Hooked

any woman he wanted. Nothing she pulled on him worked. Maybe he was gay. Many of the really handsome ones were. Naw, gay men appreciated her visually only. This guy was as erect as a flagpole when she commandeered his balls. No point playing coy.
    “Okay. What’s the deal?” She sat on the bed and pulled her legs up under her, blasé about the unladylike position. He ignored the view.
    “Ever hear of a guy named Benny Cooper?”
    Tawny took her time answering. She knew Cooper. His ownership in a string of sex clubs was a tightly-held secret within the community. Apparently more widely-known than she thought. Cooper had tried for years to hook her into his domain—she smiled inwardly at the pun—proposing she could cherry-pick her assignments and name her price. But she’d never wanted to work for anyone. She’d developed her own client list. No kinks, perverts, or freaks need apply, although a few liked role-playing or made unusual requests that fell within the range of acceptable. She made more than enough money and never saw an advantage to Cooper’s offers. Besides, Benny Cooper had a well-known string attached to all his girls, and she didn’t like it for any amount of money.
    She wasn’t the only independent working the city, but she’d maintained her standing at the top for a long time. Many left the business for that Pretty Woman fairytale, like Cooper’s wife, or they got hooked on drugs and let their habit and an unscrupulous bloodsucker take them down.
    Tawny didn’t owe anyone, didn’t need a man to control her life, and wouldn’t have to work past her prime. But damn, she didn’t need to wind up in prison, the target of some horny dyke. She needed options, and she needed them fast.
    So what should she do? Lie and say she didn’t know Cooper, or tell the truth? “I’ve heard of him.” Not a lie. She had heard of him. Now what?
    “In what context?” the cop asked.
    “He married a working girl. News gets around.”
    “You know her? Eileen Cooper?”
    Tawny swallowed hard. She knew Eileen Cooper. While their paths hadn’t exactly crossed, they’d connected indirectly. “Um, no, but I know of her. Girls in the trade pass along those feel-good stories. You know, hooker marries rich hedge fund manager who takes her off the streets. Kind of like in the movies.”
    “Is that what didn’t happen to you?”
    Tawny got off the bed, brushing against Walsh as she did. “Absolutely,” she said calmly, though this guy was getting under her skin. He was trying to goad her, and she couldn’t let him.
    “Number one, I never worked the streets. Never. And neither did Eileen Cooper. You should know there’s a caste system of women offering various services. We’re not all on the streets . I used the term metaphorically. And two, in case you think I was waiting for some guy to propose so he could get it for free, marriage was never in my game plan.”
    “What was?” he asked. “Hoarding all your money and living happily ever after? Alone?”
    Now she was getting pissed. “Exactly, Detective Walsh. I’ve seen enough of happily married men . They marry the girl next door, have kids, and then one day feel trapped and wonder what they missed. Doesn’t matter whether these upstanding citizens are rich or poor, whether they pay or get a freebie. They want a fantasy fuck. Even a politician with a record of breaking up prostitution rings falls victim. Can you beat that?”
    Walsh didn’t answer.
    “These guys all walk around with condoms in their wallets,” Tawny continued, “primed to jump the bones of the first woman who tempts him with a little pussy.” She crouched in front of his chair. “Tell me, Mister NYPD Detective, have you got a condom in your wallet? Bet you have.”
    His face flushed. Aha! The first sign of discomfort. Oh, yeah. He had one. She’d put money on it.
    He kept his outward cool. “I’m not married. And I’ve never had to pay for a woman.”
    “You didn’t answer my question.”
    “No.”
    Disappointed, she got up, walked around, making sure the light coming through the balcony doors silhouetted her body through her lightweight dress, leaving nothing to the imagination.
    “I keep them in the car.”
    She turned around to see a playful smirk. “I knew it. You’re all alike. Cops, businessmen, crooks. Even professors. Very cerebral, those profs. Never without a Trojan.”
    “You ought to know. You bankrolled your PhD screwing half the faculty at Columbia