AN: Hello. So once upon a time I watched this show called Magic City, and like everything I watch on TV, I superimpose SVU characters into the story. That's the story of how this story started. However, this fic is nothing like the plot of that show apart from the fact that the first scene takes place in a hotel. Idk why I started with that. Anyway, I've had this sitting in my drafts since early April, and I told myself I wouldn't upload it until I finished it. But fuck it. I'm not going to continue writing something that isn't going to hold people's interest, so let me know if I should keep going.

The story is mostly canon but I mess with the timeline. It's present day but everyone is like 12-15 years younger. One prominent character is in an AU profession. I try to keep them close to their character's personality to the best of my abilities, so hopefully we can look past any hang-ups with AU fics. Each chapter will have four vignettes written in first-person; the character will be indicated at the top. I like first-person because you can never really trust the narrator. (:

ETA (11/2017): I've made a few changes to chapter one. I plan on updating this story a little more regularly (hopefully) with my other story, Hush, wrapping up soon. Please read and review.

Olivia

In this life there are two kinds of whores. The first assumes the title but does not let it define her. She's a modern-day, independent woman — a card-carrying feminist in touch with her sexuality. She saunters confidently into a hotel bar and takes her pick of admirers. When she's through with them, she orders strawberries and champagne room service from the line in the presidential suite. A graduate school student studying Behavioural Psychology, paying off a semester's tuition as if she were buying a cup of coffee from a street cart. She lives in an industrial loft in Brooklyn, not because she can't afford to live on the island, but because she has the financial freedom to favour the gentrified aesthetics.

Most women don't want to admit they want to be this whore. Most men claim they don't want a woman who may lack self-respect simply because she exchanges sex for money. But chances are, if they're truly being honest with themselves, they do.

"Benson, do you copy?"

I tuck a few strands of hair behind my ear and take the opportunity to adjust the earpiece. "Yeah, copy that, Cap."

I'm in position. The lobby of the Viceroy, a luxury boutique hotel two blocks south of Central Park, is humming with a composed energy. Stationed out on the street is an unmarked police van where Captain Cragen and my partner, Elliot Stabler, are sitting tight.

Soon, Elliot will be coming through the lobby, past the elevators, and into the Kingside Lounge. Cherry wood walls and art nouveau sconces line his path; his audience made up of clientele who spring upwards of $600 a night for a room. I wait for the right person before I give my signal.

Pulling a Chanel compact and lipstick from my clutch, I use the mirror to check the activity behind me.

"You trying to pretty yourself up for me, Liv?" Elliot's voice is rich and thick in my ear. Almost as if his lips slide over the skin, teeth playfully nipping into my earlobe.

I clear my throat. "You wish," I reply without moving my lips, except to pucker up and reapply the mauve shade. If being a detective doesn't pan out, perhaps I could always put this skill set to good use and become a ventriloquist. The story of a wooden puppet girl with a penchant for dishonesty.

I glide my finger over my brow as I survey the reflection over my shoulder. Thankfully, my vanity doesn't seem to be out of the ordinary as no one in the lobby stares at me with suspicion. Except for that older gentleman at the check-in desk. He keeps glancing my way, his hooded eyes wandering the length of my aerosol-bronzed legs.

"She's here." The alert is sent to the squad, setting our plan into motion.

The second kind of whore is the one no one knows about until she's caught. She can be this independent woman; or she can be so dependent on her man, it physically pains her to imagine life without him. It's this tightness in the chest, can't breathe kind of pain. She's the kind of woman who straps on a pair of four-inch stilettos, throws on a dress that makes her feel like a million bucks, attracts a string of thirsty suitors, and lets them off gently with a coy smile. Yes, she's single. But, no, she isn't available. For this whore, it isn't just about sex. It's about a much deeper betrayal. It's about love.

This whore is a second grade detective climbing the ranks of the NYPD. The only reason she can barely afford to keep up with rent for her one-bedroom in the Upper West Side is because she signed her lease before the building became rent-regulated. The people she's met on the job — the ones who thank her for her service — admire her for her courage and strength. They applaud her for representing women in a male-dominated field. She works hard and earns her colleagues' respect. But when she clocks out and sneaks her married partner into her bed, all that respect is thrown like caution to the wind.

