No Copyright Infringement Intended:

The theme of this story will be all the classic 80s jams, inspired by Pretty Woman, staring Julia Roberts and Richard Gere. One of my favorite RomComs.

You'll notice some of the lines are the same as the films, it's because they're classics, but this is the only chapter so far that I've written that has the same quotes.

I hope you enjoy. I also don't have a beta, so any mistakes I make are mine and mine alone.

Pretty Woman, walking down the street.

"So… Fuck, Kill, Marry."

With a smack of her gum, Madelyn Undersee continues, "George Clooney, Anderson Cooper, or…" She pauses staring at her screwed-up reflection in the old mirror, "Shit. Who's that really hot guy? He's in that movie about the boat. He's old," she details, smacking her tootsie bubble gum and fighting to keep the towel straitened under her arms.

"Peter O'Toole," Katniss guesses, while flipping through her ancient copy of Forbes.

She makes a face, "Ew no. Ugh. You know him, he was Gatsby."

But Katniss is completely and 100% uninterested. Fuck, Kill, Marry, what is she twelve? "Snap it out," the brunette suggests not looking up from her daily reading as she waits for her barely damp hair to dry.

Madge continuously snaps the air and her gum, much to Katniss' annoyance. It takes a full minute and twenty-six seconds for Madge to think, her fingertips burning from the constant motions. "Robert Redford!" She exclaims clapping her hands with a giddy smile.

"So George Clooney, Anderson Cooper, and... Robert Redford," Katniss repeats, dropping her magazine onto her poorly kept bed. "Well Anderson Cooper's gay, would he be gay in this situation?"

"Depends if your comfortable with taking it in the ass."

"Hmm, ok, well," Katniss thinks for a minute, different scenario's flopping through her head. "Would George Clooney actually settle down?"

"Jesus Christ, Katniss, it's a fucking game. Perfect world, perfect situation."

"Fine," she huffs. "Marry Cooper, fuck Clooney, and kill Redford. Only because I'm not sure what he looks like."

"Preach!" Madge cheers, pumping her fist in the air. "Ok your turn! Be inventive, that was my old foxes category."

Katniss looks around their shared Los Angeles apartment, searching for innovation. She eyes their collection of wigs hanging on the opposite side of the wall. Bald men! She'll do bald men: Bruce Willis…

Bruce Willis….

… Ok. Fuck that.

Their apartment is nothing special. It's run down, in the bad area of town, and located on the top floor. She's six stories up and resides next to a crack dealer. Or at least that's what Katniss suspects from the revolving front door of poor, mixed race miscreants with sunken cheeks and missing teeth. Nothing welcomes Katniss home like the average drug dealer.

The apartment's red walls are chipped, there are no curtains on the windows, and the only way to tell the difference from Katniss' and Madge's rooms is a cracked folded screen they scored from the dumpster behind Pier 1. It wasn't much, but it was home. A home that still isn't inspiring Katniss with a good round of Fuck, Kill, Marry.

The room's walls are donned with makeup stains. The floor has crumpled clothes and magazines. Magazine! Celebrities! She already knows what Madge would sarcastically say, 'How original Katniss,' or 'You suck at this.'

"Any day now," Madge sings, brushing her blonde hair in the old, fogged mirror.

Katniss sends a glare her way. If she were a magician, daggers would be surrounding Madge's delicate, shiny little head. The type of head that was so different from her own.

The two couldn't be more different. Madge is blonde, perky, blue eyed, and pale; she has beautiful pink porcelain skin that looks as young as her six-year-old step sister, Madge's skin doesn't look as used as she is. Instead, she looks like the typical teen cheerleader, Quinn Fabray and all.

Katniss is the complete opposite. Her deep olive skin is marred with a dark, single lined, angry scar that cuts on the underside of her chin to the dip below her plump and perpetually scowling lips. When she was younger, Katniss' mother told her that she had gypsy blood in her, and throughout her dysfunctional childhood, she pretended she was Esmerelda. Just so she could brag, she'd wear long skirts and prance around barefoot. She even played the tambourine in band at Panem South High School (before she sucked off the band teacher, Mr. Cray, at fourteen).

Katniss catches her reflection in the mirror and realizes how unlike Esmerelda she looks now. Now, she's just angry, all the time, and years of a starving and stressful environment, left her body frail. It's been three months since she had to forego food for other necessities, but her body was just beginning to recover. If she could she'd go back and transform herself to Esmerelda, perhaps go to Disney and become a princess; that's the dream for everyone right?

DISNEY CHARACTERS!

That's new, innovative - and... creepy. Katniss knows it's creepy.

As she scowls at Madge's impatience, she looks down at her faded green bed comforter and stares at her folded Forbes magazine - BILLIONAIRES. She could do that.

Ok, Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, two easy ones right there. Katniss flips quickly through her copy of Forbes 100 Richest People Alive from 2010.

She quickly flipped through the pages scanning, haphazardly, she played the finger game, wherever her moving finger landed that would be the mark. She closed her eyes, moved her finger, and... voilá!

