They spooned the whole night. By the time came to wake up, John got up first and loosened himself from her arms automatically, mechanically, never knowing the full extent of her unconscious gesture.

They went to the movies on the night after the fourth day, watch a marathon of a comedy director. Three films in a row. The theater was practically empty. Besides them there where six or seven people scattered around the middle and front seats of the cinema. Drea managed to take John to the most secluded seats she could find. And instead of paying attention to the movies, the possibility of getting caught excited them both, so they had sex right there.

But this time it was different than before. Not just for the risk of someone finding, but also by the way it started. Drea simply reached into John's pants and started working with her right hand, for until that moment she still considered it, though fun, as work. Only John grabbed her right wrist, stopping her. They looked at each other deep in the eye and John made the first move: he grabbed her hair firmly with his left hand, brought her head towards his and, though aggressively, they kissed passionately. John's right hand kept holding Drea's wrist firmly, but she started working again, only now she wasn't working anymore. The restrained imposed by his hand made it harder for her, but more intense, and she kept going. The faster she went, the harder her wrist got squeezed. The pain, though almost unbearable, was good, and finally, it was done.

All of this took place still during the opening credits of the first film and one's imagination and creativity might figure out the rest, for they kept doing what they had done in the room, only with more discretion and in public.

One issue that started to bother Drea was the fact that they hadn't any clothes other than the ones they were wearing. How could a guy who bothers planning all this, who picked up a vast some of money, in cash, stored it in a normal backpack and paid a prostitute to stay with him for a whole week didn't remember to bring clean clothes?

But Drea's agitation towards the clothes situation was understandable: she was wearing the same promiscuous outfit she had been wearing since they met. Every time they went out to the dinner or the convenience store, she wore the same falling top, the same miniskirt and the same high heels. At first she didn't pay any attention to it. But the more she got to know John, the more unsettled she felt about her appearance. She still had make-up in her purse. Her clothes stank. She felt terrible in them.

When the time came for them to go out to lunch, John found Drea naked, seated on the toilet. Her clothes, though there weren't many, were all stashed in a pile on the floor in front of her. Drea stared at them.

What is it? John asked.

I won't go out with those clothes, she said angrily.

Why not?

Drea turned to face John. She was crying. Not out of confusion and anger as she did in the bathtub a few days earlier. She was really crying, out of sorrow, sadness. John kneeled down beside her and hold her in his arms. Drea started sobbing and crying harder and harder. It took her about fifteen minutes to stop. John didn't say a word. He just hold her. Drea's face was know hidden in his chest. When she was done, John cleaned the black tears of her blurred make-up, they kissed passionately. For the first time, both of them noticed that they were actually in love. They laughed and kissed for a long time.

New tears emerged from Drea's eyes. Once there was no longer trace of any make-up, they rolled down as clear as they were. Drea smiled and laughed and cried all at once, all the while still lost in John's embrace and in his lips and in his eyes. Finally, they stopped.

I could go out to buy you knew clothes, you know, said John. But I won't. I can't afford myself to loose a minute without you.

So what am I gonna wear?

Nothing. Maybe my shirt if you feel like it.

We can't go out on the street like this. You shirtless and me only with a shirt, said Drea, smiling.


Then we won't go out. I can ask for the owner to go out, get buy food and bring it here. For a couple hundred bucks I don't think he will mind.

And what about the cleaner? She can't come in to clean if we are here half naked.

So we gonna stay in this room and it won't be cleaned. It will be filthy. I don't care about that. I care about you.

Drea had tears in her eyes for the third time now. But before they ran through her cheeks, John grabbed hold of her ankle, took the pink high heels and put them on in each foot.

What are you doing? asked Drea, laughing but still holding her tears on her eyelids.

I like you in them.

You fetichist! remarked Drea, laughing out loud. You pervert!

John didn't respond. After he was done, he changed his position, sitting down in front of the toilet. His hands slided through the interior of Drea's thighs. He forced her legs to open gently and went for it. It's not sufficient to say that this time it was John who went down on Drea. It is sufficient to say that Drea laughed, cried once more, moaned and finally screamed. She never felt so much pleasure in her whole life. She never imagined a client doing that, afraid of a disease she might have, which she actually hadn't. At one point, John's hands had hold of her calfs and pushed them upwards, making more of her available for his hungry lust.

Some time later they were inside the tub, taking a bath and making love at the same time. It was the first time they made love, and not just had sex or fucked, for there was a large distinction between the three of them. A distinction that became harder to make when they went back into the room, still wet from the bath. In a moment they were making love most tenderly, the next they were truly fucking like rabbits. And in the next, they were just playing along, having the same good old sex as always.

