Whatever You Want

It was cold. It was really fuckin' cold. I hadn't been this cold since I lived in Alaska for three months with my aunt. My first day there was in summer. It's still cold, no matter what you think. There might not be snow, but it doesn't stop it from being minus temperatures.

I had a perchant for the cold cities. Anchorage, Seattle, Boston New York. The latter: my current home. Far away from the reaches of my family in Pasadena, California. Rich, blue-blooded westerners. It wouldn't surprise me if my family was the basis for The Graduate. In fact, my grandmother probably did try to seduce one of my mother's lovers (and believe me she had plenty), and it wouldn't surprise me if my father was the one. After all they had married and been unhappy ever since. Well, not unhappy. Just... awkward. Like someone is always in the room with them, never expressing private information to each other. It had always been like that. Give or take a few happy moments of married life for them, whatever.

I hadn't been home in about four years. Again, give or take that number, it's probably either overestimated or shy by a few months. I did not like home, with it's ridiculous green lawns and tennis lovers. It was not home, because it was too Barbie Dream Mansion. And I wasn't allowed to smoke. My mother always rummaged through my bag for my cigarettes. My grandmother was allowed to though, which I always questioned and was given the reply of, "she's my mother, so shut up Georgia." I'm not welcome there anyway.

I had many deadly habits, smoking was just one. Drinking in excess, wasting money on cocaine and my inability to stop from participating in "whorish behaviour" as I've been told are justt a few more. All of me annoyed my parents, who had been willing to pay all of my college fees, find me a high class job that would earn me money and make them proud. I had not been interested. I expressed interest in going to see my Aunt Linda in Alaska for a while. They sent me, only to have me stay three months and come back with a better tan than they had. The reflection of the sun off of snow works wonders.

But here I was, situated on a cold corner in New York, waiting for a cab. Occasionally, someone (100% of the time, a male) would walk past and ask how much as he passed. I got bored of telling people to fuck off, so I began to say, "$2000 and I'm yours for the night." People would look back, worried as if walking near me would give them a veneral disease. I suppose I didn't look exactly un-prostitue like. My dark hair was matted, my dress skin tight, black and short. My stockings had rips in them, laddered on the side and my leather jacket caught the light. I was simply smoking on the corner, waiting for a vacant cab to go past. It's a Saturday night, and I have no luck. Do the math.

Someone walked past me, a group of about five guys, and I tried to shrink back into the shadow of the building. My heels obviously made a noise against the pavement, and they turned in my direction. A tall man with blondish hair laughed, "How much?" I rolled my eyes and flicked the cigarette to the ground. As I trod on it, I said, "Buy me a new pack of smokes, enough drinks to have me wasted enough to sleep with you and I'm yours baby."

A chrous of "ooooh" broke out among the rest, and they eyed me. And began to look weary. I do look like I could pull a knife from anywhere on me at the moment, I don't blame them. "I have a smoke if you want one," the same man says and I snatch the one he offers. I light it, take a drag and realise they're all still staring at me.

"What?" I demand. A short guy steps out and asks me if I really would do his friend if I had enough alcohol in me. I step out of the shadow and survey the first speaker in the light. They're staring at me more now. I look him up and down, narrow my eyes and then shrug my shoulders. "I guess. Who wouldn't?"

The short guy nods his head and laughs. "There you go John, why bother heading to Angels and Kings when you can just take her home?" The first guy, John obviously, laughs. I quickly jump in.

"What's Angels and Kings?" I ask, hoping it's somewhere to score quality gear. I'm bored, I want something to make my body pulse. Another guy in the pack, brown hair, answers.

"Club down the road."

"Can I come?" I ask. They all look at me. "I'm dressed for the part."

They all look at each other, as if reading minds to see who wants what. The tall one speaks for them all. "Okay." They start to walk and I run after them in my five inch heels.

"Wait! Can I score there?" I ask another question again. They look at me, frowning.

"Depends on what." The short one spoke again. "What's your name?"

"Cocaine. And if so, is it decent or would you not have a clue? It's Georgia, like the state and the peach." They all laugh at this. "Glad you're amused by my parents choice of ugly name. Who are all of you?"

"Pat."

"John."

"Garrett."

"Garrett? Ha, that's my brother's name!" I cry.

"Okay..." Garrett answers.

"Doesn't that suck? Who came first? I bet you want your name back. My brother is probably older than you, you look little."

"I'm Kennedy." Another skinny guy says. He's got great hair, he seems the wariest of me. "How old are you?"

"Old enough, cool name Kennedy." I glance at him. His eyes snapped to the pavement. No answer. He looked like he was going to ask another question. But he didn't. I turned around, walking backwards to look at the man with lip piercing. "And you? Who are you? You haven't talked." I was slowly getting more confident with these people. They were close, I could tell. Spent a lot of time together. Probably saw each other everyday.

"Jared," he answered, matching my tone. I scoffed.

"Normal name. Nothing too killerish. I guess you're safe." I raised my eyebrows and smirked at him. Of course, I was only kidding, but some of the guys moved further away from me by a few inches. "I saw that, the rest of you and I'm not some killer so cool it. Is that your real name? You can never trust the quiet ones."

"Real. Is Georgia your real name?"

"No, it's honest to God, not even kidding, Queen Latifah." I smirked. Jared laughed, this seemed to relax the others. "Are we there yet? Do we have to wait? Or are you guys on the VIP list? You look like you would be. You look like someone would miss you if you got killed, I'm guessing that's why you agreed to let me walk with you. You're safe."

"We're on a list, we know the owner." The one called John said. He was tall, really, really fucking tall. I was 5'4", 5'9" in my heels. He was like, close to a good half foot above that. I whistled.

"Fancy," I grin and we cut the line, talk to the guy at the door and we're in. It's nothing too special, but I'm already scoping out possible suppliers. The guys edge into the club, heading upstairs to the lounge. I follow. "Hey, HEY!" I have to yell above the music. "Can I stay with you guys?"

Kennedy looks like he wants to yell no. Pat nods yes in reply. Kennedy now looks folorn and a little pissed. I smile at him. He doesn't return the particular facial muscle movement I would want in return, but expect. "Anyone ever told you that it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile?" I ask him. He looks puzzled for a second.

"Who are you?" He is dumbfounded. He looks it, if he's not feeling it. We've somehow lost the rest of the group, and it's just me and him standing at the base of the stairs. I smirk, and lean closer to him.

"Georgia. I'm 22, live in SoHo. I work for a publishing firm, very prestigious. Sometimes I like to catch cabs and tell the driver to take me to random places, get out and not pay." I waltz up the stairs with the rest of the boys, leaving Kennedy to follow me. Of course, none of the above was true. Except for my name. I don't know the neighbourhood where I lived, only that it was with two girls who don't really like me but have no reason to kick me out. There was no way in hell that I could stand to work in a publishing firm, however I was a freelance writer, who just happened to be bored and write some fucked up shit when I was high. I did, on the other hand like to catch cabs, not pay for the trip and have foreign men yell at me for it.

"You're crazy," he yells over the loud music.

"Sure, I'm whatever you want me to be." I would be whatever he wanted me to be.