PLAYER

by Pamela DuMond

  Money.

  Beautiful money.

  Come to Jesus money.

  I find pictures online of Dylan’s casually pricy Texas wedding to a petite, cute, coiffed blond girl, with dimples from here to eternity. His dad presided over the afternoon ceremony. A good-looking guy, who has to be his brother, served as his best man. His mom wore her Sunday best and beamed in the official wedding photographs, hanging onto Dylan with one hand, the other touching her husband’s arm.

  They look like a nice family. A handsome family. A happy family. What has pushed Dylan out of his marriage, out of Lighthouse Church? What has pushed him into a life of high stakes poker?

  The vast majority of men that pay big money for a high-end escort are lonely. Something or someone is missing from their life, or they need their ego built back up. No judgment. I know lonely. I speak wounded ego. But staring at Dylan’s photo I don’t get it.

  He’s around 6 feet, with thick chestnut hair, blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles on his sun-kissed cheeks. His body lean, hard, and hell yes, darling, rocks a pair of blue jeans and a fitted T-shirt. He’s smokin’ hot in a three piece suit, his pants happy to be skimming his tight ass. What is Dylan McAlister doing hiring an escort, let alone a new one because he sees something in her eyes?

  I skip to the ‘About Event’ page. He is traveling to Chicago for an underground poker game and wants a ‘date’ for the event. Someone trustworthy. Someone discreet. I open the envelope containing his instructions, half expecting to see something that might not have sounded suspicious to Madam Marchand but would raise my freak flag.

  But the only weird thing is that his instructions are simple and handwritten:

  “Dress elegantly. Look stunning. Wait, you already do. Hold intelligent, engaging conversation with attendees. Be witty and discreet. The job will last 16 to 24 hours. You will be compensated for the full 24 if the gig ends early. Bring a wrap. The room gets cold. And get plenty of sleep the night before, Evelyn. Can’t wait to meet you, gorgeous.”

  My stomach flutters. I flip the switch on the fan up a notch and return to reading about him online. Dylan McAlister split from the church after his divorce and now he’s one of the most successful players in recent years on the private poker circuit. He’s legendary for spending small fortunes and winning even larger ones during games that last up to a few days. He tips generously. No known ties to Mafia, doesn’t abuse drugs, alcohol, and is only called an asshole by people that squander their fortunes to him. The gorgeous, brilliant man with the thick chestnut hair and smattering of freckles has the Midas touch.

  I stare at his picture, my heart thump thumping against my ribs. I could fall hard for those pretty blue eyes. Enjoy running a finger over the smattering of freckles on his sun-kissed cheeks, making my way down to his lips. I wonder what it will feel like the first time he kisses me. I suspect it will be magical – lips tingling, cheeks flushing, my body bathed in stardust after a meteor shower blows through.

  Dylan McAlister is beautiful. If he wanted lips wrapped around his cock he could walk into any bar, or swipe right on a dating app. If he wanted to plunge his dick into someone warm and inviting, a dozen women would happily service him at a poker game or in a choir loft after 8:30 a.m. early church vespers and before the 10:30 a.m. late service. Who are you, Dylan McAlister? Who are you and what do you really want from a girl from an escort agency let alone a girl who has “a look in her eyes?”

  I beautify for all my dates but I prep the holy hell for this one. I visit my fave budget salon. I’m still paying for Mom’s medicals, so nothing fancy or overpriced for me. I pop for highlights, a cut, a blow dry, a mani pedi, and undergo the whole waxing ordeal.

  Back at my dump, I turn on my bedroom window AC unit. It chugs along, coughing in fits and spurts as I rip through my closet searching for the perfect thing to wear. Clothes fly onto my bed, piling in miniature mountains. This outfit looks sleazy. That dress too old-fashioned. The purple skirt makes my ass look fat. The top I like on the hanger is too low cut making me look slightly slutty. I text Amelia.

  Evie: Panicking. A date. A new client. Absolutely nothing to wear.

  Amelia: I doubt that.

  Evie: Everything’s too sexy or not sexy enough.

  Amelia: Come to my place, Cinderella, and shop in fairy godmother Amelia’s closet.

  Evie: Yes, please and TY.

  I throw on jeans and a T-shirt and catch a ride to her new, two bedroom condo in Greektown. Escorting’s been good to Amelia. She not only paid off all her debt, she’s now a property owner. She lies back on her queen-sized bed swiping on her phone while I try on skirts, tops, and cocktail dresses. “Nothing works,” I say. “I am tragically un-dressable.”

  “Stop, drama queen.” Amelia tosses her phone, jumps up, and walks to the closet flipping through hangers. Half the stuff still has the tags on. Nordstroms. Saks. Bloomingdales. She pulls out a garment bag, unzips it, and pulls out a dress. “Here.”

  I take it from her and stare at it. This dress. Good God, this dress. It’s red, fitted, mid-length, with thin straps and a deep V in the back. “Pretty,” I say. Stunning is more like it. Out of my league is probably the best description. The only time I’ve laid hands on a dress like this is in the pages of a magazine.

  “Try it on.”