She's the whore hidden in the thick of lies. And this whore's reflection is staring right back at me.

Nick

An angel moves through the room like breathing is easy. And I swear to Christ, it's far from it, as this angel steals the breath right from my lungs.

I don't even realize I'm frozen. A dish cloth loosely wrapped around one hand and a glass nearly slipping from my grasp. The woman is halfway across the room when I stop what would have been a sad display of my lack of game. Not only that, I can already imagine my colleagues (Stabler, in particular) ripping me a new one for almost screwing up. I can already hear the water-cooler talk back in the squad room. You guys hear about Amaro — rookie detective who can't even play a minor role in an undercover sting. Thought he was a Narc. Pretending should come easy to those guys… If he can't even do that, what can he do?

Weeks of dedicated research and planning all jeopardized because he can't help himself from feeling this magnetic pull to the wrong girl.

She slides onto a stool and rests her tiny purse on the marble top bar. I can't imagine the purse holding anything more than a cellphone and maybe a pack of smokes. Blue eyes, as vibrant as her dress, meet mine. She raises a brow, ready to order a drink and probably assuming I'm a terrible bartender. She isn't wrong.

"Jack on the rocks," she says coolly. Her lashes flutter as she curls her lips into a coy smile. "Please."

Well, she did say please. I scoop up some ice and pour the amber liquid into the glass, inching the finished drink toward her. She runs her finger around the rim, before taking a tentative sip. Her rosy lips take on a shine as she sets the drink back down. Her tongue darts out, licking the gloss of whiskey from her pout.

"You staring at me all night, sugar, or are you going to tell me all about Mr. Fitzpatrick."

Right. I have something else to do besides pretending to know goes into an Old Fashioned. Munch and Fin went over this with me just hours earlier. The term for it was the 'hook-up'. And suddenly I wish there was another term for the person who facilitated meetings between escorts and their clients. Pimp would have been too much of a stretch as I wasn't supposed to know these women. It's the men — the guests in the hotel — that pay me to ensure they're getting top-quality escorts with the highest level of discretion. Anything that happens past the elevators are none of my concern.

Or so they think.

I nod over to the entrance, where Mr. Fitzpatrick — a.k.a. Detective Elliot Stabler — is scanning the room. I give her the quick rundown on her client, a Chicago trader in town for the week to meet with Wall Street stockbrokers. Her face is blank, unimpressed. "He's married with four kids —" which is true, "— and he hates his frigid wife." And judging from my own personal observations of the man, the last part is likely also true.

After giving her the backstory on her client, I expect her to start stalking her prey. But she doesn't move. She stays seated on her stool, fingering the rim of her drink before asking for a refill. From the corner of my eye, I catch the scowl Elliot sends my way as I execute my job as bartender and serve my customer another drink.

"You change your mind about Fitzpatrick?"

She lowers her head and smiles. It might be the alcohol that causes her to blush, or at least that's what I like to tell myself when I hear what she says next. "God, no. Have you seen him?" She bites into her bottom lip and sets the glass back down. "But I like to keep 'em waiting. It keeps them wanting. It makes them angry… They cut to the chase when they're pissed off." At this point, the whole social worker with the badge characterization is triggered, and all I want to do is ask her questions and figure her out.

I glance over at Elliot, then back at this woman who has no idea what she's about to get herself into. She looks pretty pleased with herself. She knows what she's doing; there are tell-tale signs of impatience etched on Elliot's face. She's screwing with their timeline, and here I am letting her. I've now accepted the inevitable fact that I'm going to get more than an earful back at the 1-6.

She twirls a lock of hair around her finger as she rests her cheek on her palm. "He can wait. 'Sides, I want to stay and spend a little more time here with you."

I swallow hard. I wonder if it's picked up on the wire taped to my chest.

She runs a manicured finger along the white marble, swirls of grey and silver picking up the dim glow of the lights overhead. "Have you ever fucked on top of this bar?"

Dios.

