torfol:
Carlos was wise enough not to speak of his personal life with his boss, but not wise enough to know that there was no such thing when in a gang. All information eventually found its way to Michael, through fear or loyalty, and while he hadn’t yet heard about his lieutenant getting cosy with the whores, it would, sooner or later.
That being said, the Saint had heard that one whore in particular, the one that stood out to him for reasons he couldn’t quite yet identify, wasn’t much use at ‘peddling the goods’ as it were. Now, what his employees did in the privacy of the bedroom usually wasn’t much of his concern, but when that was their entire job role, it did strike him as a little… odd.
Her response did little to provide explanation. The cockiness in her voice came with experience, but as what, he didn’t know; Brandy didn’t have the weathered look of a time-trodden working girl, but nor did she lack confidence, borderline brazenness, when speaking to men twice her age. It was more than likely forced, perhaps protecting some deep-rooted, sad little insecurity, but Michael was a businessman, not a psychiatrist.
“So why aren’t you fuckin’ anyone, swee’heart?” Straight to the point, as always. He didn’t look at her when he spoke, not that she was granting him the same courtesy, and instead gestured for the bartender to bring him a drink. “Y’know ‘ow this works, righ’? You ain’ earnin’ shit if y’don’ work for it.”
There was a lot that Deb had done to mask who she was, both inside and out, for this impossible task. She had cut her hair, shaved from head to toe, bought new clothes and shoes, even learned how to do her own makeup. She had subleased her studio apartment and gotten a new one, paid for by the police department under a fake name. She had even went to therapy, and although it was only a meager two sessions meant to test her psychological readiness for undercover work, it had steeled her to the reality of her situation. Anyone here would kill her at any moment if they knew the truth about who she was. It would either happen in the blink of an eye, with a bullet in the head, or slowly, dragged out, brutal. Whatever the group felt like that day. Whatever he felt like that day. But she couldn’t mask everything. She bit her tongue, knowing that Debra Morgan would bite a man’s dick off should they try to get it anywhere near her, and that Brandy Whatsherface did it for cash every day. Furrowing her brow at his questioning, she lifted the glass and sucked down the last of her drink until it was empty and she was just sucking air through a straw. Annoyed with more than just the end of the alcohol, she straightened her posture even though he didn’t look at her, like she was under a spotlight during a cross examination. “I don’t fuck and tell,” she responds, chewing on the straw and averting her gaze momentarily, almost like that was the end of it. But after a pause, she puts down the drink on to bar and lays her elbow and forearm down onto the surface of it to turn a face him a bit more directly, though her volume remained low and private. “And I don’t fuck just anyone either. I pay all my dues and I do just fine for myself.” Since this was true, and no one had any good reason to ask her about money, she gave him a puzzled look and lifted a palm questioningly. “So what’s the problem? Someone whined to daddy because he was told ‘no’? And you’re going to... what?” She gestured a little bit vaguely, perhaps poking the bear whose den she was invading just a bit too hard. Then she popped up her eyebrows, tilting her brunette head to one side with a smirk. “Punish me?”
