Hotel-Side Assistance

It was a good thing I was so resilient, because when I got to the nightclub, I was informed that a rich local guy identified to me only as Walt, in his late fifties, would be taking me to another supper at 2:00 a.m. and would keep me for the night. I was assured I'd be smothered in luxuries.

When I'd changed, into expensive evening cloths provided by someone other than me—I didn't ask—at the end of my nightclub stint, I was told that a black limousine was waiting for me at the street end of the alley the stage door accessed. I never made it to the limousine, though. Jack was standing in the alley, looking hopeful, and holding one red rose.

"I rather hoped—" he started to say as I approached him.

"Yes," I said, "but block me from view from the limousine on the street as we leave."

We took the Porsche. Jack said he could get back to his Jeep later, but what he wanted now was to get me into bed at my hotel.

After he fucked me, we lay in each other's arms.

"You're going to hate me," he said.

"Not until we've done it a dozen more times," I said.

"No, really. I have a confession. It's serious. I really did the dirty."

"You put the nail in the BMW tire last night when it was in the hotel parking lot," I said.

"Shit. How did you figure that out?"

"You told me it was a nail before you dug it out of the tire, and you knew just where it had gone in, although the puncture wasn't easy to find."

"Well, fuck," he exclaimed.

"Yes, please," I answered.