We Have Till Dawn - Cara Dee Page 0,4

arrived, and I had to put on the sleep mask that was located in the nightstand drawer.

I didn’t know if I was insulted by the instructions on how I should shower before the meetings too. Did the client think I was some filthy pig?

Maybe he was a germophobe.

All communication would go through the iPad, and there was a list of information I was supposed to send him. “No chitchat, please.” Jeez. Throwing some fries into my mouth, I walked over to the tablet and swiped on the screen. A test message had been sent already.

I sent him a couple messages with the details he’d requested. And no chitchat.

No allergies, I prefer oil-based lube or coconut oil, minimal scarring (I was a clumsy kid), no piercings, yes to tattoos—my right shoulder and down my arm.

Five foot ten, green eyes, brown hair, I’m 27, nonsmoker, yes to alcohol every now and then, no mental (or otherwise) disabilities, no trauma in the past, no triggers. I’m not on any medications, and my test results will be ready on Monday.

I cocked my head as the “Read” sign popped up at the bottom. Would he respond? Or was his fiancée handling this too? Would she respond? I returned to the table to finish my food, and I kept staring, kept waiting, until I realized that was it. No chitchat. He would sit on all the information and give nothing in return.

I huffed and took a swig of my soda.

Screw this, I had the right to ask for something too.

After finishing the last of my sandwich, I wiped the grease off my fingers and then typed in a message.

Your turn.

The standard “Delivered” never showed; it went to “Read” immediately, making me wonder if someone still had his messages open.

That someone started typing, and it tightened my stomach a bit.

Is Nick your real name?

Not what I expected. I wanted answers, dammit. I wanted at least a name and maybe…fuck if I knew, some personal info that gave me a clearer image of him. Right now, he was just a blob.

Nick was the name Tina used for my clients. Most sex workers I’d known went by fake names, and technically, I did too, ’cause it was assumed my real name was Nicholas when it was Nicola. But no one called me that.

I fired off a quick response.

It’s a version of my name. Some details about you wouldn’t hurt.

I set down the tablet and threw more fries into my mouth. He was typing, and time would tell if he would give me something or not. Part of me wanted to ask Tina, but that’d be a waste. No matter how little intel a client gave her, she always got enough to figure out who someone was, and she kept it to herself.

Just as I started chewing on the last of my fries, a rather lengthy text popped up.

My name is Gideon. I’m 44 years old, 6’4”, brown eyes, brown hair, and I don’t have any tattoos or piercings. I have Asperger’s and need to stay in control for this arrangement, so please let me set the pace. I will see you on Saturday night. Expect my instructions for the evening one hour before my arrival. That’s enough chitchat. Good night.

I raked my teeth along my bottom lip and read the message a couple more times. I had to admit I was intrigued. At my brother’s music academy, I sometimes came across an autistic student, and their way of thinking fascinated me. They often had a whole other world to show you; you just needed to tap into their language.

Gideon. All right, I was ready.

Chapter 2

“You’re not gonna tell Pop and Nonna about this, are you?” I lifted my T-shirt and wiped my forehead.

“Tell ’em what, that you’re leaving Brooklyn or that you’re turning tricks?”

I shot my brother a bitchy look, to which he laughed.

“Fuck no, I’m not telling them about a temporary move,” he chuckled.

Good. Whenever something major was happening, we told our family as little as possible. Nonna was a drama queen, and Pop hated change. Their entire world existed across the East River in the same neighborhood where they’d always lived. I remembered when Anthony moved ten minutes away and Nonna thought he was gonna forget about her.

We’d figured out the best way to keep her calm was to continue traditions from our childhoods. For instance, I still met up with Nonna once a week at Sahadi’s, not really for the shopping but for the company and