Mellark. She could work with him.

"Ok." Katniss' voice gives away her excitement and Madge twirls around to look at her. "Fuck, Kill, Marry: Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, or, drum roll please, Leavened Mellark."

Madge's mouth drops.

"What. The actual. Fuck? Who is Leavened Mellark? Is this category old men who are not good looking? God you're the worst."

Instantly defensive, Katniss argues, "It's billionaires."

"Oh my god, throw that out. I bet you half those men are dead." Madge jokes flippantly then sneaks a side glance over at her. "What's Leavened look like?"

Katniss shrugs, "There's only a name. His net-worth is 12.4 bill though. He's number 89."

"Google him."

If Katniss had a dollar for every time Madge told her to google something, she would be a billionaire. And technically, this would be the first time Katniss could google someone. Madge just gave Katniss her old iPhone and, while it had a crack on the front screen, it's one of the nicest things Katniss has ever owned.

"My phones charging."

It isn't charging, Katniss just can't afford a data plan yet, she's saving up. All she really needs it for is to call the only number saved in her phone book.

Madge shrugs her petite, bare shoulders and walks to use her new iPhone, sent from Daddy Undersee to buy his lost daughter's love. After three painful minutes, Madge sighs, "He's dead." Katniss frowns, he was only 56 in 2010.

Maybe it is time for Katniss to get rid of this magazine. But, it's sentimental to her.

It was the first thing she bought when she got to LA with big dreams to one day land on this very list. The dreams faded quickly though, her failure was not something to dwell on. And if Katniss got rid of this magazine, her failure would be all too real. One more month. Just one more month then she'll pack it up, throw it out, and go back home.

"I'll pretend it's 2010 for you, cause he's kinda hot." Madge carelessly tosses her phone to her bed, where it lands with a thunk. She sighs, "Ok, so I'll marry Leavened, 'cause he's sexy and kinda looks like my ex's dad. Killin' Buffet, 'cause he's old an, and I'll fuck Gates." Madge drops her towel and walks to her dresser and pulls out an outfit. "Can you imagine being worth 12 billion dollars? Like Jesus."

"No, I can't," Katniss stares at Mellark's name in slight mourning, tracing her finger over her only kin to him. In the end, the money didn't even help the old bastard; her estranged Grammie, a solid 98 was still kicking it and couldn't be worth more than 40 grand. Money don't stop death.

"Where do you think the money went?" Madge calls over her shoulder, pulling on fishnet stalkings over her creamy thighs.

"Probably to his poor, widowed wife," Katniss throws the magazine back down on her bed and stands up. She moves to the mirror, while fluidly braiding her hair. By the time she gets to her reflection, the braid is already complete. But she doesn't need the mirror for her braid, no she needs it to study her reflection and check the bags under her eyes. God, she looks nothing like Esmerelda.

"Hmmm Leavened Mellark." Madge looks through her phone, quickly going to his wikipedia page. "Leavened Mellark, married to one Stella McCormick Mellark," she scrolls down to death and family aftermath. Quickly, she scans the short paragraph, learning all about Leavened Mellark, his three sons, and his Stella. "According to wikipedia, Leavened left his fortune to his sons. Oh wow," Madge breaths.

"What?" Katniss asks, tying her braid to a flat bun on her head and pulling on a wig that faded from black routes to blonde ends. It was short, ending just below her chin, framing her face. Rock Chic, that's what she was going for tonight.

"His sons are stone cold foxes." Madge fans herself exaggeratedly while wiggling her eyebrows in Katniss' direction. "Well at least an Aish Mellark is."

"Let me see," Katniss says pinning her wig into her head.

Madge walks over, finally taking in her roommate's ombre hair. "Nice Everdeen, I'd fuck you," she winks, thrusting her phone to Katniss' waiting hands.

There are no pictures or pages dedicated to any of the sons, only a picture of Aish at a conference. He is hot. With blonde hair and blue eyes, and boney fe-

"Gale just sent you a dick pic," Katniss puffs handing the phone back to Madge, while slowly turning on her heel to walk to her side of the room, picking up her outfit from the stained carpet. Tonight, she'll bag a rich one. She prays, hopes. She has bills to pay and cash to send home. She needs the money. Prim needs the money.

Madge giggles from her side of the room, "Ooooooh, he manscaped."

Pretty Woman, the Kind I like to Meet.

Cops are everywhere these days. It pisses the girls off to no end. Not just Madge and Katniss, but the other girls too. It's getting harder and harder to work the streets, just another reason to quit, and Katniss tucks that away in the back of her mind. But she knows, this isn't a lifestyle so easily given up, so easily traded in for normalcy. Her lips turn down at the thought. She may never get out.

Before the girls walk to their corner, they stop for a drink at the Hob. A ritual to take the edge off their impending night.

