Transit, 53

Lori stood by the hotel bed, her golden phone trembling faintly in her manicured grip, its glossy surface catching the dim chandelier light like a beacon. The screen flashed “Johnny$$,” and her breath hitched—her thumb hovered, nails glinting red, before she swiped to answer. The old Lori would’ve hesitated longer, but that version of her was a fading echo, buried under the weight of her new skin.

“Hey, babe,” Johnny’s voice rasped through, rough-edged and impatient, dripping with the casual authority of someone who owned her now. “You’ve got one hour. Shake that ass and get ready. Show this Russian client what American talent’s made of—make him forget his own damn name.”

Lori’s lips curled into a smirk, her hips shifting instinctively to one side, the tight vinyl leggings creaking softly. The words spilled out before she could catch them, sultry and unforced. “Don’t sweat it, Johnny—I’ll handle him real good.”

“Damn right you will, baby,” Johnny chuckled, his tone thick with smug approval. “Dazzle him—give him that red, white, and blue special. He’s paying top rubles for this.”

Her tongue slid slow and deliberate over her plump, glossy lips, the sensation sending a shiver down her spine. “Oh, he’s gonna be wrecked. I’ll toss in some extra heat just for you, sugar.”

“That’s my girl,” Johnny purred, satisfaction lacing every syllable. “Clock’s ticking—go work that magic.” The line clicked dead, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.

Lori let the phone slip from her hand onto the plush bedspread, the gold casing sinking into the fabric. One hour. Not much, but enough to transform. Her gaze drifted to the luggage cart, its contents a promise and a trap, glinting under the room’s warm light.

The white fur jacket drew her first—its thick, luxurious pile seemed to glow, soft as sin against the room’s darker tones. She ran her crimson-tipped fingers over it, the texture sending a thrill up her arms. Fuck, that’s hot. It screamed wealth, power, the kind of attention she’d once scorned but now craved.

Her eyes dropped lower—to the boots.

Red patent leather, glossy and towering, their platforms adding inches that would make her a spectacle. The heels were sharp, almost predatory, and Lori felt a mix of awe and unease stir in her gut. Could she pull this off? Her tongue flicked out again, wetting those swollen lips, tasting the faint salt of earlier encounters.