One day, when the workers were removing the plasterboard, the architect came pounding on the downstairs door, so excited I thought he was going to piss himself. Okay, that was cold, but it had been a long night, and he’d woken me out of a sound sleep.
“What’s up?” I asked, yawning and rubbing my scalp.
His eyes widened. I stood there dressed only in a pair of sweat pants that dipped low on my hips, a tattoo of a dragon—a temporary tattoo—curling from my back to just the right of my navel. The client I’d seen the night before was a businessman from Taiwan, and I’d serviced him a number of times before. He liked to think he was taming the dragon.
“What?” Walter, the architect, blinked a couple of times and cleared his throat. “Oh, what I found! The original bedrooms each had a fireplace.
