Authors: Scarlett Black
My
heart fluttered and the air got caught in my lungs. It took me a few seconds
before I managed to say, “Excuse me?” Not rude, not questioning, but mostly in
disbelief.
Roman
put his elbows on his desk and leaned forward. He shrugged. “If you don’t
want the job…”
“But—but,
why?”
“It’s
a professional formality, Kim. And to be perfectly honest, you’ve had a baby,
and I need to examine what it is that I’m about to invest my time and money
in. You wouldn’t purchase a Ferrari without taking it for a test drive, would
you?”
“No,
but you have to pay for it before you take it home, too.”
“Are
we going to have a problem?”
“I
guess not. Or…maybe.”
“There’s
no maybe to it. I have a reputation to keep. You probably didn’t do any
research before you came here, did you?”
“No,
I didn’t have time.”
Roman
stood and walked around the desk. Stopping in front of me, he moved close
enough that I caught a hint of cologne. It smelled crisp and clean, like
everything else about him.
He
was at least six inches taller than me, even while I was wearing my platform
pumps. I had to tilt my head back to look up into those beautiful blue eyes,
into a face asking me to undress in a locked room. He put his hands on my
shoulders, softly and reassuring. “Midnight Fantasy is absolutely
the
top service of its kind here in the city—you won’t find another one with our
level of quality within five hundred miles. Governors, senators, celebrities,
billionaires, they’ll fly here
specifically
to have a night out with
some of our ladies.”
He
stepped away and began strolling through the office, admiring things he’d
already seen thousands of times. He wiped a finger across a shelf and examined
it for dust, then moved on. I followed him with my eyes, watching the panther
slink around the room.
“I’ve
spent years building this business into something incredible. Something our
clientele talk about for days or months after their time with us. They want to
pay for something they can’t get anywhere else, and that’s the quality of women
that we provide. Most of those other agencies out there, you’ll just get
another pretty face. Some washed up actress or model—a piece of eye candy that
knows when to smile and when to listen.
“But
no, not here. I have doctors and lawyers on staff. Harvard graduates. MIT
graduates. Experimental physicists and university professors. Intelligent,
sophisticated, successful women that provide intellectual stimulation as much
as physical. Any two-bit hooker with a slippery palm can give a client a
handjob, but I seriously doubt they can discuss the current fate of the stock
market or whether or not dark matter actually exists. Each and every one of
them are drop-dead gorgeous, too. The total package.”
He
stopped at the window and stared into the distance.
I
walked over and stood beside him. “If they’re so successful, then why’re they
doing something like this?”
Without
looking at me, he said, “It pays better.” Sincere. Absolute.
It
was baffling, the thought that women of that caliber would walk away from such
illustrious careers; instead, they were getting paid to be someone’s date for
the evening, or worse yet, to spread their legs for money. “Really?”
He
turned slowly toward me, his eyes serious and face expressionless. “Yes.”
“That’s…”
“Unbelievable?
It’s not so much, when you think about it. We’re all motivated by greed in
some way. It just depends on what form it takes. Here’s mine—this is my
greed: I want you to come work for me, but if you think for one second that I’m
going to send you out with a client without inspecting the merchandise first,
you may as well walk out that door. I can
not
risk my reputation on
your modesty.”
Outside
the window, the geese had returned, floating along, letting the river take them
where it may. I felt like I was being swept away with them.
I
said, “Why me?”
“Why
not?”
“I’m
nothing like those women you mentioned. Why would you want me?”
He
put his hands in his pockets and sighed. “Because you…you’re absolutely
exceptional, and I don’t think I’ve ever had someone as stunning as you walk
through that door. Trust me, I’ve seen them all, and if you can move
me
that way, I can only imagine what a client would pay.”
Did
you hear that, Dreama? Exceptional and stunning.
I
blushed. Even though it was a compliment wrapped up in business and caked with
greed, I’d never heard words like that before, not in reference to me, anyway.
Maybe my sisters, but not me. Never me. I was too speechless to come up with
anything original, so it seemed like a perfectly good time for an old, classic
line. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“If
I have, it’s never been true. Not until now.”