By the sixth day, early in the afternoon, Drea gave up all of her professional and personal inhibitions. She truly gave her self entirely to John. Nothing was left untouched. Every single body part became unholy. By night, it was John's turn to do the same.

When it came dawn, they had reached a level of excitement and love that most couples take years to reach, if they ever reach it. Their relationship became whole. Their couldn't be touched by the world. They were desperately in love.

After Drea woke up on the morning of the seventh day, she couldn't remember how long had it been since John had rolled down his window. Not finding him in the room, she opened the bathroom door. There wasn't a trace of him. His clothes were gone. She became frightened and all sorts of terrible things came to her mind. In a matter of seconds, Drea firmly believed John had taken the money and split, only using her. She went to the chair and found the backpack still there. His car keys were still on the surface of the drawer. Then Drea noticed the purse. Her purse was open and her wallet was gone. She quickly opened the backpack. Weirdly enough, the money was all there. Drea didn't know what to make of all this.

After a couple of minutes the door opened and John came in. Soon as he closed the door, Drea started shouting at the top of her lungs.

Where's my wallet? Why the fuck did you went through my purse? Who are you, you sick bastard? It's the seventh day and I thought you had left me and taken the money. Then I thought you had just left me,  but know you're back. Who the fuck are you?

Drea started crying and sat down on the bed.

What do you want from me? You're driving me crazy. Last week I was a good for nothing of a whore. Now I'm in love with the man who paid the most for a hooker in all history of mankind and I don't even know him. Not even his real name.

Drea was still naked, wearing just her high heels. She hid her face in her hands.

My real name is John. You got it right by accident. Maybe it was more than a coincidence. Maybe we formed a real connection. It's possible. Here is your wallet, said John.

He placed the wallet by her side on the bed. He kneeled down in front of her. Drea put her hands on her knees, as if to keep her legs closed.

Are you going to suck me again? Make me come even harder than before? asked Drea. She was still crying.

John let out a brief laugh.

Not unless you want me to.

Drea laughed a bit as well.

The thing is, I took your wallet because I needed your bank account and personal information. I just phoned my lawyer and gave him all he needed. I'm not a very rich man. Not anymore at least. I took most of the money I had left and made a life insurance. The more unnatural the causes of death you include on it, the more expansive it gets. To include suicide takes more money than you can imagined.

Drea stared at him, her mouth half open, as if she didn't understood a word he'd said.

Listen, to cut a long story short. I've been a terrible person my whole life. Not cruel or anything, but I just didn't give a shit about other people. I was rich and I was indifferent. Some people died because of me. I shouldn't have approved the transport of a rare painting by plane for a collector who was paying me more than I could believe. I knew the pilots were tired, but I paid them an extra three grand and so they went. There was a malfunction on the controls. Shit happened and the plane fell. They died because I cared about money. A couple of months ago I found out I had brain cancer. I decided it was time for me to die.

Drea hadn't move all the while, her breathing barely noticeable.

I decided to find the girl I was in love with when I was young. She vanished before I ever got to talk to her. She was you. So I made the life insurance, took all the money that was left and went after you. It was very hard to find you on these streets. It took me three months.

So, now what? Drea asked almost as if she was a robot, completely on reflex.

So now I hope I could make love to you for the last time. After that I will take the gun I left in the closet, go to the bathroom, lock the door and shoot myself. There are clean clothes for you on the closet. Take the car if you want to. In two days you'll get a call from Eric Hasslehoff on this phone.

John took a cellphone from his pocket and placed it beside Drea's wallet.

He's my lawyer. He will tell you what to do.

John finally kissed Drea. She understood it all too well. She remembered him from school. Two years older than her. That's why she thought he looked like a John. Drea had secretly been in love with him as well.

Drea ripped John's clothes off and they made love for the last time. It was slow and hard. They both moaned like never before. Once they were done, John got up, went to the closet, took the gun and went to the bathroom. He stopped on the doorway.

Can't you stay with me? asked Drea, crying.

No, I'm so sorry. I love you and wish you live your life the best you can.

I lied to you, said Drea. I'm twenty-nine.

I know, John said. His last words. He closed the door.

A shot was heard through the entire motel. Drea couldn't recall putting her new clothes, taking the money and leaving. She didn't remember driving the car. She only came back to herself when the phone rang and Eric Hasslehoff told her all the things she already knew. She got more money than she ever dreamed of. Drea was now utterly rich, alone and pregnant.