PLAYER

by Pamela DuMond

  I was twenty-four-years old. I could either crumple into a ball on my sorry mattress, or clear my head. It was spring and the Chicago weather was a psychotic ride between chilly, spring showers, and warm, sunny skies. Home sweet home. Ha. Yeah, thanks a bunch, universe.

  I hopped on my bike, pedaled on the path adjacent to Lake Shore Drive, and rode for miles like a madwoman. I biked past sailboats dotting the harbor and sleek condos – the constellation of wealth gathered like members of a private club hovering around a mahogany bar at Lake Michigan’s edge.

  I braked at a stop light, watched the cars pass in a blur and wondered how, after four years studying to get a liberal arts degree, a year and a half to earn my teaching certificate, all the hours I’d spent learning alternative therapies and eighteen thousand different ways to meditate — how had I landed like last year’s fashion in life’s bargain basement bin once again? More importantly, how could I get out?

  And then Amelia texted me:

  Amelia: In a bind. Pretty please double with me tonight. 8 pm. No funny biz. I’ll pay you five hundred. Cash.

  Evie: Yes.

  I shot back.

  I biked home, showered, and flipped through clothes in my closet at lightning speed wondering what kind of dicey situation I’d signed up for.

  Now, two years later, in Ma Maison’s posh corner office, I take a seat next to Madame Germaine’s desk. The white envelope resting on her immaculate table contains details of a potential client – a high profile client. I can feel her desire for coin depositing into Ma Maison’s bank account with a hefty clink.

  “He probably doesn’t even need me,” I say. “Most of these guys just need a good therapist or someone who can mother them, not an astronomically-priced ‘girlfriend’ healing immersion.”

  “He wouldn’t have requested you if he didn’t need you. Money is nothing to these men,” Madame says, templing her fingers. “They see their shrinks, go to church, synagogue, prayer services. They pay for pricey escorts for events, or kink, or whatever bug is up their ass. Yes, they come to Ma Maison for that, but they don’t request someone like you unless they want a girl who can help them with their darkest, deepest concerns. A girl who can help them heal.”

  I wave a dismissive hand. “He’ll do fine without me.”

  “Maybe yes. Maybe no.”

  The night I accepted Amelia’s request to go on a ‘date’ for $500 cash, I was a big, fat bundle of nerves. I met Amelia and two well-dressed, thirty-something guys for drinks at a trendy River North restaurant. They were in from Kansas City for a trade show. We chatted and flirted. No one pulled down his pants in the middle of dinner. No one snuck their hand under the table in a shady attempt to slide it between my legs and cop a feel. I had the best meal I’d eaten in years. Two and a half hours and four courses later, Amelia and I hit the ladies room and she slipped me five bills.

  “Was that so awful?” she asked.

  “No,” I said, my fingers trembling as I tucked the cash into my wallet and zipped my purse up tight.

  “Told you.” She leaned into the mirror, fluffed her hair, and applied a fresh coat of lipstick.

  “It’s not always this easy, is it?”

  Amelia was always impossibly coiffed, had everything together, and I was the weirdo, sweating the details, not knowing how or if I’d pay the next phone bill.

  “It is tonight. Say goodnight to your date on your way out. Take his card to be polite. No, you don’t have to call him.”

  I thanked the guy for a lovely evening and accepted his card. No wizened penis wanking in my direction. Instead he shook my hand, a perfect gentleman. I stared at the ceiling that night on my lumpy mattress and imagined all the debt I could pay with those five bills. It was so easy. I was smart. I was better educated than the vast majority of people making a better living than me. Why couldn’t I become an escort?

  ‘Bah, who becomes an escort?’ My old pal Queasy, opined. ‘You want some ancient man peppered in liver spots feeling up your private bits?’

  Er, no. What was wrong with me? Was I losing it like Mom did? This idea was batshit crazy. I could get another job after my twelve-hour work day. Sell something weird on eBay and make a fortune. Become a Walmart greeter on the weekends.