"W-Why'd you ask?" I try to act aloof, but my voice shakes like a leaf in October.

"I don't know," She pouts, before hopping off the barstool. She slips a hundred-dollar bill in my hand, letting her touch linger for far longer than a typical transaction. "Seems like something I'd want to try."

I forget to breathe. Again.

And when my mind reorients to my surroundings and I remember by name and my social security number and the fact that I don't really work as a bartender; and, no, there's no chance I'm ever playing out this dirty fantasy, I realize I'm in deep shit.

She's no angel. She's the devil.

Elliot

She's young. Only a few years shy of my eldest, Maureen. On top of all the reasons why it's inappropriate to be out on a date with this woman, the fact that she could very well be my daughter is at the top of the list.

I make a note of the other similarities she shares with my girls. The flaxen hair, innocent blue eyes, and a tacit desire to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but close to me.

Appearances lie, I know that. She might be smiling, laughing, and accidentally (intentionally) brushing her leg against mine; but I can sense the distance between us. She knows how to make a man feel wanted, but I can't stop thinking of our conversation as a transaction. She listens to me run my rehearsed lines on the economic climate, my stressful job, and how I'm really not a bad guy.

"You're just looking for release," she says reassuringly. "I understand, Mr. Fitzpatrick."

"Please, call me Eric."

She reaches across the table to place her hand over mine. I notice that she's painted her nails the same blood red colour as my rebellious Kathleen.

Pressing her lips together, she smiles softly, empathically — almost like Olivia. "You need to relax and unload all that stress before returning home to your wife. I get it." She lifts her drink to her lips. "Everyone's better off this way."

I wish I could believe what she's selling. It would be a lot easier to live with the affair if I knew no one would get hurt.

The idea of acting on the sexual tension between me and my partner having some sort of protective benefit for my wife is as ludicrous as it sounds. I don't cheat on Kathy so I can spare her from the perversion that consumes me as a result of this job. Yes, it's been stressful and, at times, it can be harrowing; but it's not like I've developed deviant sexual fantasies since joining the unit. I haven't been sneaking around so I can get it out of my system long enough for me to come home and play the part of a devoted husband.

I wish infidelity could be that simple, but not when love is involved.

"Is this your first time?"

My eyes blink open, remembering I'm at a hotel bar and not tangled up in blankets and duvets at an Upper West Side apartment. I tilt my head to the side. "Excuse me?"

She leans across the table, inviting me to meet her halfway so she can clarify the question with a little more discretion. "Is this your first time with an escort?"

"No… Not really," I reply. "But this is the first time she's so pretty she makes me nervous."

Good save, Stabler.

Her gaze falls to the table as she bites on her bottom lip. Adorable, I consider as I watch the rose-coloured flush tinge on her cheeks and the tendrils of spun gold fall over her eyes. I tuck the strands behind her ear and slowly tilt her chin up, our eyes meeting.

Definitely not my daughter.

"Angel," I whisper, stroking the line of her jaw with my thumb. "Is that your real name or is that what the agency picked out for you."

She frowns and pulls away. "No one chooses for me."

Her stare turns to ice and her arms cross over the table. Shit. If I don't recover, she's going to close herself off and this operation would be a bust. And the last thing I need is that rookie, Amaro, watching me crash and burn.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." Hand on my chest to convey just how earnest I am about the apology. Her expression softens, a hint of surprise at his words; but she doesn't resume flirting. She stands her guard, which is frustrating as it couldn't be more counterintuitive for a sex worker.

Going for the kill, I reach into my pocket to retrieve the silver keycard. Room 1406 — a deluxe suite with a king-sized bed and a corner view of Central Park. Sliding the plastic across the table, I slip it just below her palm. "What do you say we get out of here?"

She wraps her fingers over the card, a subtle smile playing on her lips. "I thought you'd never ask."

Amanda

The elevator doors slide open to reveal an older couple. The woman adorned with pearls and a crocodile Birkin. She wraps herself securely around her man, who's too distracted by his phone call to give a damn. He doesn't make eye contact with me or my client, Mr. Fitzpatrick; but I don't miss the once-over his wife gives me.