Call
me naïve, call me easily manipulated, but every once in a while, a little sweet
talk is all a girl needs. I’d just met him, but I felt secure. My inhibitions
disappeared. I backed away a couple of steps, turned around, and lifted up my
hair. “Is the money really that good?”
“Better
than you would ever hope.”
“Then
help me with the zipper.”
I
felt him before I heard him. He was upon me, warm breath on my neck, tugging
at the zipper. I listened as it slid all the way down, exposing my back. He
hooked his fingers under the straps and pulled them away from my shoulders,
letting the dress fall to the floor in a quiet whisper of material.
“This,
too?” I asked, pulling at my thong.
“If
you want.”
I
took it off and pivoted, standing in front of him, completely nude except for
my high heels, thankful that I had trimmed down there while I was in the
shower. First impressions and all that. “Well?” I felt a mixture of humility
and eagerness—self-conscious about my looks, but desperately craving his
approval. What did he see? Was I desirable or just another naked body?
Roman
put a finger up to his mouth, surveying, studying, and canvassing everything.
“Spin around again,” he said. I did. “Now look at me, please.” When I
twirled around, he smiled the way someone does when they get that long-awaited
good news. A mixture of relief and gratefulness. “Perfect. Incredible.”
He
moved closer to me and reached, putting his arms on my hips.
I
tensed. Waiting. Waiting as he pulled me in with that beckoning gaze.
Roman
bent forward and I opened my mouth, expecting a kiss, wanting his lips on
mine. I inched my feet apart, welcoming him, wanting his hands to go where
they belonged. I reached for his crotch and felt the growing bulge underneath
his slacks. It was massive, bigger than anything I’d ever felt, but I was
ready to take him, all of him. Whatever he wanted to do to me, I was his.
Stupid,
foolish girl.
He
put his lips to my ear and whispered, “You can get dressed now.”
Nooo!
Oh my God, did I just screw up?
I
stood speechless, ashamed, feeling so mortified that I could’ve fled from the
room in all my naked glory.
Roman
put a thumb and forefinger around my chin, then lifted gently so that I faced
him. “I never get involved with the help.”
The
help. Bastard.
My
eyes watered, but I would
not
let him see me cry. I swallowed my shame
as quickly as it had appeared and forced myself to retake control. “Your
loss,” I said, with as much arrogance as I could manage.
He
chuckled. The cheeky bastard
actually
chuckled. “That may be true, but
rules are rules. Save it for the clients. Get dressed. We have some
formalities to go over.”
Still
partly offended, I had one last bit of snark left in me. I put my thong on,
and as I pulled the dress up, struggling with the zipper again, I said, “What
makes you think I’ll take the job?”
“You
will,” he said—not ordering, but confident. “You decided the moment that dress
hit the floor.”
I
didn’t want to admit that he was right. Mostly. I had my doubts, but they
were quiet thoughts in the back of my mind, not the roaring screams of, “No!”
like I’d expected.
“Have
a seat, Kim. This is the important part.”
I
crossed my arms and glared, defying him.
My
room. Being stubborn was
one of my lesser qualities—it drove Dreama insane, always had—and I hoped it
would do the same to Roman.
It
didn’t. He reclined in his chair, rocking leisurely, tapping his fingers on
the armrests, with the corners of his mouth pulled up into a half-smile,
patiently fighting our battle of wills.
I
wanted to win. I wanted to show him that I would
not
get down on my
knees and service him like those misogynistic assholes back at my old job. I
tapped a foot like a petulant child. He rocked and never stopped smiling.
Seconds ticked by, maybe a minute, as we fought for power, in silence.
Eventually,
I relented. It pained me and I hated the sense of defeat that came with it,
but why continue the childish game when I knew—when
he
knew—that I would
likely accept his offer?
I
said, “Fine. Whatever,” and stomped over to the chair and threw myself into
it, huffing and pouting. I wasn’t proud of my juvenile display, but I was too
pissed off and disappointed by his rejection to care. I’d often felt the same
way whenever I lost an argument with Dreama, and that association made it
worse.
