sales pitch to the Madonna of the Galleria. “Let me put it another way. If I say anything that bothers you, I’ll stop and walk away. That sound fair enough? Like Red Light, Green Light.”
“That’s a little weird,” said the dark-haired girl. She had a truly gorgeous face and a nice body from what he could tell. Her voice was somewhat monotone—but hey, nobody’s perfect. Other than maybe himself.
“But it’s harmless,” he went on. “I like your boots, by the way.”
“Thanks. It doesn’t bother me to hear that you like them. I like ’em too.”
“You have a nice smile too. You
know
that you do, right? Sure you do.”
“Careful now. Don’t lay it on too thick.”
They both laughed, hitting it off okay, Sullivan was thinking to himself. The game was on anyway. He just had to avoid getting a red light.
“Okay if I go on?” he asked.
Always ask their permission.
That was a rule he had whenever he played.
Always be polite.
She shrugged, rolled her soft brown eyes, shifted her weight from one booted foot to the other. “I guess. We’ve gone this far, haven’t we?”
“A thousand dollars,” Sullivan said. This was where you usually won or lost the game. Right . . . now.
The Madonna’s smile disappeared—but she didn’t walk away. Sullivan’s heart started to pound. He had her going, leaning his way. Now he just had to close the sale.
“Nothing funny. I promise,” Sullivan said quickly, pouring on the charm without being too obvious about it.
The Madonna frowned. “You promise, huh?”
“One hour,” Sullivan said. The trick here was
how
you said it. It had to sound like no big deal, nothing threatening, nothing out of the ordinary.
Just an hour. Just a thousand dollars. Why not? What’s the harm?
“Red light,” she said, and walked away from him in a huff, never even looked back. He could tell she was pissed too.
Sullivan was mad, his heart still beating hard, and something else was rock hard as well. He wanted to grab the Madonna and strangle her in the middle of the mall. Really mess her up. But he loved this little game he’d invented. Red Light, Green Light.
Half an hour later, he was trying his luck outside the Victoria’s Secret at the nearby Tysons Corner Mall—he got to “one hour” with a dreamy blonde in a “Jersey Girl” T-shirt and short shorts. No luck though, and he was really getting hot and bothered now. He needed a win, needed to get laid, needed an adrenaline hit.
The next girl he approached had beautiful, shimmering red hair. Great body. Long legs and small, lively tits that moved around in rhythm when she talked. At the “one hour” prompt, she folded her slender arms over her chest. Talk about body language, wow! But Red didn’t walk away from him. Conflicted? Sure. He loved that in a woman.
“You’re in control the whole time. You choose the hotel or your place. Whatever you want, whatever seems right. It’s all up to you.”
She looked at him for a moment, silent, and he knew that she was sizing him up—they stared right into your eyes at this point. He could tell that this one trusted her instincts.
It’s all up to you.
Plus, she either wanted, or needed, the thousand dollars. And, of course, he was cute.
Finally, Red spoke in a quiet voice, because nobody else was supposed to hear this, right? “You have the cash on you?”
He showed her a roll of hundreds.
“They all hundreds?” she asked.
He showed her that they were hundreds. “You mind if I ask you your name?” he said.
“Sherry.”
“That your real name?”
“Whatever,
Jeff.
Let’s go. The clock is running. Your hour’s already begun.”
And off they went.
After his hour with Sherry was over, closer to an hour and a half actually, Michael Sullivan didn’t have to give her any money. Not a thousand, not a nickel. All he had to do was show Sherry his picture collection—and a scalpel he had brought along.
Red Light, Green Light.
Hell of a game.
Chapter 33
TWO
“That’s a little weird,” said the dark-haired girl. She had a truly gorgeous face and a nice body from what he could tell. Her voice was somewhat monotone—but hey, nobody’s perfect. Other than maybe himself.
“But it’s harmless,” he went on. “I like your boots, by the way.”
“Thanks. It doesn’t bother me to hear that you like them. I like ’em too.”
“You have a nice smile too. You
know
that you do, right? Sure you do.”
“Careful now. Don’t lay it on too thick.”
They both laughed, hitting it off okay, Sullivan was thinking to himself. The game was on anyway. He just had to avoid getting a red light.
“Okay if I go on?” he asked.
Always ask their permission.
That was a rule he had whenever he played.
Always be polite.
She shrugged, rolled her soft brown eyes, shifted her weight from one booted foot to the other. “I guess. We’ve gone this far, haven’t we?”
“A thousand dollars,” Sullivan said. This was where you usually won or lost the game. Right . . . now.
The Madonna’s smile disappeared—but she didn’t walk away. Sullivan’s heart started to pound. He had her going, leaning his way. Now he just had to close the sale.
“Nothing funny. I promise,” Sullivan said quickly, pouring on the charm without being too obvious about it.
The Madonna frowned. “You promise, huh?”
“One hour,” Sullivan said. The trick here was
how
you said it. It had to sound like no big deal, nothing threatening, nothing out of the ordinary.
Just an hour. Just a thousand dollars. Why not? What’s the harm?
“Red light,” she said, and walked away from him in a huff, never even looked back. He could tell she was pissed too.
Sullivan was mad, his heart still beating hard, and something else was rock hard as well. He wanted to grab the Madonna and strangle her in the middle of the mall. Really mess her up. But he loved this little game he’d invented. Red Light, Green Light.
Half an hour later, he was trying his luck outside the Victoria’s Secret at the nearby Tysons Corner Mall—he got to “one hour” with a dreamy blonde in a “Jersey Girl” T-shirt and short shorts. No luck though, and he was really getting hot and bothered now. He needed a win, needed to get laid, needed an adrenaline hit.
The next girl he approached had beautiful, shimmering red hair. Great body. Long legs and small, lively tits that moved around in rhythm when she talked. At the “one hour” prompt, she folded her slender arms over her chest. Talk about body language, wow! But Red didn’t walk away from him. Conflicted? Sure. He loved that in a woman.
“You’re in control the whole time. You choose the hotel or your place. Whatever you want, whatever seems right. It’s all up to you.”
She looked at him for a moment, silent, and he knew that she was sizing him up—they stared right into your eyes at this point. He could tell that this one trusted her instincts.
It’s all up to you.
Plus, she either wanted, or needed, the thousand dollars. And, of course, he was cute.
Finally, Red spoke in a quiet voice, because nobody else was supposed to hear this, right? “You have the cash on you?”
He showed her a roll of hundreds.
“They all hundreds?” she asked.
He showed her that they were hundreds. “You mind if I ask you your name?” he said.
“Sherry.”
“That your real name?”
“Whatever,
Jeff.
Let’s go. The clock is running. Your hour’s already begun.”
And off they went.
After his hour with Sherry was over, closer to an hour and a half actually, Michael Sullivan didn’t have to give her any money. Not a thousand, not a nickel. All he had to do was show Sherry his picture collection—and a scalpel he had brought along.
Red Light, Green Light.
Hell of a game.
Chapter 33
TWO
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