  The next day Mom’s shrink phoned and told me she was a candidate for TMS.

  “What’s TMS?”

  “Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation. It’s similar to ECT. The next wave of technology for re-setting the brain,” Dr. Winters said.

  “But electro convulsive therapy never worked in the past.”

  “This is different,” he said. “They use magnets. Early study results are amazing. If we get your mom into a study program it could turn her life around. She could live on her own again.”

  “You mean live with me again. She can’t live with my sister Ruby – she’s in college.” As much as I loved my mom, we were like oil and water when it came to living under the same roof. It’s a wonder we hadn’t killed each other all the times we’d tried to make that work.

  “No, Evie. If successful, she might be able to live on her own.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “It’s pricey.”

  “How pricey?”

  “Six figures pricey.”

  “Got it,” I said, my throat closing.

  “I already spoke with the program’s administrator. She’s a friend. I’m almost certain I can get your mom in.”

  “Great,” I said, my skin turning hot like someone had doused me in alcohol, lit a match, and tossed it on my head. “Then we have to do it.”

  “Excellent.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “The down payment is due upon program acceptance.”

  “Right. I’ll get to work on that.” I hung up the phone and sobbed, kissing my life as I knew it goodbye. I called Amelia, catching her on a night between dates. We ordered pizza at her place, drank beer, and binge watched Alfred Hitchcock movies.

  “Want another slice?” she asked.

  “Fuck you. Thanks to you I can’t get fat ever again,” I said, smelling the fresh basil mixed with freshly grated cheese, my stomach growling. “I should still do this, right?”

  “Yes. Do you really have other options?” she said. “Besides, some guys love curvy girls.”

  “Fuck you again. Give me a slice of pepperoni.”

  She grinned and passed me a plate.

  “Thanks. You’ve been doing this for a while. You know the ins and outs, no pun intended.” I tore into a piece of pizza. “I’m the new girl, and I doubt they’ll hire me for my ability to pull someone’s thumb out of their mouth, or convince a five-year-old to lay down on his mat and take a nap.”

  “You’d be surprised how often the thumb in the mouth and the napping thing cross over.” She sat back on her sleek, designer couch and pointed to the TV. “Resume streaming please. I love Notorious with Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman.”

  I signed up for the Ma Maison agency the next day. I helped the tech girl fill in my fictitious bio, got my hair and makeup done and took the boudoir pictures. I reminded myself that sex with clients was not required because that would constitute prostitution. Ma Maison didn’t want to get busted and neither did I. Besides, I’d been assured that sex with clients was optional.

  I’d date. I’d pay my bills and pay for my mom’s psych treatments. And everything went according to plan – for a while: Arm candy for middle-aged men in town for a convention, an engagement with a lonely guy returning for his high school reunion. Lots of prepping to look polished. Hair. Nails. Waxing.

  I taught kindergarten in the morning and went on dates on nights and weekends when Ma Maison booked me. I earned decent money but didn’t get big tips. I didn’t make the big bucks because I wasn’t banging clients. When I had sex with a client. If I had sex with a client, I wanted it to be with someone special. Someone I’d always remember. Maybe that was old-fashioned. I didn’t care. I’d been accused of worse.

  But everything changed when I m
et Dylan McAlister. Life shot a come to Jesus, Hallelujah sized hole through my chest when I met Dylan McAlister. Hard to believe that was nearly two years ago.

  Now Madam Germaine pushes the envelope across the pretty antique desk toward me. “This man needs you.”

  “You say that about all the men.”

  “Open it. Take a look.”

  I reluctantly pick it up, fantasizing about casting a fishing line onto that Wisconsin lake. Feeling the tantalizing tug on the pole when I get a bite. The satisfaction of reeling dinner in. Pan frying it over the BBQ on the deck. Tossing back a few beers with some friends and my sister. After debilitating, exhausting years of bipolar depression, Mom’s finally smiling again. I take mental snapshots, but when I hold one too close, one of her smiles threatens to melt my heart.

