Authors: JJ Moreau
I made the necessary introductions: Carrie knew
about
Hunter, because I had not filter when I talked to her, and I assumed Duncan had some idea that a former colleague-cum-friend-cum-ex-lover of mine was stopping by to help with the move. "Michelle isn't coming," I told the group, adding for Hunter's benefit that she was this drop-dead gorgeous friend of mine who apparently had better things to do.
"Considering the state of your apartment," Carrie teased, "I can't blame her."
"I forgot to add that Carrie wields the whip," I stage-whispered to Hunter. "Don't piss her off."
He offered a knowing smirk by way of answer. The thought came to me that I should sit him down and tell him everything about Oliver and the party and getting fired that same morning. He would understand—wouldn't he? He'd know what I needed to do.
Now wasn't the time, though. (Hunter wasn't the guy I really wanted to have listen to me.)
"Maybe you could introduce me to this Michelle," Duncan said. "I'm just saying, I try to get to know as many drop-dead gorgeous women as I can. Never know when one of them will be interested in a
ménage à trois
..."
"You wish," Carrie snorted.
"Ardently."
"Well, you'd be out of luck with Michelle," I told him with a wry, commiserating grin. "She's likely to prefer Carrie to you."
Duncan grinned shamelessly. "I'm totally okay with that." He ducked just in time as his wife swatted at his shoulder with a back issue of Cosmo.
Sometime around noon, Carrie finally managed to organize us into groups. Duncan was tasked with packing my embarrassingly large collection of DVDs while Carrie herself attacked the tamer corners of my wardrobe. Hunter and I got kitchen duty, which was both time-consuming and dull. The boys talked almost constantly, but there only so much attention I could pay to football forecasts. My thoughts were wandering, when I heard Carrie call my name from the bedroom.
Shit
, I thought.
Did I leave my vibrator lying around?
There were few enough taboos between us, but some lines even I didn't feel comfortable crossing. Mercifully, it was something a lot less damning:
"Do I want to know why there's blood on my shoes?" Carrie asked, a little shrill in the silence that ensued when the boys fell silent. Hunter was giving me a look, like I'd just shrunk his favorite shirt or something.
What?
I mouthed and added, a lot louder:
"Oh,
that
. Gave me these huge, ugly blisters I'll never forgive you for." As if it was Carrie's fault my feet were enormous and my job involved me wearing the skimpiest, sluttiest apparel in the world—which coincidentally happened to be the least wearable. "Obviously they go in the trash. I'll buy you another pair, you masochist."
Carrie's snort of laughter carried into the living room. "With all the money you've got now, you'd better, Madame De Sade."
Hunter glanced up, brow arching. "Do I want to know?"
"Probably not."
I felt myself flush a little, embarrassed though I had no real reason to be. I had been getting paid for sex back at the club, too. It wasn't like this was a new low for me—or for Hunter, who had worked the exact same job as me and who had never hesitated to take money from his clients. Still, I wasn't entirely sure this was how I wanted him to find out about Oliver and the contract I'd signed.
Worse, I definitely didn't want him to know just how fixated I was on the guy. I felt like I needed to tell someone, but I dreaded judgment because I knew what they were all going to tell me: that I was pathetic.
That I needed to get my priorities straight and quit pinning my hopes on emotionally unavailable men. Oliver was out of my league—and he'd given me no indication that he was the least bit interested in anything outside a professional relationship.
I turned my attention back to the packing. Four hours and two pizzas later, we put everything into Duncan's SUV and watched him and Carrie drive away.
"That's your whole life they've made off with," Hunter pointed out beside me. "Sure you don't want to give chase?"
I shook my head. "Carrie doesn't have the patience to fence it." We'd decided I would meet at the apartment. My old flat was empty, the movers having come and gone, nothing but the broken heater and the empty kitchen cupboards left in our wake. "Feels weird."
"It's a new beginning," Hunter said, optimistic on my behalf.
"Yeah... Guess you're right." Still, I couldn't help hug my sides and feel like I was taking a huge leap into the unknown.
