1/3
"Just tell me your name."
She looked over at him, still lying in the bed, shirtless. He looked so smug, like she didn't have other customers waiting. Like he wasn't just some john who'd paid his money and had a turn with her, as though she'd invited him up for a night as a real couple. He smirked, and she thought about telling him, but no. She didn't tell johns her name. She didn't want them to be more a part of her life than they had to be.
"Whatever you want it to be, lover," she answered, her voice lush. She winked at him. It was all an act, of course; she hated the act, but didn't have a choice. What else could she do?
"No, I mean it." He sat up. "What's your name?"
"It doesn't matter." She glanced at the clock. "You got ten minutes left."
"It matters to me."
"It ain't none a' your business."
He gave her an amused look, and gestured to the bed next to him. "I got ten minutes left. Get over here."
She complied, vaguely annoyed; she was almost dressed again. But he'd paid for her, so she did as asked, and he reached for the bodice of her dress and began to fiddle with the lacing. She placed a hand on his chest; his skin was smooth, and he looked younger than he really was, with shaggy light brown hair and a smile that meant he could probably have any girl he wanted. But for whatever reason, he hadn't wanted a girl like most people did, he'd paid for a whore instead. She had to wonder about that.
"You got no idea who I am, do you?" he asked, leaning in and kissing her neck, then removing the bodice.
"You wanna tell me?" she murmured. "I know you're important. I know you're… powerful."
"You'd better believe it." He rolled over, on top of her, and kissed her. "You ain't never gonna meet anyone as powerful as me."
She kissed back, wrapping her arms around him, digging her fingernails into his back. He shuddered a little, but it was with pleasure more than pain; she had learned to judge which guys would like what. He definitely struck her as a nails-on-the-back guy.
He rolled off of her, and paused. "What's your name?" he asked again.
"Why do you want to know?" she asked.
"Since when do whores give their customers lip?" he demanded.
"Lip?" she scoffed. "I given lots a' things in my time, but never heard it called that before."
"You know what I mean." He pushed himself up on his elbows, and watched her watching him. "You're good at what you do. I want to find you again."
"It takes two to tango, lover," she answered, tracing a finger down his chest.
"Spot," he answered.
"What?"
"My name. I ain't afraid to tell you. Spot Conlon… You ever heard a' me?"
"Sure," she answered. She hadn't, but that didn't matter, he wanted her to have. She was being paid to make him happy for another few minutes at least. And she lied to all of the johns who came to see her, so it wasn't like it mattered.
"You really have?" he asked.
"Sure I have."
He grinned and kissed her. "You'se a liar," he said. "But it's nice a' you. You ever need anythin' in Brooklyn, you just say you'se my girl."
"I ain't your girl," she answered. "Not after another five minutes."
"You don't know how many girls wish they was my girl."
She shrugged. "You don't know how many guys wish they knew my name."
He laughed a little. "You'se good in bed an' funny. Tell me your name."
"No."
Usually she didn't directly refuse johns, they didn't like that and it made them feel like they weren't getting their money's worth. But he clearly wasn't taking any hints, and even though he probably wouldn't take no for an answer, it was easier to lay the law down than to argue semantics.
He looked startled; she got the impression people didn't say no to him a lot. "I'll find out," he said. "Sooner or later, I'll find out. I got little birds everywhere, they hear everything. One of them will know."
"You really want your little birds asking what you was doing spending the night in a cathouse?" she asked back. He narrowed his eyes a little; she'd guessed right and her remark hit home. He was too prideful to let other people know he dallied with whores. Probably not because he had a problem with her class of people—judging by his clothes, he wasn't any higher class himself—but because he wanted people to think he could have any girl he wanted. It was a power thing. Machismo.
"I'll find out," he promised. "Next time, I'll greet you by name. You'll see."
"You're coming back?" she asked.
"You gonna look forward to it?" he smirked.
She smiled, but to her surprise, it was a real smile. She never smiled for real while she was working. She didn't like her job… Or rather, she didn't mind the job itself, she just hated the men who came to her. But this one—Spot Conlon, apparently—he didn't seem like the others. He didn't seem to be such a bad guy.
There wasn't enough time to really do much else, but they spent the final few minutes wrapped in each others arms, lips locked.
And then time was up. He was reluctant to go; she was reluctant to force him. But business was business.
--
He almost staggered into the door. She had been sitting on the bed, waiting for her next customer, and when she saw who it was she hurried to her feet and caught him. She guided him towards the bed, where he collapsed, faced buried in a pillow. Flecks of dried blood rubbed off him every time he moved, more of his skin was bruised than wasn't, and he looked like he was barely conscious.
"Spot?" she murmured, stripping him of his shirt. He clearly was in no shape for fooling around, despite having paid for it; she carefully began to massage his back. He shuddered in pain, but let her skillful fingers begin to soothe his aching body. "What's your name?" he mumbled sleepily.
"Don't worry about that now," she answered. "What happened?"
"Don't worry about that, either," he replied.
"Did you win the fight?"
"I always win."
She swallowed hard. "I'd hate to see the loser."
"Ain't no one seeing him anymore except the fishes in the bay."
"And if you lose someday?"
"I always win."
She didn't question him about it. She didn't want to know. Instead, she continued to massage him, and he must have been exhausted by the fight—not that she could blame him, judging by the wounds she saw—and he fell asleep under the careful ministrations of her fingers.
--
He was all smirks and self-confidence. "Tell me your name," he commanded.
"Go to hell, Conlon," she answered.
He laughed and reached for her, pulled her close, and they collapsed on the bed together moments later. Things that night were fun and exciting. She didn't know quite what had put him in such a good mood, but didn't really care to ask. His breath smelled of alcohol, for one, and he again had traces of a fight in his skin. But this time, the damage wasn't major. An occasional bruise, one cut on his side, and that was all. He'd won, and this time, definitively.
"But you always put me in heaven," he murmured into her skin, as his hand caressed her side and his lips went to her neck.
"That's what you pay me for," she answered.
"Why won't you tell me your name?"
"'Cause you don't want a girl, you want a whore."
"But you ain't just a whore," he objected, sitting up suddenly. "You… You put me to sleep."
"Thanks a lot."
"Not like that. I mean… You knew what I needed, that last time. An' you just did it. An' you make me laugh. No other whores do that."
"No other johns make me laugh," she admitted. "But I ain't your girl. I'm your whore. I'm just what I say I am."
"Can I guess your name?" he asked.
"Sure."
"Will you tell me if I'm right?"
She shrugged. "I thought you'd paid for something else tonight."
He grinned and climbed on top of her. "Rebecca?" he asked, and she shook her head while he began to work on a button on her dress. "Rachel? Elizabeth? Virginia? Jessica? Give me a letter. Tell me what letter it starts with."
She reached up and began to undo his buttons. "You've gotta guess it, Spot."
"Aw, that's impossible."
"It was your idea."
"I got better ideas now." He shrugged out of his shirt, and things went on from there.
AN: This fic was actually written… Uh, awhile ago. It's not my best writing but I still enjoy it a lot, and since this whole "het" thing is new to me, I'd absolutely love some CC.