Broken and Beautiful

by Ryan, Kendall

  “’Kay. Gotta go. Love you.”

  With that, Michael ends the call, and I’m left alone once again, feeling even worse than before, if that’s even possible.

  The only silver lining to all of this is that it’s the weekend, and I have the next two days to figure out my next move. The thought of not heading into Aspen on Monday morning makes me physically ill. It’s just not like me to jeopardize my entire career for a fling with a brooding, older man. I have no idea what got into me.

  Actually, I do. Dominic Aspen is a very hard man to ignore. The things he made me feel . . . the way he lit up my entire body, challenged me, mentored me . . . He never treated me like an intern, and I guess that was the thing I liked best.

  Then again, maybe he was only doing what he did best—winning me over simply because it served his purposes. Paying me for my time because he knew I wouldn’t refuse. Just like he paid for all his other dates.

  And with that, an idea pops into my head.

  Dominic once mentioned the escort agency he uses for dates. What was its name—Ambrosia? No, it was called Allure. He made escorting sound pretty safe and lucrative. And I already have a little experience with being paid for my companionship . . . so there’s that.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I open my laptop to research Allure. Their website is professional and very tasteful—no nudity, although there are pictures galore of staggeringly gorgeous, lingerie-clad women in come-hither poses. It eases my paranoia only slightly. But if Allure was breaking the law, they wouldn’t be able to have such an easy-to-find website without the police descending on them, right?

  Still, my gut twists with anxiety. The idea of being alone with a male stranger who’s paid for my time, who probably has unspoken expectations, who maybe even lied to the agency about what he wanted . . . would I be able to back out? And even if there was no immediate danger, what if anyone found out about this little venture? How safe would my secret be? How would it affect my ability to find another job and get my career back on track?

  Terrible what-ifs run rampant through my mind. Yet I also can’t forget that there’s only a couple of short months until Michael’s next semester begins, and he’ll need even more money.

  I pick up my tarot deck, hesitate, then put it back down. I’m desperate for some hint to help get me out of this mess. But I know that consulting the cards will only illuminate my own intuition . . . and deep down, I already get the feeling that Allure isn’t the right path for me.

  What else can I do, though? I ruined everything, destroyed Dominic’s trust in me, and I’m almost certainly unemployed now. I need to be able to keep feeding myself and putting Michael through school. I need a way to make money until I can find another job, and this is the easiest option I’ve come up with so far. Or, at least, the quickest.

  Maybe it’s not as bad as I’m imagining. Maybe I can get a gig where all I have to do is be arm candy, like I did with Dominic? A courtesan. It’s a profession as old as time.

  I don’t want to think about Dominic anymore. I need to take action, to feel like I’m the one in control again. In the upper right-hand corner of the website, I click a button that says apply. I can always change my mind later if it doesn’t feel right.

  Taking a deep breath, I start filling out the online form. I just don’t know whether to pray for acceptance or rejection by the mysterious Allure.

  * * *

  The next morning, I fold up my blankets and then settle back on the couch with a cup of coffee and my laptop. An email from Allure has appeared in my in-box overnight. My heart rate jumps a little just at the sight of it. I hesitate, then click to open it.

  The message is short:

  Dear Presley,

  I would like to meet for a brief interview. Would this morning at ten work for you?

  Thank you,

  Gia

  Underneath is an automated signature listing her title as owner.

  I check the time and suppress a loud curse. Thank God I naturally wake up early. I only have an hour to get ready and make it to an interview across town.

  I’ve just clicked reply to let Gia know I’ll be there when the front door opens. I startle and whirl around like I’ve been caught doing something illegal—which isn’t far from the truth.

  Jesus, calm down, it’s just Bianca. You know, the person who actually lives here?

  “Man, I’m so glad to see you.” Bianca sighs as she shrugs out of her coat and hangs it up. “You’ve been working so much lately. You want to get something to eat and watch bad reality TV with me?” Then she pauses, taking in my wild expression. “Are you okay?”

  Not at all. “Everything’s fine. Just, uh, I gotta do some work stuff this morning.” That’s not a complete lie. After all, escorting might be my new job from now on. “But I can hang out later if you want?”

  Bianca appraises me and then gives me a slow nod. “Sure. That sounds good.”

  I shower at warp speed, hesitate for a minute about clothes before yanking on the same suit I wore for my Aspen interview, skip breakfast, and then pray for the bus to be on time all the way there.

  Allure’s offices are in a totally normal-looking office tower. The décor is bland and the elevator plays soft jazz music. What did you expect, a drunken orgy? I chide myself.

  At the fifth floor, a receptionist waits behind a sleek, polished white desk. She flashes me a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Good morning. How can I help you?”

  Suddenly, I feel young and inexperienced, and completely unsure about what I’m doing here. I almost consider turning around and returning to the safety of the elevator. Instead, I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath.

  “Hi. I’m Presley . . . um, I have an appointment with Gia at ten?”

  “Ah, yes, Miss Harper.” She stands up. “Right this way. Would you like coffee or tea?”

