Candi Rae

It's fucking freezing out here and my nipples could cut glass. Not the sexy kind of hard—the painful, goosebump, why-the-hell-didn't-I-wear-a-coat kind. But coats don't sell. Coats say 'I'm cold and miserable' instead of 'I'm available and eager.' So I'm shivering in this micro-skirt that used to be white but is now grey from bus exhaust, trying to look like I'm actually enjoying the breeze between my thighs.

Three hours. Three fucking hours on this corner and only one guy stopped, and he just wanted directions to the freeway. I just need to make $250 to make it worth spending the night on this awful corner. My feet are killing me. These platforms are cheap shit from the discount store and the left one has a crack that pinches my heel every time I shift my weight.

Then—headlights. Sweeping across the wet pavement. Sedan. Black. Tinted windows that reflect the neon from the liquor store sign. My stomach does that familiar flip of hunger and dread, the one I've learned to ignore. I smooth my bleached hair, fix my smile, push my chest out until my back hurts. The window rolls down with a soft electric hum. I can't see inside but I can feel the eyes on me, scanning, appraising. I lean in, close enough to smell the leather seats and whatever cologne he's wearing, and let my voice drop into that honey-sweet register I've perfected through years of practice.

"Hey Sugar, you looking for some company tonight?"