Green reptilian eyes rake over my body, from the strappy black Louboutins to the loose waves pinned atop my head. The older woman sneers, raising her chin before dragging her husband to the hotel lobby.

Relax, lady. I may be a whore, but I don't jump at every man in an Armani suit.

My date for the evening holds his hand out, ushering the two of us inside the stifling box. Mirrors on the walls don't leave much room to hide, not that I'd need to with this one. He seems easygoing enough, and, for once in quite a long time, I might actually enjoy his company.

Mr. Fitzpatrick is nice. He's already proven to be apologetic when he doesn't have to be.

I'm not going to lie; being handsome helps his case. He's easy on the eyes with those baby blues, that charming smile, and a body that looks more Fort Hamilton than Wall Street. Strong and built like a tree — I bet he likes to take control.

The ride up to the 14th floor is quiet. He interlaces his fingers, head tilted to watch the numbers light up. I cross over to where he's standing and finger the pointed end of his tie. His throat bobs, eyes never straying from the numbers. He's nervous. They always are until they're safe behind the locked doors of a hotel room.

Fucking security cameras.

"When you talked to the bartender downstairs, did you ask for a blonde?"

He looks at me, studying my face for a moment, before nodding.

"Is she a brunette, is that why?" I ask, tracing the edge of his belt buckle with my finger.

"Who is?"

I chuckle softly, closing the proximity between us. "Your wife. Who else?"

"Oh," he draws out the word. His hand rubs the back of his neck before he shrugs. "Actually, my wife is a blonde, too. I guess you can say I've got a thing for blondes." His eyes squint, as if his mind has briefly travelled to a different time, a different place.

"You want to be with someone who reminds you of happier times."

"What?"

I flick the leather end of his belt and take a step back. "Not that I've been doing this long or anything, but I've learned that men who choose escorts that look like their wives tend to be nostalgic. They hold onto hope that one day they can rekindle something that, turns out, isn't always guaranteed to be for-better-or-for-worse."

He arches a brow, his lips pressed in a firm line.

"But if you had gone for someone different. I don't know — dark hair, olive skin, curves in all the right places." I smirk, describing the type of woman that universally appealed to all men. It probably doesn't help with my return business, but I can't help but try to figure out these men's motivations. If they want to take a piece of me, then I should be allowed a piece of them. Something more than a couple thousand dollars for a few hours of company.

"If I had gone for someone different?"

"They you probably no longer loved your wife… or even the idea of your wife."

He frowns. "Let's drop it. Let's not talk about my marriage."

Raising my hands in surrender, I smile slyly. "Sorry, officer."

His body tenses just as the elevator arrives on his floor, doors sliding open. Note to self: Mr. Fitzpatrick looks like he isn't much for handcuffs and role-play.

I lead the way, already knowing where to turn without so much as a glance at the arrows on the walls. I had been to this hotel before. It was a different client in the same suite four floors up. I remember it having a spectacular fucking view.

"Seems you know your way 'round here." He follows me down the end of the hall.

Pressing my back against the door, I smirk as he nudges his head for me to open it. I twirl his card between my fingers and push the rounded corner against his chest. Firm, just as I expected.

"Come on, Angel. Don't be a tease." He groans and it's sexy as hell.

Tugging on his silk tie, I pull him down until we're eye level. His stare is intense, hungry, and tempting. I don't even care if he clearly still has another woman on his mind; that never stops me from doing my job, getting off, and collecting.

"Why wait until we're both inside?" I whisper inches from his mouth, feeling his breath ghost over my skin. "Maybe I'll let you fuck me right here." Turning on my heel, I press my ass against him, feeling him harden in his slacks. His palms are set on the door, his head resting on my bare shoulder. With his breath on my neck, I slide the card into the slot.

Green light means go.

As soon as I push the door open, my instincts tell me to run. But as soon as I turn, I collide into the unyielding body behind me. He grabs me by the arms, ushering me farther into the shadows of the room. Mr. Fitzpatrick kicks the door shut.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The second he whips me around to face the room, I see a man and woman with their hands on their holsters, ready for me to make a move.

"NYPD. Put your hands up."