  I pull it over my head, down my chest, and wriggle it over my hips. I turn and face the full-length mirror. “Wow. I look like a different Evie.”

  “You look like the same Evie to me,” Amelia says, falling back onto her bed and returning to texting. “Albeit wearing a two thousand dollar dress. That’s the one. It shows off your shoulders, and makes your waist look amazing. Your boobs are good, not too exposed. And it hugs your ass.”

  “How’d you score a two thousand dollar dress?”

  “Ma Maison’s giving me a clothing allowance for more exclusive dates.”

  “Nice.” I stare in the full-length mirror and fuss with the skirt, smoothing it over my legs where it falls a few inches above the knee. “What about the length? Too old-fashioned?”

  “It’s elegant. What’s up with you and the worrying? Want to tell me something?”

  “Nothing to tell.”

  “Beg to differ,” she says. “I’ve never seen you this wound up about a job. If Dylan McAlister was candy he’d be Red Hots. I think you’re going to have sex with him.”

  “Oh, please. I haven’t even met him.”

  “Someone’s going to pop your escort cherry, Evie.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s expected.”

  “What if I don’t want to do that?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Play the game or go back to being a full time kindergarten teacher.”

  “Stop being a bitch. Did you Google Dylan?”

  “At least this bitch is your true, honest friend. Yes, I’ve seen his picture. I’ve seen his entire resume. Impressive.”

  My heart sinks. “What are you saying?”

  “Madam Marchand offered the McAlister gig to someone else before you.”

  “You?” Disappointment mixed with a twinge of jealousy trickles like a pinch of poison through my veins. “She offered it to you? He picked you first?”

  “Not me.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Victoria.”

  “Victoria? Ew.”

  “You two share a similar fake bio. Written by the same copywriter, remember?”

  “Except I don’t do hard kink. And I don’t spread my legs for just anyone let alone everyone.”

  “You don’t spread your legs for anyone, Evie. I’m the last person to talk you into anything. I’m the last person on this planet to tell… you know what? Forget it. Do what you’re comfortable with. Do what makes you happy.”

  “That’s right,” I say. “I’ll do what I want to do. And, and… Victoria didn’t want Dylan McAlister? What’s wrong? Is he some kind of freak?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “
I don’t think so. Victoria turned the engagement down because she’s got a new boyfriend. He’s taking her to Paris this weekend.”

  “Good for her,’ I say, my excitement dashed. “If Dylan picked Victoria first, maybe I should turn down this gig too. There’s a great concert in town this weekend. A guy from my gym asked me out, you know.”

  “Excellent.” Amelia says, absorbed in her phone. “Do you like him?”

  “No. But he could grow on me.”

  “Right. I think Dylan picked Victoria first because Madam pushed him in her direction. She manipulates, you know. Some girls pay her extra on the side. Who do you think she makes more money off of? You? Or Victoria?”

  “That’s not right.” Indignation stomps around inside me like pissed off protestors in pussy hats at a protest. “That’s not fair.”

  “That’s the way the world works,” Amelia says. “Fighting something that can’t be changed isn’t going to get you anywhere. Let it go. You remember what I told you how to protect your heart, right?”

  I shiver. “My heart was broken forever, for good, a long time ago.”

  Even after all this time the wound lies just below my skin’s surface, waiting for something to poke into it, rip the scab off. Nothing good came out of that day we ran over the Wolfe brothers. I’ve been practicing the art of trying not to think about that day for years. Every time images of Wyatt and Easton bloody and broken pop into my brain, I replaced them with balloons that float into the sky as light as feathers. Or birds winging away, just like those crows did for parts unknown. After I did that ten thousand or so times I got better at moving through the pain. The PTSD, on the other hand, was a bitch to lose.

  At thirteen, the hard-working doctors employed through DCFS diagnosed me as having Generalized Anxiety Disorder because back then kids didn’t usually get PTSD. Soldiers who went to war got PTSD. I wish they’d better explained that to my teenage nervous system.

  The shakes started immediately following the accident, growing so fierce at times I could barely hold a pen. Students at my new school teased me, calling me ‘Shake and Bake’ Berlinger. The night terrors followed and I’d wake up time and again drenched in sweat. It wasn’t that easy explaining damp sheets in foster care to the lady pulling them to her nose and sniffing with a fat frown on her face. “Are you sure, Evie?”

  “I’m sure, Mrs. Smith. I didn’t. I swear. I would know if I wet the bed.”

  And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse was when the empathic ability kicked into high gear. I started feeling other people’s feelings in my own body, usually people in close proximity to me.

  One day in 8th grade, I was late for gym class, hurriedly changing clothes in the locker room when the inside of my thigh began burning like I’d been stung by a bee. I put one foot up on a bench and peered down but didn’t see any welts. Maybe I’d gotten my period. I wasn’t all that familiar with periods. I’d experienced some cramps, but I didn’t have a clue if they caused stinging. I wriggled my panties down and checked for blood. My cotton briefs were white as could be. But the stinging worsened. It burned, sliced, and then strangely there was relief, almost pleasure.