Madge, with her perky little tits hanging out of her red dress, saunters over to the bar, smirking at the people that surrounded them. They are regulars. She presses herself to the cool shelf leaning over trying to get the bartender, Darius Rose's, attention. Katniss trails behind her of course, strutting in her chunky heels and unknowingly turning the heads of many balding men in the bar. Black skirt snugly slung across her hips

After Darius passed them, not once- but twice, Madge calls out to him slamming her palm on the bar. "Hey, Darius, can I get some damn service over here?" Sure, it's busy, a lot of people coming in at this time of night. Nine-thirty brought all lonely men and women out, the shows had just ended, and people needed somewhere to go.

When Darius doesn't turn or even acknowledge the girls, Katniss leans over the bar, stealing two glasses and the first bottle she touches. Absolute Vodka. When Darius opens his mouth to tell the girls off, Katniss yells over the music, "Just put it on our tab."

She turns from the bar and looks to Madge, pointing to the bowl of nuts to their left, "Steal those nuts. I didn't eat."

The girls make their way through the cramped, smokey bar and over to a corner table nestled in a warm glow from the light overhead. With the nuts between them, Katniss fills both their tumblr glasses to the brink. She settles the bottle down, with a smack. She grins. They both reach for their glasses.

Clutch. Clink. Chug.

Katniss gets half way through her glass in one chug. Madge doesn't get as far, her phone chirps, distracting her from her glass of vodka.

"Gale won't leave me alone."

Katniss doesn't respond, she never does in these kinds of conversations. All Madge wants to do is complain, drone on and on about Gale and his smothering tendencies. Katniss knows her roommate, like the back of her scarred, lined hands. But Gale makes Madge feel wanted, for free; so... Madge makes him feel good for free. Katniss takes another sip of her clear poison, cringing only slightly at the warm liquid.

When she refocuses her attention on Madge, she notices that her friend is giving her a look, obviously waiting for Katniss' advice on something she just said.

Katniss puts her glass back down on the table, "What?"

"Do you think I should tell him?" Madge asks, leaning her elbows on the table.

"Tell him…" Katniss bores her silver eyes into Madge's crisp blue ones.

"That I'm a hooker. It's not like its nothin' to be ashamed about."

To Katniss it is. But she can never tell Madge that. If she does Madge would tell her that there are worse things, like no job or money. Living on the streets, which is exactly what Katniss did after she sold her flatbread truck after being jobless in LA for a month.

When Madge found her, Katniss was alone, starved to skeletal measures, and about to work for a Pappi Brutus, but Madge saved her.

"We work for no one," that's what she said to the starving girl after shrugging a beat up, peach nylon jacket around her shoulders.

Katniss slowly got the hang of it, earning money for giving others pleasure, and soon enough she could pay rent. Then she was able to send some cash home, buy some clothes, wigs, you name it she could suddenly get it. She sent money to Prim after that first month. She wasn't rich, by any means, but she could get a few hundred a week. Some nights, there wasn't work. But Katniss got good at roping them in, she could read a lonely man from a mile away.

Katniss slowly takes another sip to form her thoughts, "You could tell him if you want."

"Yeah," Madge said nodding, "I think I might," she smiles taking three large gulps.

Katniss reaches for the bottle, to top both their glasses off, when a tall looming shadow appears over them, and snatches the bottle from the table.

"Hey!" She states, nimbly grasping the glass bottle from the thick hands.

"We talked about this," Darius sighs, tightening his hold on the bottle. "You guys know I could lose my license for letting y'all do this."

"Well, if you had good customer service maybe we wouldn't do it," Madge argues her lips pulled back into a seductive smile, which she hides as she sips her glass. She dangles the bait in front of him, egging him on, Madge's favorite game to play with him. She riles him, much like Gale, only Darius gets rather flustered at her advances while Gale just turns into a cave man.

Darius doesn't take the bait. He stands tall. Madge straitens, pondering a second idea.

"Can you at least top off our glasses?" Madge bites her bottom lip, giving him her smoldering 'look'.

Darius peers down at them, tugging his hands through his red hair. "You guys owe me like a thousand bucks as is."

Katniss rolls her eyes. For someone who owns a bar, Darius has no obvious math skills, she knows they owe at least two grand. But instead of voicing her opinion, she reaches for the nut bowl and stuffs her mouth, her stomach growling from its emptiness.

"No fockin' way," Madge's draw drops, her New York accent slipping out as she stares at Darius in disbelief. Katniss smirks, between her bites, and swallows thickly not tasting as the peanuts go down.

Darius bobs his head, "This is your fourth bottle this month."

"So?" Madge asks, obviously annoyed.

"So," Darius stresses, "It's only the tenth."

The two girls look at each other, smirking. They know exactly how to work with Darius, his kind, sweet personality is no match for either devious women.

So, Katniss clears her throat, joining the conversation, "Well, you can't really count that bottle. You're taking it away from us."

"Yeah." Madge agrees, giggling, acting her part. "Listen, if it's such a big deal for you, maybe we could work something out. A payment plan, or something." She takes her freshly painted nails and traces them down Darius' forum, leaving chills in her wake. Darius swallows hard, before briskly shifting his forearm and, much to the girls' dismay, the bottle out of reach.

