Hand Me My Gun

"Hey, is Jack there?" I wiped my nose with my ragged sleeve, looking around the dingy street. Why were there no pay phones near my house?
"Is this Alex?" A woman's voice crackled into my ear, sounding both bewildered and angry.
I paused. "Yes," I finally admitted, glaring at the silver coin that lay face down against the pavement. I didn't want to look at the people that passed me; I didn't belong in that part of the city.
Car horns blasted, and people bustled past me, not paying me the slightest bit of attention. Car horns sounded, and everything was just so... loud.
Shuffling was heard through the line, and I watched as a beautiful blonde made her way across the empty street, swaying her hips suggestively as she took me in. She was gorgeous; piercing green eyes, a mouth any guy would drop his pants for, and a nose piercing that shimmered under the dim neon lights.
I briefly remembered someone telling me something about women who wore their piercing on the right side of their nose. Oh. I almost laughed at the cynical humour of it all. Sorry, I wanted to say. You're just not my type.
Well, what's your type? I could imagine her licking her lips lazily as she leaned forward, offering me a good view down her see-through top.
Dicks I would have stated, staring her in the eye, waiting for her reaction. Maybe she'd flinch. Maybe she'd smile in amused understanding. Maybe she'd shrug and go find another client.

"Don't call this number again," a male voice growled threateningly.
And then the line went dead.

I stared at the phone, waiting for something to happen, but there was nothing.
I placed it back in it's holder. I turned, barely making eye contact with the beautiful girl.
"Need a pick-me-up," she looked at me through her long lashes, chewing lazily on her gum.
"Depends," I heard myself say.
"On?" She raised an eyebrow, smiling smugly at the tug on her line. She pulled out a ragged cigarette box and placed a cancer stick between her lips.
"On what you're offering." Was that my voice? I'd heard it before, when I had been chatting up girls for the hell of it, or talking dirty to Jack. But now it just sounded different; foreign and unrecognisable.
"Baby," she breathed out a stream of smoke through the corner of her mouth, dancing her eyes over my body. I knew I looked like shit, but she didn't seem to mind. "I got whatever it is you need."
My mouth twitched with masochistic amusement, but she must have mistaken it for a smirk. "Getting cocky, are we?" She took another long, drawn out drag from her smoke.
"Not in the slightest," I spoke again, reaching out a numb hand. I snatched the cigarette from between her pursed lips and brought them to my own. I inhaled deeply and continued to talk. "Although I'm still not sure you have what I need."
She raised her eyebrows as I finally exhaled the cloud of smoke, impressed. "What is it you need?"
My body felt immobile and hollow, like a corpse on display. But my subconscience was on its own mission, and soon I was grinding her barely-burnt cancer stick beneath the heel of my Converse. I looked into her eyes; green. I didn't need green, I needed brown. "I need you to come with me."
She shuddered, visibly enjoying my intense stare and craving for physical contact. She could see it in me; the need to be with someone else, to lose my mind in the depths of another person's bliss.
She reached out for me, but I dodged her, not caring what she thought. If she wanted to be a whore, I'd treat her like one.

And I did. I fucked her (Lord knows how I managed to even get myself up), used the cash she turned down to buy myself breakfast, and then got the hell out of there.