I stay sitting, desperate to leave. And I will, $3,500 richer. There’s a bar along one wall. He’s using tongs to drop spheres of ice into an old-fashioned tumbler then pouring amber liquid atop them. The liquor doesn’t fully cover the ice. I wonder if this is how rich people get wasted — one sip at a time. He sees me watching him. I avert my eyes, too late. “Would you like a drink?” I should say no. But I doubt he’s going to roofie me in a glass room in a public hotel, and whether it’s accepting gifts from an adversary or not, a stiff drink would make this easier. “Yes.” “Scotch?” “Yes.” He sets the bottle down and returns to his seat without pouring me a glass. “Do you masturbate, Bridget?” My jaw locks. I’m glaring into his face, but he’s kicked back now, sipping his drink. “It’s a simple question.” I shake my head, disbelieving. “Fuck you. Asshole.” I stand. “Not participating, then?” He looks at my bag, where I’ve stashed my check.
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