"I-I," Darius stutters at Madge's implied payment, looking between the two girls who have matching smiles on their faces.

"Oh, look at the time," Katniss feigns, interrupting the red-head and peering off at an imaginary clock on the wall.

"Ya, we gotta go," Madge agrees, finishing hers and Katniss' tumbler. "Let's talk tomorrow about the payment plans, ya?"

The two slither out of their seats and head for the door, horribly holding back their snickers.

"Maybe we should suck the kids dick, ya know. For thanks," Madge giggles, holding a hand over her mouth.

"That's all you," Katniss rolls her eyes, making her way through the door. "But in all seriousness, we should start going to another bar."

"Darius would cry without us; his two favorite girls. Who would he eye fondle?"

Katniss snorts.

The two walk outside, engulfed in a mass of tourists and locals alike. It's a short walk, even with the sweltering June air, from the bustling Highland Ave to their corner, right in front of the sketchy North Las Palmas. Prime real estate.

Only, when the two got there, their typically empty spots were taken by two rival workers, Enobaria and Cashmere. In their late thirties, the girls have turned to the pimp known as Snow for protection.

Katniss met Snow once, he pimped half the girls on Hollywood and Sunset Boulevard. He was old, with silver hair and a blotched, wrinkled face.

It was a spring Thursday night, surprisingly frigid for LA, Madge landed herself a faceless guy. Katniss left empty handed, so to speak. When she turned around, finally understanding that she had no takers, she came face to face with someone much colder than the April night.

"What a lovely necklace," Snow murmured grazing his long, paper-like fingers on the pendant that swung from Katniss' thin neck.

Her mind told her to be polite. Be respectful. Remember her place. "Thank you."

"Where ever did you get it."

Katniss gulped, taking a step back, unable to control the weight of his intense glare. "New York," she bit out.

Snow smiled, grinned menacingly, "I have friends there if you ever want a matching bracelet."

He wanted her. That much Katniss understood. He smelled of overly perfumed roses, which he kept mounted on his white suite's lapel. It contrasted his eyes and lips which were both stained a blood red, something, when she asked around, Katniss heard it was his intimidation tactic to other pimps. Thats what the streets whispered when his back was turned.

"No, thank you."

"Pity," he whispered turning his dark gaze to an older women over Katniss' shoulders, who too couldn't find any work. She was his. Katniss took this, his focus on the other woman, as a signal. Dismissed. She trudged away, quickly, leaving the older women to fend for herself.

The next morning, Wiress was found dead. One gun shot to the head.

She was dismissed too.

Similar to that woman, his workers are older, that's how he gets them. When they're aged and worn in, down on their money and luck; his are well groomed in the streets. And they're all addicted to their own kind of poison, whether it's heroin or white liquor. Just like Enorbaria and Cashmere.

Enorbaria and Cashmere. The girls' names are as fake as they look, one with a pink wig offsetting her dark skin and the other's natural blonde hair was tainted red. Their faces are caked with makeup to hide their ages. A sympathy not even Madge has for them.

"What do you bitches think your doing here?" Madge heatedly asks, standing in front of Enobaria, a mere inches from the girl's painted face.

"Snow put us here," Enorbaria explains with an annoyed edge to her voice.

"Well that sucks don't it. Get steppin," Madge rises her eyebrows and gathering her small stature to full height, even though the other girl looms over her.

Cashmere scoffs at Madge, and Katniss steps in, ready to defend, while pulling her lips back to reveal her teeth. "Seniority bitch," Katniss hisses. "Madge's been here for a year, get your own spot."

Cashmere steps closer, pushing her face close Katniss, so close Katniss can smell the cigarette smoke lingering on her breath. She raises her arms ready to push the girl, ready to-

"What you bitches think your doing?" A dark haired girl with short spiky hair calls from her spot, "You girls know that's Kat's and Madge's stars. Get your old asses down to Sunset. That's where you belong, fuckers."

Madge tilts her head, ready to start something. Her and Enobaria stare at each other for what seems like hours, the seconds slowly trickle by.

Enobaria gets closer, then takes a step back. "Whatever, your not worth it," she backs away turning on her ratty ass pumps. Cashmere follows, her hands in the air, not ready to start a fight without her friend's help, though she's sure she could take Katniss.

"Yeah, we own Brooks to Diaz." Madge yells after them, like a territorial Golden Retriever, she then looks at Katniss, "God, who does Snow think he is, sending them over here. I have a mind to-"

"Don't you dare," Katniss cuts her off.

Katniss goes to wave to Johanna, give her thanks, but the brunette only gives her the finger and yells from where she's standing. "Hey Brainless One and Two. Get your shit together or y'all should get steppin to Sunset too. I got work to do."

Then, as if planned, a Nissan appears in front of Jo, ready to whisk the practically naked woman away. Katniss wishes she had the balls to dress like Jo, but the last shred of her pride wouldn't let her. She looked like a Mormon next to the other girl's nipple tassels and booty shorts.