Yet
I couldn’t shake the fact that even though I wanted to smack the smile off his
face, he was one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen. It was foreign territory
for me, being so angry with someone but wanting nothing more than to throw him
down on the floor and
really
take control.
Maybe
that’s why couples fight—my girlfriends, every one of them, had told me that
makeup sex was always the best. All that anger and energy, that built up
frustration boiling inside, it would come rushing out in a full-body release of
ecstasy. I’d never experienced it, not with Marcus, not with anyone else I’d
ever clumsily fooled around with under the covers in my dorm room, while my
roommates slept.
The
opportunity never came up. Back then, back when I was younger—four years ago,
but it seemed like decades—when my boyfriends wanted to play “just the tip,” it
had been different. So different and awkward, like putting a jigsaw puzzle
together while blindfolded. I’d never been with anyone long enough to have a
gut-wrenching, emotional fight that led to anything resembling makeup sex.
Right
then, I desperately wanted to find out, but the moment had passed. As if it
had ever been there in the first place.
One
notch away from snarling, I said, “You mentioned something about formalities?”
“That’s
a good girl.”
Insolent
jerk. It would’ve been the perfect time for a succinct, well placed, “Asshole,”
but I held my tongue. Instead, I burned holes through his heart with my eyes.
Roman
reached down, opened a drawer, and removed a small stack of paper. He flipped
through the pages and tossed it across the desk. “Look this over. I don’t
expect you to sign it today, but I won’t wait long, either.”
I
snatched it, showing my lingering displeasure, and read the word “Contract” at
the top of the page.
He
asked, “Would you like a drink?”
“Scotch,
neat,” I said. “And it better be good.”
“Only
the best for my best.”
“We’re
past compliments, aren’t we?”
Roman
frowned, and I couldn’t tell if it was sincere or if he was feigning being hurt
by my indignation. “Don’t be that way. This is business, and we’re going to
make a
lot
of money together.”
I
drove home with the contract lying on the passenger’s seat. It was so
present
,
so
real
with the weight it held that I nearly succumbed to the urge to
buckle the seatbelt around it.
As
I pulled up to a stoplight, I glanced over at the stack of paper, compelled to
grab it and fling the damn thing out the window. Such a strange dichotomy;
this object that contained within it both my saved future and my eventual moral
doom. Had I known at the time—where it all would lead—I could’ve ended
everything before it had begun.
Back
in the office, sitting across from Roman, I’d skimmed over the details. I had
reviewed enough contract examples during my time as an MBA student to
understand what I was looking at. It was a fairly standard agreement, and from
a business standpoint I really hadn’t seen anything wrong with it, except for a
single item.
Only
one line had bothered me.
Roman
sipped at his scotch as I read, politely silent, giving me the time I needed.
Honestly,
I didn’t need a lot but instead, I read slowly, deliberately, and made him wait
on purpose. Delaying his gratification and mine, for different reasons. Was
it another immature move? Probably. But I didn’t care.
“Section
Four, line three-C,” I said. “Aforementioned employee shall comply with all
directives set forth during pre-counsel with assigned clientele. Any
negligence on the part of the employee, up to and including refusal to meet the
agreed upon terms, may result in termination and reimbursement of funds.” I
flipped the papers closed. “I’m not sure I like that.”
Roman
drained the remainder of his glass, and then crunched an ice cube between his
teeth. It gave me gooseflesh—the sound was worse than nails on a chalkboard.
“That’s
the most important line in the document. Aside from the one where I agree to
pay you more money than you’ve ever seen.”
“You
don’t know that.”
“Actually,
I do.”
“How?”
“Unlike
you, I did my research. I know enough of your family history to assume that
you’ve never seen what six zeros looks like in a bank account. Why do you
think I made you wait so long before inviting you into my office? I had a…
friend
…look
you up.”
“But
you said you hadn’t had time to look at my resume.”
“I
was testing you. Nothing major—I wanted to see how easily you sweat in
uncomfortable circumstances. It won’t happen often, because we provide the
highest quality protection—from a distance—but it
will
happen, and you
need to be able to handle it. That’s where that stipulation comes in.