  “N-no, that’s okay, but thank you for offering.”

  I follow her down the burgundy-carpeted hall to an oak door that wouldn’t look out of place in Aspen’s offices. She knocks, waits for the occupant to call out, “Come in,” and opens the door.

  If I’d thought the receptionist was glamorous, the woman standing by the window is astonishing. Gia is tall, statuesque, without a single, dark hair out of place. Her designer dress and heels probably cost more than my first car. I would guess that she’s in her forties at the oldest, but maybe she’s had work done. She clearly has the money for it.

  Gia looks me up and down, blatantly assessing my appearance, then smiles and gestures to the leather chair in front of her desk. “Please have a seat.”

  Trying not to be intimidated and failing badly, I obey. The door clicks shut as the receptionist exits.

  Gia sits behind her desk, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “Your application said you have a bachelor’s degree. From where did you graduate?”

  I force myself to stop wringing my hands. Breathe, Presley. This is just another job interview. You know how to do those. “Brown University.”

  “What field did you study?” Gia asks.

  “I majored in economics.” I start to relax a little at how ordinary this is.

  “And what are your goals regarding your career?”

  With barely a pause between questions, Gia interrogates me on everything I mentioned on my application, plus a few things she must have searched the Internet for.

  Finally, she asks, “Why did you apply to Allure?”

  My mouth dries up. “Uh, I thought, because . . . I work hard, I’m a quick learner, and . . .”

  Gia laughs for the first time. “You’re allowed to say money, dear. Pretty much every girl in this industry has the same reason. People have expenses. Sometimes their life circumstances don’t permit more conventional employment, and it’s not crass to admit that.”

  “Oh. Well, then . . . yes, it’s money. I’m supporting my brother through college, and my internship is—” Probably shot straight to hell. “—unpaid, but it
’s also full-time, so I haven’t been able to find a second job that works around those hours.”

  “You weren’t lying when you said you were a hard worker.” Before I can figure out how to take that, Gia changes topics. “I want to assure you that nothing sexual will happen on these ‘dates’. Escorts aren’t slaves; I sell the company of attractive, interesting women, not the right to their bodies. Although you should keep in mind that the happier clients are, the more generous their tips will be.” She smiles demurely while I try to read between the lines. “I won’t guarantee that a client will never, ever try anything inappropriate, but you can report them to me, and they’ll be banned from Allure. Now, are you still interested?”

  Sex will definitely not be happening if I have anything to say about it. But maybe I really can do this. It’ll be an extra grand in my bank account just for making conversation with some lonely rich dude for a few hours.

  Slowly I reply, “I think so.”

  “Wonderful. I have the perfect starter client for you, an older gentleman who’s requested a dinner companion for seven o’clock.”

  I almost choke. “As in tonight? S-so soon?”

  “If you’re busy, I can put you on our waiting list. Usually, work is assigned a few weeks in advance. This engagement is only available now because the original girl called in sick yesterday.”

  I lick my lips nervously and try to steady my breathing. She said all he wanted was someone to eat dinner with, right? There’s no need to freak out—and no time like the present. I have to suck it up and jump in with both feet.

  “No, I’ll take it.”

  Gia smiles. “Perfect.” Then she pulls out a folder emblazoned with the Allure logo and hands it to me. “Let’s cover some details about what it means to be an escort.”

  I nod and then listen as she fills me in on the expectations of table manners, etiquette, and the art of making polite conversation. It’s mostly common sense, but it’s also a bit fascinating. I never imagined I’d be sitting here, listening to pointers like never discuss politics or religion on a date, and how to appear amiable and interested, even when a client isn’t at all your type.

  We spend another thirty minutes talking, and then Gia slides a piece of paper across the desk. “Here’s the restaurant where you’ll meet tonight’s client. For safety, I’ll never disclose your address or other personal information.”

  I take it, still feeling unsure, but trying to be brave. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

  “I didn’t anticipate you would,” Gia replies with another of her small, enigmatic smiles. She rises smoothly to her feet. “Let me show you out.”

  * * *

  Dale, the older gentleman I’m entertaining, is no gentleman at all. When I sit down at his table, the first thing he does is place his hand high up on my knee and give it a firm squeeze.

  I blink at him and then shift in my seat so his roaming hands can no longer reach me.

  He’s almost completely bald, except for a few stray hairs above his ears. “You’re beautiful, sweetheart.”

  “Um, thanks.”

  If my tone sounds flat, he doesn’t seem to notice. He pushes a glass of red wine at me. “Ruth, right? That’s my ex-wife’s aunt’s name. How old are you?”

  Why am I not surprised to hear he’s divorced? I’m already so glad I put down a pseudonym for Gia to give to customers. Instead of revealing any more personal details, I attempt to joke, “Don’t worry. I’m old enough to drink.”

  “Never would’ve guessed.” He leers. “You look downright illegal.”

  I sip my wine to clear the taste of bile out of my mouth. With no clue how to reply to that, I just repeat, “Thanks.”