I don't believe you, you're not the truth.

It takes two hours, two dismal hours, the clock strikes twelve, and Madge wants call it a night. She's tired, and her feet are pounding from breaking in her new stilettos.

Katniss won't, can't leave. She has too much pent up energy, at least that's what she says to Madge. She knows there are overdue bills, at home for Prim and here for the two of them. And goddammit, she wants to be able to google on her phone, so Katniss Everdeen is resolved to stick out the night, at least until 3:59 am.

She paces their stars, antsy for a job, as Madge stands in one spot, twirling her crimped blonde hair. She counts each of the cement stars, there's five, and she steps her black heels on their names, hiking her skirt higher and thrusting her chest out.

Cameron Diaz, step.

Sylvester Stallone, swank.

Diana Ross, stride.

Dolly Parton, strut.

Mel Brooks... turn around and walk back.

She will find work. She will find work. That's the only mantra Katniss knows right now. She will find work.

She turns to Madge, "Maybe we should find a pimp."

"So he can take our money and tell us who and who not to fuck? We work for no one, Kat. You know that." Madge explains, pulling her gum with her finger and snapping it back to her mouth. The blonde eyes moved to her roommate ready to say her goodbyes, it's late, and she just wants some cuddling with Gale, when a rented silver car pulls up to their corner.

Just ten feet from where Katniss stands. Katniss knows cars, and she knows this is an Aston Martin, 560 horsepower, over 250 grand. She dies inside. Dies and floats up to hooker heaven.

"Get it mami," Madge cat calls, but Katniss swings her head to her friend, it is so close, but Katniss is rooted in her spot like a young fawn in the bright headlights.

Madge thrusts her eyebrows into the air and rushes over, "You look like the four Fs, fabulous, fresh, and fucking fuckable." Katniss cracks a smile, "Take $200 for the night, he screams money." Madge delicately ran her hands over Katniss' arms, then reached up and pecked her on the lips, "Now go get it," with a swat on her bum Katniss maneuvers towards the silver car, but her limbs and mind are disjointed. She steps on Parton, Parton doesn't tread slowly, no she swings her hips and struts.

Parton, be Parton. Be the Parton. Katniss struts to the Aston Martin and inside it finds a blonde haired man hitting a phone with a black screen.

She faintly hears Madge exclaim, "Be safe! Use condoms!"

Katniss clears her throat and taps on the window. The man looks up, with a look of confusion etched across his ash eyebrows, as if he wasn't expecting anyone to knock on the window. He reaches for the tan window button, taps it, and the window folds down. God, the car even smells beautifully.

"Um, can I help you?" His voice is smooth, very smooth, like velvet. Katniss notes the honeyed tone with a sly smirk gracing her bright red colored lips.

"Depends if your feeling lonely tonight, big boy."

The man chuckles shaking his head, "No, thank you. Your beautiful- I mean, sorry-" He regains his posture, runs his hands down his tie and concludes with an authoritative "No."

Katniss scowls, ready to turn from the car. But the man halts her, telling her to stop. She spins around and rests her elbows on the window, she leans in her head in. She turns on her slinkiness, her body folding, her arms making her usually small breasts seem a tenfold bigger.

The man scratches his head. "Look, my phone just died, and I can't figure out this GPS system. Can you just give me directions to Beverly Hills?"

Katniss stands up, juts her hip out, and looks around. She hates tourists, with their money, with their leisure. She hates that they can just go wherever they want and use anything to get what they want. She hates being taken advantage of, and she won't let this Abercrombie model use her from his Aston Martin. She may be a prostitute, but she's no pushover.

"Twenty bucks."

"Seriously?"

"Girl's gotta eat." She punctuates her T's for affect.

The blonde haired man groans and lays his head back on the sleek, leather head rest. Katniss takes advantage, unlocks the door from inside, and tumbles in after her heel catches on the side walk. But he didn't notice, his eyes closed and focused on shaking his head.

"Make it forty and I'll take you there myself." He finally looks at her, and he's startled to find her sitting in his car, close to his face.

She's aware of the way he stares at her legs, she knows they look good: tan, toned, endless, adorned with sexy fishnet stalkings. She smiles at him, as he clears his throat, finally meeting her eyes. "Have change for a fifty?"

"Sorry, didn't I mention there was a hospitality and tourist charge? Go strait." She negotiates, points her hand towards the road and buckles her seatbelt.

"I -uh-yeah." He nods, moving his car into drive.

No one could look as good as you.

Peeta Mellark's day has been hell. His flight was delayed, and he had coffee spilled on him by an overly enthused flight attendant. Once he landed, his lawyer regretted to inform him by telephone that the Hampton's house went to his newly ex wife.

"Don't worry," he rushed over the phone, "you got the Manhattan apartment." Indeed no worries, Craveth, Swaine & Moore LLP.

He needed a new lawyer.