“If
you refuse to meet the terms our clients pay for, then we’ll have problems. I
review them on a case-by-case basis, in the event something happens that’s out
of your control. I rely on the security detail for that. I trust their
opinions and weigh their judgment into my decisions. However, if you change
your mind halfway through dinner and decide you don’t want some billionaire’s
dick up your ass, and it costs me money and a loyal client, then I have every
right to terminate your contract.”
“Whoa,
wait a minute. You want me to do
anal
?”
Roman
popped another ice cube into his mouth and crunched.
“Stop
that,” I snapped. My nerves were already marching toward frazzled, and I
didn’t need the uncomfortable noise compounding things.
He
held up his hands, resigning, apologizing with his gesture.
“So
again,
Roman
, you
want
me to do anal?”
Roman
shook his head and put a hand on his chest. “All
I
want is for you to
provide the best possible experience to our clientele. What you agree to is
your decision.”
“I
have a choice?”
“Yes,
you do. Here’s how it works: a client comes to us, says he needs a date for
the evening, or maybe someone to accompany him on a business trip to Paris.
We’ve seen it all and heard it all. Most of them attempt to be discreet like
that. Some call it a date and that’s all it means. They’re bored and they
want some worthy company for dinner. You go have a nice meal, chat about
something like the fate of Zimbabwe’s economy and you’re done for the night.
But—and this is more likely—they call it a date and what they really mean is
they want you to dress them up like a baby and threaten to take their pacifier
away while they masturbate on your feet.”
“Gross,”
I said. “Are some of them really that pathetic?”
“It’s
not pathetic. It’s not gross. Think of them as needs, Kim. Unmet needs. We
all have them, sexual or not. These men and women come to us so they can experience
what they’re actually thinking about while they’re slipping it to their wives
in the missionary position. They want someone to jack off their minds
and
their cocks.”
“If
you’re trying to talk me into this, that’s not the image I needed.”
Roman
grinned. “I thought you might say that. Look—all of this, everything we do
here, it’s the truth in human nature. I can’t remember who said it, but if
‘character is what you are in the dark,’ then reality is what happens when you
think no one’s watching. Or, in our case, when a client pays so no one else
can
watch.”
“And
I’m required to do all this freaky stuff if I want a job?”
“No.”
“No?”
“You’re
required to do what you agree to do, before anything happens. A client comes
to us with broad requests first, right? Take you, for example. He asks for a
blue-eyed blonde in her early twenties, who’s business-literate and funny. We
show him your picture and qualifications, along with the other staff members
who match the request, he picks you, and we’re ready to move forward. He
thinks two grand an hour will get him whatever he wants, but it doesn’t work
that way. We up-sell him based on how perverted he wants to get and how far
you’re willing to go. Up to a certain limit, of course. I have standards and I’m
not Caligula.”
“I
don’t think I have the guts to go very far.”
“And
that’s your decision. You won’t earn as much, though.”
“How
much can I make on a normal night?”
“Depends
on your agreement, but it’s typically anywhere from five hundred to five
thousand for an evening. We run on a commission basis here. You get twenty-five
percent of the net, per client.”
I
tried not to act totally blown away. I couldn’t even begin to guess what I
would have to do for five thousand dollars for one night, but the amount was
more than I earned in three months at a full-time job. “What if I only agree
to a dinner date?”
“Again,
it’s your choice. What I’ve learned over the years is to encourage that up
front, give you ladies time to get your feet wet. Eventually, when that money
is dangling in front of your faces, you all give in; before you know it, you’re
rubbing peach pie on a senator’s chest with one hand and pinching his nipples
with the other.”
I
couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing so hard I thought my chest would
collapse. It felt so good, and I hadn’t laughed that hard in so long. I
understood that it wasn’t Roman’s intent, but the sheer ridiculousness of the
idea, and the situation, was more than I could bear. “Tell me that didn’t
really happen.”
He
hadn’t expected my laughter—the surprise and confusion showed in his furrowed
brow and squinting eyes. To him, the story was just another day at the
office. It took a second or two, but he eventually laughed with me.
