A phone call provides a distraction

"And what kind of job is it?" Mr. Vasquez asks, his eyes travelling up and down your slut-clothed body.

"Acting," you say brightly, ignoring the icky looks.

"Acting like what?" his voice suggests sordid things but you're saved by the chirping of your phone.

"Excuse me," you say, happy to turn your back on him, even if you know that he's now fastening his eyes on your butt. Men, you sigh. "Hello? Oh, hi. Yes, I remember you from the audition. The... place?" you glance back as your landlord. Sure enough his eyes are fastened on your butt. You roll your eyes, shifting your grip on the phone as you lower your voice. "Oh I'm just on my way. Right, it's..." you lower your voice even more as you give directions to the strip club.

"I'll see you there," you finish, hanging up. With a deep breath you turn back to your very interested landlord. "I'm sorry, Mr. Vasquez, but I have to go. I have a paying gig," you lie. Well, it'll lead to a paying gig. You hope.

"Sure sure, you go do what you need to do," he tells you, suddenly strangely affable. You don't know what brought it on but you take advantage of the opportunity to escape, trotting as fast as you can on the absurdly high heels.

"Pervert," you mutter as you walk briskly down the broken sidewalk, taking care not to catch a heel in a crack or twist your ankle. It'd be just your luck for something to happen during the final stretch to the strip joint.

"Nonsense," you tell yourself. "I'm home free."