He then found out, after spending three hours on a conference call from Hong Kong and London that stock revenue for the month of June was down. Mellark & Co. needed a miracle, and the only way to save that miracle would be to expand his shoppe across seas and confirm the deal with Californian Farmers Union. Sure, Kansas has the most wheat production, but they used mostly GMO products, and Peeta is hell bent on changing Mellark's image. No GMO. No Preservatives. Kinda Whole Foods like, but cheap.

And California has good land for organic wheat. All he needs to do is buy up the land.

So Peeta Mellark decided months ago to visit California in June when the CFU president was in town for a convention. Peeta had it all planned out; he'd persuade said president, one Alma Coin, to sell him mass amounts land to grow his product with his charm and ruthless wit.

Only, Alma Coin has refused time and time again to meet him. After endless phone calls with her assistant, he learned the only way to meet Coin, would be to attend the annual Masked Gala at the Hyatt Century Plaza. It took less than an hour after for Peeta to haggle for two overly priced tickets. Two tickets, and one CEO.

His assistant, Seneca, could have been a valuable asset to the gala, only his beard and overall demeanor is just eerie. Peeta also doesn't want any of the CFU thinking negatively on "Mellark's." Image is everything. If he brings his assistant, who also happens to be a man, he knows rumors would spread like wild fire and leave his business in an even worse situation. He could read the Forbes article already.

Peeta Mellark, Heir of Mellark Fortune Leaves Wife for Male Assistant.

After a heated discussion figuring out what to do with the second ticket, Seneca decided it was a perfect time to tell him all about the beautiful woman he could set his boss up with. One thing Peeta didn't need today, after coffee spills and conference calls was a date set up by his freak assistant, who's only reason for still having a job was his way of making everything happen. Like the two tickets to the Gala.

And Now.

Now, there is a prostitute sitting in his rented Aston Martin Vanquish, that he can't even figure out to drive. It was pushed on him, like this cheap prostitute, by the women at the rental company. If only cars could drive themselves. He should donate money to google's driverless car prototypes. That would solve every problem.

He thought the girl was being sarcastic when she said it was twenty for directions, but apparently Californians don't do sarcasm like New York does. And Peeta was too tired and drawn to fight with the prostitute. Fifty bucks, personal directions, and she'd be gone.

"Nice car!" She enthuses with animated features, running her hands up and down the maroon leather interior.

"Thanks, I'll tell the rental company you approve." A hooker approves. Great. She's going to steal him blind. It's fine, he only has the fifty on him anyway.

The girl doesn't really listen though, she's too fixated on feeling the leather beneath her hands. Rippled, and smooth, and so many adjectives that she can't think of because she's caught in the moment. And maybe, just maybe, because she dropped out of school; English was probably never her subject.

"May I ask your name?"

She pulls her colored lips back, moving in her seat to face him. "What you want it to be, handsome?" At Peeta's humorless look, and his plaintive stare, she sits up straiter. "Kat."

"Pleasure to meet you Kat."

Kat looks up, taking in her surroundings. "Get in the right lane," she suggests, when she realizes Peeta's poor driving skills. Peeta moseys through the traffic, not used to driving in a parking lot of moving cars that cut him off at any chance. In fact, Peeta's not use to driving, period.

And doesn't know what noises cars make, and what noises they don't. So when he doesn't switch his gears, and the car makes a grumbling roar at improper use, he think's thats just perfectly normal. Third gear is the perfect gear. Third gear is totally, absolutely, one hundred percent fine with Peeta Mellark.

Kat doesn't agree.

"So you like third gear?"

"Huh?"

She nods her head to the stick in between the two.

"Oh," he laughs uncomfortably, "I don't know how to actually drive shift, I guess it's just all they had," Peeta grimaces.

"Well, you should downshift to second, we're in congested traffic."

"You know how to drive stick?"

"Yeah, my cousins at home are typical hick car enthusiasts. No person should drive unless they know stick." Kat points to the red light ahead, "Turn right, here."

Peeta swings the car around, "Where's uh" he fiddles with his shifting, for some reason trying to downshift and unsurprisingly failing, "Where's this hick home?"

"Panem, Pennsylvania."

Panem, Pennsylvania, located just off 79, a hard hour north of Pittsburgh. Blue collar, small town living. The complete opposite of California - and Los Angeles. Pretty decent farming conditions, but too close to the Pennsylvania coal minds to have good, reliable products.

Peeta nods his head, searching for Panem on the imagined map in his photogenic head. "So, have you ever actually driven a car like this?"

"An Aston?" At his nod, she laughs, "Only in my dreams."

Peeta swings pulls over to the shoulder, "Well, you're driving."

She cringes when the engine makes that uncomfortable grumbling noise again. Her attention is so focused on caring for this once in a lifetime car that she doesn't realize he has gotten out of it and moved beside her, opening her door.

She looks up at him plaintively, "What?"

"You're driving."

She scoffs, "You need to work on your comedic timing."