At
that point, my anger at him had dwindled to a glimmer, and the warm, hearty
laugh that came from his throat shoved the rest of it away. When he managed to
stop long enough to catch is breath, he said, “We never kiss and tell here,
but…the next time you see Grady Wilson on CNN, I hope you’re not eating pie for
dessert.”
It
set us off again and we laughed until neither of us could breathe.
The
tension—in all forms—had left the office and we sat, shaking our heads and
rubbing the tears from our eyes. As attracted to him as I was, I’d given up on
the idea of anything happening between us. Business partners, or boss and
employee, that’s all, but the moment was a real one and seemed so wonderfully
right. We could’ve been good together.
Roman
got out of his comfortable chair and walked around the desk, moving in front of
me. He leaned back, crossed his arms and said, “Thank you. I haven’t laughed
like that in a while.”
“Neither
have I.”
“So
what do you think? Are you the newest Midnight Fantasy superstar?”
I
stood, holding the contract in my hands, staring at it, then at him. “I need
some time to think about it.” I expected him to launch into another rambling
tirade about money and opportunities, time and expectations, but it didn’t
happen.
He
simply said, “Understandable. Take a day to think about it. If you’re not
here by eleven tomorrow morning, consider the window closed, okay?”
“You
may see me again, you may not.” I winked at him.
Then
he kissed my cheek, but it was only a sign of affection. A small blink of
desire flickered somewhere inside me, then it was gone as quickly as it
appeared.
“I’ll
see you tomorrow,” he said.
He
knew he would. And I did, too.
***
I
walked into my apartment, undressed, and flopped onto the couch, wearing
nothing but my underwear, too exhausted to get up and put on some clothes. I
had to go pick up Joey from Dreama’s house soon. When I’d called from the car,
telling her I’d be there in a bit, she’d asked how the interview went and for a
moment, I had panicked, thinking she knew where I’d been. Thankfully, I
recalled lying to her about the fake interview with the software company. I
lied again and told her it went well, though I wasn’t getting my hopes up.
“I
hope it works out,” she’d said. “We’re rooting for you. But listen, if you
can come by in an hour to pick up Joey, that’d be great, because I have some
errands to run.”
And
that was it. A couple banal lines of encouragement, laced with a hint of
thinking she’d be let down, once again.
I
rolled onto my side and picked up one of Joey’s toys, twisting it around in my
fingers, but looking past it into our tiny studio apartment; I officially
realized how wretched our little space was. The carpet had a number of
unidentifiable stains that were there long before we moved in—so disgustingly
dirty that I had to put a blanket down before I’d let him play on the floor.
The white paint had faded, taking on a dingy hue. The refrigerator clunked and
banged, roaring like a jet engine whenever it turned on to cool down the
inside. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I could never get the ancient stove
clean. I counted four broken tiles on the kitchen floor. Joey’s thrift store
bed was falling apart in one corner and my single mattress lay in another. I
was too broke to afford railings and a box spring.
I
was tired. So tired.
Physically
exhausted and mentally fed up with never having enough and never being good
enough for Dreama.
That
last one didn’t matter. I’d resigned long ago to the fact that I’d never live
up to whatever it was she required of her ne’er-do-well daughter, yet it still
put a strain on me, having to listen to the near-constant admonishment.
I
hadn’t reached full-blown desperation, but I saw no other way out. Unless we
moved. Could we move to a different city, maybe down to San Francisco or L.A.
where there might be more jobs? What if Joey and I packed up and moved across
the country to Atlanta, or down to Dallas? We would be far, far away from her
criticisms and disappointed verbal barbs.
The
thought lifted my hopes and spirits, but only for a minute or two. I would
have to
find
a job first, and in such a pitiful, shrinking economy who
knew how long that could take? Weeks? Months? A year or more? I couldn’t
risk it.
There
was always Dreama’s offer to help—we could move in with her and Dad for a
while—but I’d never hear the end of it. I didn’t have the energy to endure her
fluttering about, hovering over me all the time.
I
came to the conclusion that I didn’t have the time, the money, or the energy to
say no to Roman and his offer.
Desperation
won.