New Orleans.
The city of sin. Or maybe that was Las Vegas? No fucking clue.
I tightly wrapped my robe around me and stepped onto the balcony overlooking the crowded, lively streets. A man blasted his trumpet, sitting on stone steps connected to an apartment while passerby cheered him on. Jazz music wafted down the narrow road, waltzing into my ears. Sellers yelled about their wares, promising fortune readings, food, hand-crafted jewelry, and more. An odd assortment, yet they still lured in all the eager tourists. Vibrant with life, the people below me filled the air with noise and allure. I cast a glance at Glenda, an old black lady who swore she was a witch. The tourists loved her stories and often bought her herbs. She owned a small dandy shop situated right across and down from my apartment. She caught my eye and waved at me. I grinned back. Smiles were currency here, and everyone was rich.
Skinny arms coiled around my waist and I went completely rigid. Ralf had come up from behind and now placed his chin on my shoulder. My smile tightened as I felt his nose drag across my neck. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep.
To put it lightly, I despised Ralf with every fiber of my being. A classic day-drunk, although he did have quite a good tolerance. He was all scrawny frame, nerdy appearance, and unkempt hair. There was nothing remotely attractive about him, at least, not to me. His eyes were... green? Hazel? Brown? No clue, if I'm being honest. I hadn't paid much thought to them. They were rather beady, and I never was too keen on a man who always looked as if he were a mosquito, pondering where best to bite. He had a sharp jawline for a guy around 19, although that could also be because of his skinny build. Ralf appeared much like a spoiled kid upon the first impression. What Ralf wanted, Ralf got.
But, alas, I put up with it. I don't want to get all defensive and claim that I see something in him that keeps me from leaving him- because, I don't. But he's got money. I don't know from where, I don't know how, but he has it. And as a girl who cut off all of her ties to her family a year ago and doesn't possess the funding to travel the world at her whim, it was enough to keep me from asking questions.
To say I was a con-artist was pushing it. I don't fall for the guys whose beds I warm to live the lavish life, but I also never rob them. The money they gave me was handed over willingly. Maybe that's the difference between me and a con-artist. They have to lie to steal while I just have to, lie, sometimes on a table but preferably on a bed. Wood hurts.
"Mm-mm-mm. Good morning, beautiful," Ralf breathed against my neck.
I plastered on a playful smile, mischief dancing across my lips. "Morning to you too, baby." Gag.
He finally pulled away and threaded his fingers through mine. Walking backward and sifting a hand through his blonde-brown hair, he led me back inside his apartment. His apartment? My apartment, if I were being petty about it. I let him pull me closer.
Without warning, he mushed his lips against mine. The taste of pungent, sour wine filled my mouth. It wasn't even noon yet and he was already drunk. His lips were thin, the posturing of his mouth against mine felt wrong, and did I mention the reek of alcohol? But I told him what he wanted to hear by kissing him back with fervor.
I broke the vile kiss and gave him a lazy grin. His eyes were filled with a hunger for more, but to keep a man entranced, the first step was to not give everything at once. Keep him waiting.
Defeated, he frowned before he dropped his arms from around my waist and drifted off to the tidy, granite kitchen.
The tv was still on from when I had woken up earlier. It was playing the news at a dismissible volume. My apartment was minimalistic yet ample, considering that Ralf only settled for the best of the best. Neutral tones painted the walls, in stark contrast to the dazzling white sofa I had urged him to buy. Even though I'd only known the guy for a few months, I'd made quite the impact.
