kyle doesn’t bother hiding his grimace as the man stumbles past him and into the cab waiting on the curb, his belt still undone, his buttons in the wrong holes, face flushed with equal parts liquor and euphoria. idly, he wonders if he’ll regret it come morning. was it a mistake? was it a moment of weakness, a choice made in a drunken haze? or is this routine for him? does he have any shame left to spare?
he’s a successful man, kyle clocks that much instantly. expensive suit and polished shoes, an aged, golden band on his left hand. how could he risk all of that for an hour or two of adrenaline-fueled debauchery? was it worth it? he wants to ask, to call after him, if only to satisfy this morbid curiosity of his, but then the door slams shut behind him, and he’s gone in no more than a clock tick. maybe his wife’s waiting up on him. maybe the guilt’s finally hit him.
but, as they say; when one door closes, another opens.
you’re more composed than your friend — client? partner? what’s the word for it? — was, though kyle imagines that your time wasn’t nearly as enjoyable. he might not have made the connection at all, or not for his training. your makeup’s smeared, your lips swollen, but the glassy look in your eye tells a tale of sacrifice, rather than pleasure. your coat is expensive, like your manicure, and your perfume, but the cigarettes you fish from your pocket are cheap, and the jewelry on your ears has turned your skin green.
that and he can smell the man’s whiskey on your breath, like he could smell your flowery cologne on his.
you slip into the chilly night with your shoulders to your ears and your eyes cast downward, flattening yourself to the wall beside him, trying to avoid the rain that splashes at your ankle, threatens to cleanse you of the sin clinging to your bruised flesh. you do not look at him as you ask for a lighter, only after patting yourself down thrice, but kyle can’t take his eyes off of you as he complies.
“sumthin’ on my face?” when your eyes meet his, finally, he’s almost surprised by the twinkle of amusement in them. it’s not defensive, or even offended, not ashamed, just … knowing. as if you’ve played this game this before, you already know how it ends, but you’ll do it again just because there’s something comforting about its inane familiarity.
he drops his gaze like a toddler who’s been caught elbow-deep in the cookie jar, embarrassed to have been caught gawking. “no, i’m not — sorry, i didn’t mean to stare, i was just…”
“staring.” you supply, and he almost laughs, despite himself. your lips lift around the butt of your cigarette, now stained red from your gloss.
“sorry,” he repeats, bashful, daring to glance at you again. that garish neon glow of the motel’s sign dances across your features, teasing at the exhaustion etched under your eyes and dewiness still lingering on your brow. 
“yeah, you said that already.” you seem to enjoy flustering him. you’re certainly good at it, too, eyeing him like a fish wriggling on a hook. for the first time since he was a boy, kyle feels like prey. it doesn’t matter that he’s bigger than you, that his gun is still strapped to his hip. it’s a matter of domain, and this is yours, not his. luckily for the sergeant, it looks like you’re not keen to pounce. “what are you, military? you look it.”
he blinks, taken aback, unsure whether that should offend him or not. “what’s that ‘posed to mean?”
his cheeks warm, and some little, sensible part of his rotten mind tells him that he should walk away, before he digs his own grave. you’re an absolute stranger to him. he knows nothing but what you get up to in the night. he should not be entertaining you. yet … “how do i look it?”
you laugh, a sound kyle thinks might be the sweetest he’s ever heard, and gesture vaguely at him, as if that at all answers his question. “we aren’t so different, y’know.”
if he didn’t know whether to be aggrieved before, he’s truly torn now. to be indignant would be an insult to you, an admission that he looks down upon your profession — yet the comparison feels like a blow to his pride.
“is that right?” he settles on, careful to keep his tone flat. all that’s left of his cigarette is filter, but he can’t bring himself to toss it just yet, as if it’s a bit between his teeth, keeping him in check.
you smile wryly. “we’ve both sold our bodies and souls, haven’t we? i just took the path with less bloodshed.”
he wants to argue that no, it isn’t the same, not at all, that suggesting it is is both laughable and absurd — he’s a soldier, he’s respectable, a modern-day hero, he does what he does because someone has to do it. he gets his hands dirty so that the world stays clean. he serves the people.
just like you do. lust and loneliness are your world’s greatest plagues. men go mad without someone who will coddle them. wars have been waged over less. you’re as much of a peacekeeper as he is, in a sense.
for as long as this earth has turned, there’s been people like you, who lick the wounds of men who turn their noses up at you, so that they’ll have mercy on the rest. and there’s been people like kyle, who handle the greedy bastards who decide a warm bed is not enough to satisfy.
he thinks of the man in the cab. what damage would he have caused if you hadn’t taken the worst of him tonight?
you both earn your money through blood, sweat, and tears, and both of you reap what measly benefits you’re rewarded. he’s no better than you, and you’re no worse than him, when all’s said and done.
“rotten business, isn’t it?” he muses aloud, unsure whose he’s talking about anymore.
“we’ll burn in hell for it.” you agree, unperturbed by the prospect. you have long since come to terms with that. he wishes he had the gall to ask how. when did it stop keeping you up at night? when did you stop second-guessing yourself? how do you make peace with a lifetime of torment?
“cheers,” he bids instead, watching ash spill across your front, where the fine leather puckers in protest.
you don’t bat an eye, flicking your half-done cigarette into a puddle of muck and rainwater before straightening up. “i’ll see you on the other side then, soldier.”
“see you.” he murmurs, though his chest tightens. you’re gone just as suddenly as you’d arrived, leaving behind nothing but a pit in his belly and the smell of roses and tobacco.
as he crawls back into bed half an hour later, he wonders if you will be allowed to rest before the night’s over, or if you’re busy putting out all the fires the rain can’t quench.