  Luckily, he doesn’t seem to care about my lackluster responses. All through dinner, he keeps up a steady flow of degrading comments and attempts to touch my leg, my shoulder, anywhere he can get away with in a public place. If this guy’s a “perfect starter client,” I don’t even want to try to imagine what an advanced-level client might be like.

  As soon as the check hits our table, I jump up like a snake bit my butt. “It’s been a wonderful evening, but I really should get going now.”

  Thank goodness Allure makes clients pay the base price in advance. Even if he gives me a crappy tip because I bailed so unceremoniously, I don’t have to worry about getting totally stiffed. So to speak.

  He frowns. “What’s your hurry?”

  I plaster on a saccharine smile. “I have to . . . take care of my mother. She’s sick.” Very sick. Dead for over a decade, in fact.

  Before he can say anything else, I’m heading for the door. If I hurry, I can make the last bus home and won’t have to drop twenty bucks on an Uber.

  But he just follows me out into the parking lot. “Let me at least give you a ride. It’s dark out.”

  Like hell I’m getting into this creep’s car or telling him where I live. “Oh. Um, thank you for offering, but I don’t need one.”

  “Don’t be like that. The night’s just getting started.” He flashes me a lecherous grin that practically drips slime. “Let’s go someplace quiet where we can . . . talk.”

  My heart freezes. I open and close my mouth a few times before I manage to sputter out, “I d-didn’t agree to that.”

  He heaves an irritable sigh, rolling his eyes. “Fine. We don’t have to go anywhere.”

  Oh, thank God.

  But panic skitters through me again when he reaches for his fly, muttering, “Right here works, too.”

  “What are you doing?” I yelp.

  “The hell do you think, girlie? This is the part where you blow me.” He starts to unzip.

  I turn around and bolt so fast, my high heels almost trip me on the rough asphalt.

  “Hey!” Dale starts after me, his face red and fly still undone. “Fuckin’ bitch!”

  I clatter across the street and between buildings I don’t recognize. Someone honks—at me or him, I don’t know. I just flee until I can’t hear Dale’s yelling anymore and it feels like there’s a hot knife stuck in my side.

  I flatten myself against a brick wall, my heart hammering, blood surging through my ears, and grip my side, where a cramp burns from my sudden sprint. My gulps for breath turn into sobs. I sink down, trying and failing to fight back tears. Needing a ride, I dig my phone out of my purse so I can call Bianca, a taxi, anyone. Even Dad would do at this point.

  I tap the home button but the screen stays black. I scrub at my eyes and squint through the darkness. Did I hit the wrong thing? I try again, pressing the power button this time. Nothing happens.

  Then I realize what’s wrong, and a hysterical hiccup escapes me. Forget yesterday . . . this is the worst day of my life. And to top it all off, my fucking phone is dead.

  Now that I’m not running in blind terror anymore, I notice the chilly air and the stale stink of the alleyway. Part of me wants to just sit here and hide, to make sure Dale didn’t follow me. But I make myself stand up and keep walking.

  I wander around, my feet aching, until I see the lighted sign of a twenty-four-hour gas station. I push open the door with a jingle and ask the teenaged cashier, “Sorry, could I use your phone?”

  “There’s a pay phone outside,” he drawls.

  “I . . . don’t have any change.” I haven’t carried cash since I was this kid’s age.

  He eyes me, then wordlessly takes the landline receiver off the wall and holds it out over the counter.

  I’ve never been so grateful to look like a total mess. “Thank you so much.”

  He shrugs. “Yup.”

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I dial the only number I know by heart.

  Several seconds tick by, and the phone continues to ring. It’s an unknown number, he’s not going to pick up, I tell myself, fighting back another wave of tears. The cashier eyes me suspiciously while I attempt to wipe away the remnants of my mascara that I’m sure are on my cheeks.

  Then a deep male voice answers, and its fam
iliarity is almost as painful as it is reassuring. “Yes?”

  “Dominic.” I sob with relief. “Can you . . . please come get me?”

  * * *

  Don’t miss the stunningly sexy and heart-pounding conclusion to The Two-Week Arrangement.

  SEVEN NIGHTS OF SIN

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  It’s Not Over

  Grahame Claire

  1

  Daniel

  Present

  Time. An elusive motherfucker of a concept. It deceives us with the illusion that it’s never-ending, when the reality is that our allotment of this most precious commodity is limited. It goes on forever, while we do not.

  I’d always been aware of the proverbial ticking clock, each sweep of the hand a not-so-subtle reminder that time was not on my side. And for nearly eight years, I had locked that away, managed to embrace the here and now as opposed to slashing off the minutes with acute consciousness of their finite number. I’d pay for that soon enough, but I would never regret it. The risk had been worth it, though the magnitude of the fallout, once I pressed the detonator and blew up the world as I knew it, remained to be seen.

  This particular day came far sooner than I had anticipated. No, I wasn’t going to die. Not today anyway. But I faced something that could no longer be avoided, and might well be much worse.