Dirty Daddies Underground

Chapter Nine

Harper’s POV

I read their messages the moment they came through, each one calm, thoughtful, even kind in a way that caught me off guard, but I didn’t reply. Instead, I closed the app and set the phone down on the counter with a quiet finality.

I don’t want them to think I’m eager. Not like that. Not in a way that smells of desperation.

They said they trust me, that they care, but I can still feel the hesitation threaded between the lines. Their concern was real, and though it was gentle, it was still a question. So I didn’t respond. Not because I don’t want this, but because I can’t afford to look like I do, not too much, not too fast.

Let them wonder. Let them think I’m indifferent. That maybe it doesn’t matter to me whether they say yes or not. Because if I give even a hint that I need this, that I’m hungry for it, they’ll start to second-guess everything.

And that would ruin it.

So instead, I get dressed. I tuck my hair back, pull on clean jeans and a fitted black shirt, and head out the door. I have work anyway, and maybe a shift at the café is exactly what I need to ground myself.

The bell above the door jingles as I step inside, the familiar scent of coffee and warm pastries already curling in the air like a comfort blanket. Rose looks up from behind the counter and offers me her usual soft smile.

I don’t say anything. I don’t need to. I just grab my apron, tie it around my waist, and head straight for the tables.

There’s a rhythm to this place I’ve always liked. It’s quiet but never empty, the kind of café where people come to read, write, breathe. There’s no pressure, no expectation beyond a refill and the occasional slice of cake.

And most importantly, it’s a job that doesn’t ask for my body.

It’s been just over two hours of taking orders, delivering food, and refilling mugs when the bell rings again, and I glance up to see Lesley sauntering through the door like she owns the place.

She finds a booth, slides in with the grace of someone who’s never rushed a day in her life, and looks at me like she already knows something I don’t.

“I want waffles,” she says, pulling out her wallet without waiting for a menu. “Coffee. Pancakes. One of those strawberry tarts too.” She lays down a few crisp bills on the table and flashes me a smug smile.

“One night’s money,” she adds, almost like a challenge while opening her purse wider.

I glance at the cash, then back at her. She always does this, flaunts it. Like the money means something more because it came fast.

“Do you ever feel bad?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

She tilts her head, amused. “Why would I?”

“Because that app’s not supposed to be about prostitution. It’s for people in the lifestyle. The money’s meant to be a gift, not payment for s*x.”

Lesley leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. Her expression doesn’t change, but there’s something in her eyes now, less playfulness, more steel.

“I enjoy it,” she says slowly. “I don’t lie about what I want. The money is a bonus in my eyes, not the goal.”

She says it like it’s the simplest truth in the world. Like what she’s doing isn’t a transaction, but a choice. And maybe it is for her. Maybe.

But I remember when she worked the street. When she’d come back limping, hollow-eyed, too tired to fake a smile. Now she’s doing this, every other night, every time I check.

“You’re doing it too,” she says, her voice light but sharp at the edges. “How is it any different?”

I blink at her, almost stunned. “I’m doing it once. Maybe twice. That’s it.”

She raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“I don’t plan to use it as a source of income,” I add, firmer now. “I’m just trying to pay Mark back.”

“Sure,” she replies, still smiling like she knows something I haven’t figured out yet. “You say that now. But once that money hits your account, you’ll be booking your next date before you can stop yourself.”

“No, I won’t.”

I hear how defensive I sound, but I don’t care. She’s wrong.

I don’t like selling myself. I never have. I’m doing this to fix something. To settle a debt that isn’t even mine. Once it’s done, once Mark has what he wants, we can go back to who we used to be. We’ll be even. We’ll be okay.

I don’t wait for her to argue. I turn, walk away from the table, and put her order through.

She can sit there and smirk all she wants, but she doesn’t know me.

Not really.

~~~*~~~*~~~

By the time I get home, the city lights have begun to blur behind the windowpanes and my feet are aching from too many hours on them. I kick off my shoes near the door and collapse onto the couch with a sigh that feels like it’s been trapped inside me for days. The apartment is quiet. Mark’s not back yet, and the silence, for once, feels like relief instead of a warning.

I sit still for a moment, letting my shoulders sink into the cushions, then pull out my phone and open the app. Their messages are still there, waiting. I stare at them for a few seconds, heart beginning to drum low in my chest. It’s time to reply.

BruisedLace: Thank you for the apology, although it’s not needed. I promise I’ll tell you if anything feels outside my comfort zone or against my limits. I understand how important limits are.

I chew on my bottom lip, hesitation dancing at the edges of my fingertips. Then I decide to just say it. To stop circling around the idea and step into it. I type slowly, deliberately.

BruisedLace: So, if I were to be interested, and I am, and wanted to take you up on your offer, what would the next step be? How do we move forward?

I hit send before I can second-guess myself again.