  Now I hold the packet, solid in my hands, and suddenly my longing for fish fries, cold beer, and hanging with a relatively normal version of mom is replaced with a stirring of blood in my veins, goosebumps on the backs of my arms. And I know in my bones that this envelope holds the details of another broken man who – if the stars align – I’ll uncover the bitter belief that shut him down. I’ll help him heal.

  I, Evie Berlinger, am no longer an average escort. I’m not paid to drop to my knees behind some shitty House of Pies and dispense blow jobs to sad guys in town for a hardware show. My services are retained by powerful, privileged, wealthy men at the top of their professions who have lost their way; their self-confidence; the spark that made them great.

  These titans could spend years in therapy paying brilliant shrinks to hack away at their issues. They could travel thousands of miles in their desperate search for answers. Vision quest to Peru, climb Macchu Picchu, drink the ayahuasca, and trip the light fantastic.

  Or, they could pay Ma Maison an ungodly amount of money to spend a few weeks with Scarlett, Lily, or me. We have the ability to help them uncover the screwed up core belief that shut them down and we do that quickly. If we take a liking to them they might have the best sex of their lives. Trip the light fantastic in a different kind of way.

  “Do you mind if I look at this for a few minutes?” I ask and tap one finger on the white linen envelope. But I already suspect my vacation at the lake house is going to be put on hold. “Meditate on it for a few?”

  “Take your time,” Madam says.

  I stand, hold the packet tight to my chest, already absorbing who this man is. I leave Madam Germaine’s office and walk past her assistant. “Hey, Jay. Is there an open room?”

  “Number four,” he says. “Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m good. Thanks.” I enter room number four and close the door. I shut the blackout curtains, settle on a chaise lounge with the envelope resting on top of me, put on earphones and hit shuffle on my phone. Whatever music comes up is meant to be. And then the song starts to play. The one that reminds me of the man who changed my life.

  I close my eyes, memories tripping through my brain. Memories of how I got here. Memories of Dylan McAlister. I let them dance around awkward and breathless and exhilarating like they are happening again for the first time. I slide into the deliciousness of Dylan McAlister, the gorgeous, brilliant, tormented, player.

  3

  Tycoon

  TYCOON

  * * *

  Two years ago

  When a request for a ‘date’ comes into Ma Maison from a new client, a non-refundable deposit is collected and the potential patron is vetted via the usual sources. Background checks are conducted for income, proper references, and a clean record for rape, murder, domestic abuse, and human trafficking.

  Once cleared, a client (or if they choose to remain anonymous their representative), reviews and signs the standard contract. Then Madam Marchand and her assistant select the first batch of candidates. Most guys are looking for a few things when they hire from an exclusive escort agency: A beautiful girl on their arm to impress their friends, a girlfriend experience, or a young woman who can wrap her lips over their cocks and make them forget their sadness for a short, but glorious period of time.

  In ninety-nine percent of the cases, the customer selects his date from the first batch of women presented to him in confidential files and documents. A pretty face, impressive tits, shapely legs. Throw in decent conversation and it’s not rocket science.

  But Dylan McAlister is the odd man out.

  I’ve only been with Ma Maison three months when he picks me. I normally wait ten minutes in the foyer for an appointment with Madam Marchand but this time her assistant ushers me into her office immediately. I don’t think this guy is an average client.

  “Why me?” I ask. I’m the new girl on the block. I’m not a client’s exotic fantasy girl. ‘No kink’ is spelled out in my bio. I don’t submit to dom fantasies. I don’t crawl blindfolded across the floor holding a stick in my mouth. Nor do I flip roles, insist a client call me ‘Miss Evelyn’ while they kneel at my feet as I grind a heel into their ass cheek and beat them with a switch.