"C'mon." Hunter's hand found mine and together we took the five flights of stairs all the way down to the street. We could've taken the elevator—for once, it was in working order—but that would've been too quick. I needed time to make my goodbyes to every crack in the plaster, every dusty window.
Hunter drove a Chevy that clanged and creaked badly as he pulled away from the curb, but he was sweet enough to give me a ride to the new apartment, so it didn't cross my mind to tease. I even welcomed the pressure of his hand against mine as I watched the streets go by and pretended I wasn't scared shitless.
"So I'm thinking," Hunter said, breaking the near religious silence that had fallen over us. "I'm not seeing anyone right now... and you're not seeing anyone."
I glanced over, confused.
"—so I think you should go out with me," Hunter finished. His shoulders lifted in a small, nonchalant shrug. It wasn't the most effortless pickup line I'd ever heard, but I knew it was sincerely meant.
It wasn't
just
a line, not coming from Hunter.
I should've said yes right away. It wasn't a hard question by a long shot and he was right about us both being single—wasn't he? I opened my mouth to speak. Nothing came out. Not a yes or a no.
Hunter gave my fingers a squeeze. "Just think about it, okay?"
"Sure," I said, pretending that my thoughts didn't immediately turn to Oliver and how badly I wished it he was the one doing the asking. Hunter was a nice guy and a good friend; we weren't all that compatible, but we got along well enough that I figured we could reach a mutually-satisfying compromise. But I didn't
want
Hunter.
The urge to bury my face in my hands was overwhelming. I was in so much trouble.
Chapter nine
He picked up on the second ring. "Jo, hi." I realized he must have entered my number into his phone and my voice caught in my throat briefly as I squeaked out a hello. "Everything okay?"
"I was wondering if we could, ah, move our appointment." We were on the phone, on a line that could be tapped, so I figured discretion and paper-thin euphemisms were the better part of valor. "They're short-staffed tonight, so I thought I'd lend a hand." Take one for the team, I almost said.
I'd mulled over the prospect of blowing off Madam's summons and take my chances with Oliver, but in the end, it seemed prudent to keep all my options open. Madam had never threatened to toss me into jail if I fucked up. (Admittedly, neither had Oliver, but I needed my arguments to take the guise of reason.)
"You're not coming," Oliver said after a moment, his voice utterly cheerless.
"I was thinking we could maybe meet up tomorrow?" I offered, trying to inject a touch of optimism. He hadn't asked me to quit my other job, but I braced myself for a tantrum all the same.
Oliver seemed like the type to stomp his feet if he didn't get his way.
"If you're free," I added tentatively. "We could do a double—or, I mean, I can stay longer next time? I'm also free for the rest of the week, so we could do just do four instead of three..." Part of me worried I'd break skin if I saw him two days in a row, while the rest was more preoccupied with the fact that I was even trying to pull this stunt in the first place. We had a deal.
What was I playing at? Oliver was willing to pay good money to have me attend to him three times a week; I didn't have to put on clothes I didn't like wearing or don fake eyelashes, or bother feigning interest in him as a man.
I'd told myself this was the smart thing to do to keep Madam Madrigal sweet. Now I wasn't so sure this wasn't self-sabotage for the hell of it.
"Okay," Oliver sighed, "I guess I'll see you tomorrow night."
In all my anticipation, I hadn't considered that he could sound so—despondent at the news. Had he been looking forward to my visit so much that its absence was a real anti-climax? Our sessions were good fun, in my opinion, but he'd coped well enough without a dominant until now.
"See you tomorrow," I breathed, but the line was already dead.
Oliver had hung up on me.
My reflection in the bathroom mirror revealed a powdered face with lush lips painted scarlet. I barely even recognized myself. This evening's wig was curly and black, reaching all the way down to my ass. Clients were big on long hair; they either didn't care or they didn't know it wasn't really me they were touching when they ran their fingers through my curls. There was no helping the miniskirt or the leather jacket I'd chosen for the occasion: at least this time I wasn't walking around with my bare breasts on display.
I had a taxi drive me to the party: Madam Madrigal had summoned us all to a club, which was both better and worse than the usual fare. Men who could afford to rent a whole club for an evening usually expected to see some glorified, real life version of a hip-hop music video. It meant a lot of bouncing around on uncomfortable shoes and loud, not necessarily good, music. I already felt tired just anticipating the upcoming bacchanalia.
