Marcus sat on the velvet sofa, sipping a mediocre gin and tonic, scanning the three-tier stage of the a-go-go like a king surveying his domain. Fifty girls moved under the ultraviolet lights. He took his time, feeling the absolute power of choice. He genuinely believed he was in complete control of the selection process.
He didn’t realize that Mama-san had already made his choice forty-five minutes ago, the exact second she clocked the genuine Omega Seamaster peeking out from under his linen cuff.
She slid into the booth next to him, resting a hand on his shoulder. She pointed a red laser pointer at a girl in the second row. “Take her, handsome,” Mama-san whispered. “Number 14. She is new. First day from the village. Very shy.”
Marcus smirked behind his glass. It was the oldest, most exhausted cliché in the entire Pattaya playbook. Sure, she’s new, he thought. Just like the Rolexes on Beach Road.
But then he actually started watching Number 14. She wasn’t smiling at the customers or making eye contact. She was totally out of sync with the heavy bass, looking down at her clear acrylic heels as if terrified of tripping. She awkwardly adjusted the straps of her uniform, her body language radiating acute discomfort. Marcus leaned forward. His cynical skepticism slowly melted into a predatory fascination. Wait. Is she actually a genuine amateur?
He motioned for Mama-san to call her down.
When Number 14 sat next to him, she was a masterpiece of hesitation. She kept her distance, stared at her lap, and answered his questions in quiet, broken syllables. Marcus felt a massive rush of ego—he had successfully identified the rare, untouched diamond in the neon rough. Intoxicated by his own perceived brilliance, he kept signaling the waitress. Within forty-five minutes, this “shy amateur” had effortlessly consumed enough tequila shots to hit her entire weekly lady-drink quota. Marcus proudly slammed a stack of baht on the table to pay her bar fine, feeling like a conquering savior.
They walked out into the suffocating humidity of Walking Street, his hand wrapped confidently around hers. As they passed the glaring fluorescent glow of a 7-Eleven, she suddenly stopped.
The fragile, trembling posture vanished in an instant. Her spine straightened. The confused village girl was gone, replaced by a terrifyingly efficient professional.
“We need to go inside,” she said, her voice entirely stripped of the soft hesitation. “I need to buy protection. I always use protection with clients.”
Marcus stopped dead on the pavement, his brain struggling to process the sudden shift in reality. “Clients? What do you mean clients? Mama-san said today was your first day.”
She looked up at him, offering a cold, perfectly practiced smile that carried not a single ounce of romance or hesitation.
“It is my first day,” she replied smoothly, pulling her hand away to open the glass door. “In this go-go. But I’ve been working in Pattaya for four years.”
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