  I am the girl next door they always wanted to ask out but never found the courage to. I am the fresh-faced high school cheerleader they always dreamed about screwing. I am the step sister fantasy. I am not the sought after Prom Queen because that role has already been locked down by Victoria, Amelia’s frenemy. I don’t really care because alpha girl status has never been my goal and I couldn’t care less about becoming Ma Maison’s head bitch.

  This whole escort gig was going great until a week ago when I discovered during a random conversation that I was making a quarter of what the other girls made. I wasn’t being considered for primo gigs because I wasn’t actually fucking clients. I was pissed, half tempted to have more than a word with Madame Germaine, but she calls me into the office and beats me to the punch. I’m petrified she’s going to fire me but instead she offers me a gig.

  Madam slips off her cat-eye glasses, places them on her desk and rubs her temples. “I don’t know for certain why Mr. McAlister picked you,” she says. “He said he had a gut instinct. I pressed him a little. He said you had something special in your eyes.”

  “Probably eyeliner and mascara,” I say, keeping a straight face while I mess with Madam Uptight. “Don’t all the girls have that?”

  “Remind me to highlight quirky sense of humor in your profile. Ask Mr. McAlister yourself when you meet him,” she said, passing me the usual white linen envelope.

  Ma Maison is old fashioned in that they don’t transfer contracts via email. Apparently different laws could be broken via transferring information over the internet. “Mr. McAlister also requested that I give you a brief list of instructions of what he wants you to read before your first date. I took a peek. Nothing seems objectionable.”

  “Thanks,” I say, sliding the envelope into my purse.

  “Evelyn,” she says, her frosty tone stopping me cold.

  “Madam?”

  She arches one thin eyebrow. “You’re not technically a virgin, are you?”

  I break out coughing. “No.”

  “Too bad. We could have gotten a lot more money for that kind of date.”

  “Sorry. My V card’s already been punched.” I practically bolt toward the door.

  “Evelyn.”

  The room grows colder and goose bumps prickle on the backs of my arms. “What, Madam?”

  “You’re a pretty girl. A smart girl. You’re the dream for the men who select you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. Find a way to thank them. I’m certain you’ll be richly rewarded.”

  I escape her pristine office, pound my fist bam-bam-bam on the elevator button and blow out of the pretty prison. I leave the frosty AC chilled building and step out into the swamp air of Chicago’s humidity central summer. I catch the subway home to the Southside, keeping one possessive finger on the envelope tucked into my bag.

  I slap the envelope on Mom’s Formica table, pour a glass of lemonade, and fashion my long, thick hair into a loose
bun, securing it with a stick. I turn on the rotating fan, positioning my face in front of it for a few seconds. Then I lean back and read Dylan’s bio.

  Dylan McAlister. Gambler. Player. Thirty-eight. Married once for five years, divorced for another five. He hails from a small town in Texas and his parents are church people.

  Rich church people.

  Tycoon rich church people.

  About twenty-five years ago his dad moved up the ladder and became one of those superstar TV evangelist pastors at a mega-church that telecasts its services on cable. The McCalister’s have money that can buy islands and mansions and private jets.

  Dyla McAlister might be a player but at his roots he’s a former church baby. What is a former church baby doing hiring an escort from a high-priced agency? Color me intrigued.

  I hit up Google, search ‘Images’, and hunt down a few photos of Dylan hanging with his family on a pretty summer day on the steps of a gaudy cathedral. Father and son are cut from the same cloth: high cheekbones, full heads of hair, classically handsome. The house of worship, on the other hand, is an ostentatious palace of metal and glass with crosses beveled into the windows, with another gigantic cross erected on the front lawn.

  The Lighthouse Cathedral is framed against a blinding beautiful Texas blue sky, the sun streaming down around it like even God himself is blown away. The brand screams money.

  The same search reveals details about dollars enthusiastically deposited into the church’s many collection plates, sizeable dollars inked onto checks, hundreds of thousands of green, green dollars reverently submitted via credit cards for church events and conventions. And then there are the millions dropped on the series of inspirational self-help books that his dad has probably dictated to a ghostwriter.