He chuckles, reaffirms that she would be driving, and moves to let her out of the door. Only she doesn't get out, instead she smirks at him. His eyes bug out of his head as she hitches her hands on the center console and pulls herself over the seat, giving him the perfect view of under her skirt. He catches a glimpse, a small peek at her lacy underthings, before seeing the smirking glint in her eyes and pulls himself to look away.

He tightens his jaw and slightly shakes his head, unbelieving that this woman just gave him a preview for what was for sale to the highest buyer. And even, a little bit ashamed with himself, and the growing desire he had for her.

There was just something about her eyes.

When he plops back in Kat smiles lightly at him and throws the car into gear.

"Buckle up, I'm going to show you how to make this baby purr."

Won't you pardon me?

Rule Number One: Never let any customer know your real name.

That's something Katniss learned the hard way from a customer of hers, after he waited for her on the corner. After he asked around for her. After he showed up at Madge's and her's apartment.

He was young, with seemingly kind features. And even with his All-American looks, he was more menacing than any of her customers. The way he waited outside his building for her. The way he would say her name, "Kat-nissss" sounding almost like a snake. The way he used his strength to control her and distort his own delusions.

From that experience forward, Katniss never used her real name again.

As two months crawled by, Katniss became good at sorting out the customers like Cato and the kind, awkward ones like Darius.

Peeta doesn't seem like a rough one, but then again, he doesn't seem exactly like the sweet ones either. He's probably ruthless and domineering, but at the same time overly cautious with his life choices. He's probably the kind of guy who never calls women back, but calls his Grandma Wheatie three times a day to makes sure she hadn't broken her hip again.

Katniss knows, though, looks can be harshly deceiving. So… Kat.

"I just don't get how you could have never learned to drive stick? I mean, isn't that a rule for all drivers or something." When Peeta makes no comment, Katniss continues, "It should be. Maybe that's why there's less crashes in Europe, ya know. People should learn to drive stick."

Peeta clears his throat, "I don't actually do much driving."

"Much?" Katniss inquires, confused at his words.

"Any." He corrects, "I have a driver in New York."

"You know, that's not a bad idea. You're giving a job to someone. And carpooling saves gas, and we need to save all the oil we can, ya know? I mean god, 4 freaking dollars for a gallon of gas. I mean not that I do much driving - I don't have a car- but I mean this gas situation needs to be cleared up, ya know. But- yeah, carpooling, that's good." He smiles at her, a genuine one, not one of those smiles to brush her off or shut her up, but an endearing smile. He's endeared by her awkward ramblings; she never was good with words. "Hey, what kind of car do you drive?"

She'd bet her money for tonight, all of fifty shiny dollars, that he drives a Tesla, or some other type of "go green" car, he looks like one of those caring, nerdy guys. The type to save the universe from his battery operated car.

"Escalade."

Bet lost.

This is why she has no money for rent.

Katniss purses her lips, then scowls, "Those aren't exactly good on gas."

He smiles looking over at her, "You don't say." His wallet probably knows how they're bad on gas.

"Yeah, so if you're trying to help the world, you might want to... I don't know, drive a Volvo or something. Just some food for thought," she switches gears into third, properly, and accelerates quickly.

It doesn't go unnoticed that the man to her right tenses when she makes sharp turns or fast accelerations, and purely because this is his car, she eases on the gas.

From the corner of her eye, Katniss can tell he's looking at her. She can see his jaw is flexed tensely, he's obviously grinding his teeth together. His palms trail up and down his left leg, almost reassuring it's there, or wiping the sweat on them; Katniss is not entirely sure.

"So what kind of money do you girls make these days?" His voice cuts through the silence, as his palms stop their moving.

One-fifty a night usually, but not tonight.

She thinks, she knows, to go higher than normal, a guy who has a driver and owns a Escalade can afford it, "two-fifty."

He whistles, "You make two-fifty a night?"

Hook

"An hour," she corrects him, her lips tugging into a sly smile.

He shakes his head, and blanches. "You make two-fifty an hour?" She nods and smirks. He stares at her with his usually taut jaw slack. He knows he heard her wrong, "You make two hundred and fifty dollars … an hour." She shrugs, keeping her eyes on the road. "two-fifty, and you can't afford to buy a skirt that covers your ass."

Line.

"It's a uniform," she defends, "Besides, I don't donate to charity. Do you think Snoop Dogg's dealer sells him shit at bottom prices. Absolutely not, sir. I have the good goods everyone likes."

He laughs, trailing his eyes up and down her form, "Yeah I'm sure you do." He picks himself up, pulling down his slightly tented pants. God how long has it been, at least three months. "So two-fifty. That's pretty stiff."

Sinker.

Katniss' hand snakes its way to his pants and feels his cock through his navy suit slacks, raised at half mast. "Only slightly."

.Sinker.

When he looks at her perfectly calm with only slightly arched eyebrows, she retracts herself with a sheepish smile and continues driving.

She is annoyed that he didn't react. She expected some backlash, a laugh, a deep breath in; hell, maybe even a disgusted shake of his head, but his complete silence and calm demeanor only makes her more frustrated.