Michele was waiting for me outside. "You're late," she chided. "Also, you're not supposed to be here." I had made the mistake of intimating I was working solo some nights and though I hadn't mentioned Oliver's name, I had a feeling she knew who'd hired me. She knew it was for good money; that had been her only query.
"If you can spare the rod, I'd be grateful," I drawled, hooking my purse over the shoulder. It was a vile, furry thing, like a bear paw on a silvery metal chain; I always expected PETA enthusiasts to jump out of the woodwork and cover me in paint whenever I wore it.
"Didn't you say you were
busy
tonight?" Michelle pressed, making air quotes around the word. Her nails were like freshly varnished claws hovering way too close to my face. I swatted them away.
"Maybe I did."
Michelle gaped, hazel eyes gone sky-blue with contact lenses for the evening. "You're blowing him off?"
"Mind your own business," I snapped. I needed this. It was a means to gain perspective, to remind myself of who I was and what I was headed for. None of my job applications had been met with a response. I might as well have been putting my CV in a bottle and tossing it into the ocean for all the good job seeking did me.
If she'd known when to quit, Michelle might have chosen that moment to back off. She didn't. Her hand caught me by the arm, nails pricking at the sick. "Don't be an idiot—"
"What the hell do you know?" She had men eating out of the palm of her hand. Patrons lined up to take her out, never mind have her to themselves for one night.
Oliver didn't want me like that. I didn't want him to want me like that.
I was nothing if not good at lying to myself.
"Does he hurt you?" Michelle hissed, suddenly close and in my face. "Make you do stuff you don't want to do?"
"He pays for the pleasure of my company." Wasn't that bad enough? He saw me as a sex worker and nothing more. Men either wanted to use us or save us from ourselves. They didn't want to date or get to know us. We were, as Michelle had once put it in one of her moments of inebriated clarity, damaged goods.
I thought about Oliver in his seven bedroom penthouse, waiting for me, the props already laid out on the bed: had he been anticipating another thrashing tonight? Would he have cared if I didn't want to deliver it? I liked dominating him more than a little, but I couldn't help want more and more from our sessions. I didn't want to be his torturer three times a week when I knew I could give him other pleasures, too. It didn't have to be about feelings or fluff, but it could be fulfilling for the both of us—couldn’t it?
Who was I kidding? Oliver's hang-ups had latched that door a long time ago.
"You're one proud bitch, you know that?" Michelle snarled.
And with that, she pulled the club door open, bustling past the bouncer on her way in. A toneless baseline trickled out, the festivities already in swing.
"I'm with her," I told the bouncer. He looked me up and down speculatively and then nodded. I knew I looked the part.
Inside, the club was far emptier than a Wednesday night should've called for. I navigated my way between the girls and noticed that Madam had really scraped the bottom of the barrel on this one. We were easily in the dozens, all of us scantily-clad and contractually obligated to appear available. I couldn't even see the clients, at first, let alone Michelle. Strobe lights flashed across the dance floor, wreaking havoc on my sense of direction. I had a vague idea which way I'd come in and only one destination in mind: the bar.
The tender was cute, but he looked younger than I was. Big gold earrings dangled down to his collarbones as he propped himself in front of me. "What can I get you, beautiful?"
"Coke?"
"And rum?" he ventured.
I shook my head. "Just the Coke, thanks." I could have flirted, but my heart wasn't in it.
"Keeping sober, huh? Smart," said the bartender. "I'm guessing things are gonna get all kinds of wild soon, right?" He grinned toothily and I thought, yep, definitely younger than me. He'd have to be to feel excited about this.
I took the Coke, smirking with half a mouth. "Oh, I'm sure it'll be a fucking orgy." Wow, did I ever sound jaded. I didn't normally mind parties that got out of hand; the other girls were good at looking out for those of us who didn't feel comfortable participating and the money was always fairly divided.
Michelle had put me in a sulk, though. I decided to blame my sour mood on her rather than examine too closely my reluctance to join the grinding throng.