“Ow!” he shouted. “What the hell...?”  he groggily said, because he was still confused.  Tollin’s lids fluttered open.  He felt a warmth, laying close by his side.  Orienting himself, Tollin rose up on one elbow.  It was a dream, he told himself.  The room was varying shades of black, gray and shadows, but he could see her.  There was just enough light for him to look at her but for all intense and purposes; this was a strangers face.  She’d been a last minute decision but he didn’t believe in doing anything half-assed.  If he was going to have a woman--he would have one of the best and Holly was a sight for sore eyes.  Built to perfection--every curvaceous slope that formed her body.  On first sight, he had to agree--she was everything her madame had claimed her to be.

“Are you all right love?”  she’d asked.

Love--he thought to himself.  Who did she think she was kidding.  The only thing she loved was the depth of his pockets. She'd been dealt a bad hand but he couldn’t be blamed for that.  Their’s was a society driven by class and once upon a time, Holly had been like him--until her parent’s experienced a run of bad luck.  He’d heard the stories about Ivy League young girls, using sex to fund their pricy educations.  When mommy and daddy went broke, divorced or some other catastrophe occurred, drying up the monetary resources; these girls did what came next--they entered the high priced sex trade.  Some of the girls went out on their own; taking their chances because they believed in this way they can guard this part of their life and keep it a secret.  Then their are the girls who go with madams; they want money, rich men and the protection that comes with the fifty-fifty split.  Tollin didn’t know all the specific’s concerning Holly, and he didn’t really want to know--because the only thing that concerned him was how she looked and what she would do for him in bed--or any other place in his penthouse.  Tollin heaved a heavy sigh, then he threw back the blankets.

“Tollin--it’s late.  Come back to bed.  Don’t you want another go-round?  I’m game, if you are.”  She tried to seduce him back to bed.

Tollin coughed, clearing his throat.  He questioned the wisdom in drinking so much.  His mouth was as dry as a desert and his tongue felt like the buds had sprouted hair.   He palmed his limp sex, then the nights events came tumbling back to him.  Holly had been his New Year’s Eve party favor.  The horn he’d tooted and the present he’d unwrapped.  She had arrived dressed to kill, bringing everything she needed, and then some.  She’d walked in--did her little striptease, leaving a trail of clothes from the foyer to his bar.  From the moment she arrived, the drinking began.  Wine at first, followed by fruity cocktail drinks; then they got busy with the hard stuff--single and double shots.  His minds eye filled with recollections and a horny smile flirted with his lips.  The brassy broad had screwed him in more ways than one, but that’s exactly what he’d paid for.

Holly stroked his nipple, twirling her finger to coil his chest hairs.  He wondered where she got her stamina from.

“Tollin...”  she sang his name.

He sounded gruff when he said...

“Not in the mood.”

Holly didn’t take his hint.  Like a fool, she rushed in where angels fear to tread; this saying scrolled in his head because he’d thought he’d made himself clear.  He’d had enough--but in spite of his tone, Holly didn’t get the message.  Tollin felt long nails teasing his skin; trailing a swirling path down the length of his back.  Her touch was anything but tempting, because currently, sex was the last thing on his mind.  He rolled over, moving outside of her reach.  He’d been spooked by his nightmare and he didn’t want to chance a repeat.  Tollin sat up feeling for his silk pajama bottoms.  He stepped into his pants, tying the waistband while crossing the room in his bare-feet.  Behind him, he heard the rustling of sheets, suggesting that Holly was making herself comfortable without him.

“Are you coming back?  We don’t have to do anything if you don’t feel like it.  I can hold you in my arms--that might help you fall back to sleep.”

"Give me an hour to think about it."

He did need the rest but it wasn't Holly’s place to question him or offer unsolicited suggestions.  There was something about her offer that pricked a nerve.  Eliza.  Eliza would hold him in her arms, finger combing his hair, whenever he was unsettled by a dream.  But Holly was no Eliza; not even a close second.  In fact, Holly wasn’t even in the same league.

“Oh well.  Since you’re up--could you bring me a cucumber water?”   She was pouting.  Fat lot of good that'll do her, he thought to himself. He was feeling cross because Holly had sparked memories from his past.  Before Eliza had left him, he’d never used a call-girl, and this fact fueled his annoyance.  Bothered by Holly’s request, Tollin asserted in his mind that he was nobodies servant and he sure as shit wasn’t going to play servant to a whore.  He didn’t know where these girls got off, thinking that a madame made them better than the whores walking the streets.  Sure, she was a call-girl--free to choose her dates--but in his book, taking money for sex made you a whore.  A clean whore--but a whore all the same.

Tollin left his bedroom, leaving the door open.  The penthouse was a glow of low lighting.

“Shutters--lower, thirty percent.”

The smart house obeyed the handsfree command, lowering the shutters.  When he moved into the penthouse, a team of tech’s had completely rewired the place, making this convenience worth every penny and he’d never regretted the expense.  The walls in the great room, were floor to ceiling glass.  He crossed the oakwood floor, until he was standing on a Persian Rug.  He stood in front of the partially unshielded window.  A full moon lit the sky, giving the city an etherial glow.  The view was impressive from this height.  He could see the park, Samaritan Conclave Square and the harbor.  He could even see the man made barge, the Samaritans called their floating colony.

"Fucking eyesore  " he swore. "Philanthropist.  Religious fanatics"

Tollin spat the words as if each syllable held a foul taste.  He had an intense dislike for a group of people that called themselves Samaritans.  He didn’t know any Samaritan’s personally, he just didn't understand their Creed; a set of beliefs that form their religious doctrine.  In some respects, Samaritan’s are somewhat like the Amish, but many of their practices are extremely dissimilar.  Even though the Samaritan’s separated themselves, by living in communes, their doctrine required that they seek out and help those most in need.  Tollin always wondered, where was the profit in handouts.  He believed that people should be required to help themselves.  Give a man a pole--teach the man to fish--so on, and so forth.  However, making money--now, that’s something he did understand.  He stared at the barge, while considering the three story buildings.  Samaritan’s lived in closed communities, forbidding anyone outside of their Sect to set foot in their communes.  He wondered what did they have to hide--not that he would ever accept an invitation, if one was offered.  He just had a healthy curiosity, and from his penthouse he’d noticed that the buildings were all unimpressive well maintained structures.  Simply made--just like their owners.  Tollin tapped his chin, while considering another thought.  By rights the Samaritan colony should be on land like all the other colonies inhabited by members of their Sect, but in this part of the country land was in short supply and this explained the floating commune.  If he had his way, he would band them from his city altogether.  Tollin’s musing was cut short when he noticed a flash of movement to his right.  His eyes were drawn to the building on the opposite side of the street.  While people partied on the streets below, on the rooftop across the street, two men paced its length, holstering semiautomatic weapons.  Recently, the country had seen a spike in unexplained murders.  The end result had been a chorus  of knee jerk reactions.  People began beefing up their homes, or arming themselves with handguns that could easily be hidden.  For those who could afford it, they encircled themselves with bodyguards with military experience.  On a night like this, the city was teaming with armed protection for hire.  He may not have hired armed guards--to him, this type of protection was too extreme; but he had employed one of the countries most renown security experts to install a state of the art Panic Room.