Are you lonely just like me?

They pull up to the Beverly Wilshire, the pretentiousness of the building was so thick that it wafted into the car settling around Katniss and Peeta like fiery smoke.

"We have arrived at our destination sir," Kat drawls playfully, jumping out of the car, not caring to conservatively pull her skirt down, and tosses the keys onto Peeta's no longer tented lap.

Peeta walks over to her slowly, as the valet takes the keys from him, retiring the car for the rest of the night, or the trip, if Peeta had it his way.

"Well Kat, thank you." He says, handing her the money. "You'll find a ride back?"

She swings her arms, and clasps her hands together, "Yeah, I'm taking the bus."

Peeta nods his head in understanding, "Ah, saving the world, one carpooled ride at a time."

She smiles slightly and quietly laughs with raised eyebrows, "Yep… One ride at a time."

"Right, well, here's your money. Thank you for the ride."

She nods her head as if to say an unsentimental goodbye. Kat is the first to walk away, her heals clicking on the side walk, as Peeta looks on at her. He should turn away.

Should.

But there's a nagging voice inside of his head. Months. It's been months. And then he hears Clove's voice, with her hisses and accusations. He's boring, safe, monotonous. Peeta Mellark is predictable. That's what she said to him when she left with her Louis Vuitton luggage clutched in her talons, Peeta Mellark is already dead. He wants to be anything but the lifeless man he has become. The man who works 60 hours a week, with no time for family or friends. The man who only goes home to make calls and avoids any type of social setting. The man who has become as trite and uninteresting as his life.

Well a trite and uninteresting man would not hire a prostitute. No. That's something men like Peeta Mellark would never do.

When Peeta looks at her - really looks at her - he notices that she's not that bad looking. Her hair needs to be changed, that's a given. But she's quite beautiful. And there's something in her manner, her childlike demeanor, that's innocently appealing. Her incessant need to keep the conversation going is endearing. And maybe, just maybe, her childish behavior will earn her money for the night.

So, when he sees Kat standing by the sidewalk, her hip jutted out, her arms crossed, her face calmly anticipating the bus, when he sees her as a beautiful escape from his neatly boxed, boring life; he doesn't see a prostitute. He sees the polar opposite of his mirror reflection. She's dark, and adventurous, and doesn't have her life pieced perfectly together.

He sees the possibility. He sees the possibility of a beautiful scenery that just needs to be painted.

And somehow, through his eyes and silent reverie, his body has left no choice but to hire this girl because before he knew it, he's merely a foot from her. And before he can back out, and run like the coward he is, he clears his throat with an authoritative cough.

She twirls around on her heals, "What can I do for you, sugar?"

What Can I do for you?

What can she do for him? Peeta doesn't know. Why is he here, who is she again? He doesn't even remember. This was unlike him. He was usually so cold and so domineering; he was usually the Christian Grey and she should be as timid as Bella Swan. But instead, her demeanor turned him into a tongue tied pubescent teen being propositioned by a woman for the first time. She's anything but a fragile female.

Peeta smiles at her, "Did you really say two hundred and fifty an hour?"

"That's right."

"I thought so," Peeta calmly runs his hands down his suit and gathers his thoughts, "Well, how would you like to accompany me to my room, unless you had other plans?"

A large, engulfing smile tugs on Kat's face, "I think I could switch some plans around for that." She dusts imaginary dirt off his shoulders. "So, what's your name?"

Right. Name. That would be helpful. "Peeta."

"Peeta? Really? It just so happens that I love gyros." She says adjusting the bag on her shoulder.

He smirks at her, "Why does that not surprise me," he shrugs his suit jacket off and puts it around her shoulders.

"What are you doing?" She asks, and tries to resist his clothes. "You know, I can clothe myself."

"I don't doubt that; but you see, Kat, this hotel," he pauses, clasping the jacket around her, "I don't think it's the kind of hotel you frequent."

She stops dead on the sidewalk staring at him, and crosses her hands over her chest. "What do you mean I frequent? What makes you think I haven't been here before? Hm?" When he doesn't respond, and instead resumes pushing her forward with his hand on the small of her back, she relents and glides along the entrance way. "You know, I've been here a lot. A lot. And you know… this place- this place really, really isn't all its cracked up to be." He bites his smile back at her flustered ramblings and spirited, punctuating hands. She talks with her hands.

She continues, "In fact, it's nothing compared to the Ritz. Seriously, if you wanted to impress me you should have gotten a room there. I mean, Wilshire, really? Did your grandpa pick this room for you?" She's goading him on, staring at him as he pushes her forward.

Peeta doesn't say anything as he guides her into the lobby. And as she enters, Kat's demeanor instantly changes. She tugs his suite jacket tighter around her, like it's a security blanket protecting her.

A laugh escapes her as she takes in the marble and ornate decor. "You've gotta be shitting me."

I hope you enjoyed, until next time.

Pretty woman, stop a while.

Pretty woman, talk a wile.

Pretty woman, give your smile to me.