  I suspected it was hormones. Just about everyone had warned me about hormones. A girl the next aisle over, sighed. I wandered a few yards over, popped my head around the corner of the row of lockers and spotted Lauren Caspberger. She was resting her foot on a bench and her legs were spread. She peered forward as she cut the inside of her thigh with a small knife. I was embarrassed. It felt like I was interrupting a private moment. I didn’t know if I should say anything but didn’t know how I couldn’t. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She gave me the stink eye. “Go away, weirdo.”

  Twenty minutes later I was dribbling basketballs down the shiny gym floor – thomp-thomp-thomp – with twenty other girls aiming at hoops, when it dawned on me that the stinging wasn’t mine. It was Lauren Caspberger’s.

  A week later I made my way down a hallway between classes when worry nipped at my heels so strongly I jumped. Would I have enough money? What would happen if I ran out of money? How would I take care of my family if I was no longer here? It was worse than worry, it was an almost quiet desperation. I stopped in my tracks and nearly got run over by a few guys.

  “Out of the way, Berlinger,” one said, pushing past me.

  “Move it, Shake and Bake,” his pal said, and they all laughed.

  “Sorry!” I was worried about a lot of things but walking the hallways of Beethoven Middle Grade School wasn’t one of them. I leaned back against a locker and watched the kids pass. Some fast. Some slow. Some goofing around with their friends, others lost in thought. These feelings within me didn’t belong to a student. They belonged to the white-haired, stooped-back janitor wheeling a bucket with a mop impaled into it down the hall. He paused in an alcove waiting for the bell to ring, staring down at his bucket like his world was caving in. These weren’t my concerns about money, they were his. I felt bad for him and said a silent prayer.

  Eventually, I was diagnosed with PTSD, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, pre-disposed to panic attacks. They medicated me with a low dose of anti-depressants but they made me feel even worse than the anxiety. By the time I hit eighteen, I was determined to beat this crap and sought advice from alternative healers. I went to hypnotists, acupuncturists, body workers. One after the next told me I was ‘empathic.’ I picked up on the feelings of people around me, experienced their feelings in my body just like they were my own.

  I could go crazy from this weirdness, split my brain into two or ten or five thousand pieces like Mom did, or I could compartmentalize and handle it with guided meditation, self- hypnosis, alternative medicine, and hard exercise.

  I learned acupressure points to ground me. Meditation to calm me. Breathing exercises to bring me back to reality. And they helped. I never fully shut off the empathic spigot but turned it down to a low drip-drip-drip.

  Now, seven years later, in Amelia’s bedroom, my friend sighs. “I’m sorry, Evie. I’ll cross my fingers that everything with Dylan McAlister goes well. I’m going to remind you what Victoria told me about boundaries in case you forgot.”

  “I don’t need a reminder.”

  “Set boundaries within the confines of the date. Do not do anything you are uncomfortable doing. Ignore what I said before about popping your escort cherry. I shouldn’t have said that. I say stupid things on occasion. Don’t agree to anything that you know you’ll have second thoughts about the next day. When the date is over, imagine yourself building a wall between you and the client.”

  “Can I make Mexico pay for it?” I snort.

  “Build the wall. Keep your boundaries as intact as possible and keep yourself safe. If you get too close to these guys you can develop unhealthy attachments and confuse lust with love, a business relationship with a personal relationship and covet things you can’t have.”

  “I’ve done pretty good so far.”

  “You have.” She nods. “But you also haven’t had sex with a client. Sex has a way of changing things. Enjoy the dress. It looks like it was made for you. Return it some day.”

  “I love you fairy godmother.” I jump on the bed, throw my arms around her neck, and hug her. “You’re my sister from a different mister.” A pang of sadness pokes me because I wish I felt this way about my own sister.

  “Yeah, yeah. Go before I turn you into a pumpkin.”

  “That’s not how it works,” I say, catching a glimpse of her texts – actually ‘sexts.’ “Fairy godmother sent the carriage. Technically it was a midnight thing.”

  “Go.” She waves a dismissive hand. “I’ve got a date. Someone interesting for a change.”

  4

  Cinderella

  CINDERELLA

  I do my hair, apply light makeup, and meditate for half an hour to get centered. I slide into the money dress, zip it, and eye myself critically in the mirror. Cinderella indeed. Where are my glass slippers? Being that
I was a lapsed Catholic and Dylan has the Christian background, before I step out the door, I bow my head in prayer.

  Dear God. Please help me give my all for this job. Please help me do my best. And this I ask for in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

  Half an hour later I walk through the doors of a gorgeous five star hotel on Wacker Drive. I might look Zen but my nerves are sizzling, barely contained under my skin. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting rich light, flattering just about everyone in its glow. I ignore appreciative glances and questioning eyes from employees and customers, and navigate the marble floors, my high heels barely making a sound. I make my way toward the bar where I’m supposed to meet Dylan. I pause for a moment before entering.

  Three, two, one, Evie. You got this.

  I smooth the skirt down my legs and remind myself that at the end of the day this is just a job. Dylan McAlister is just another client, just another guy in another elegant hotel with extra money to burn.

  I slip the lipstick from my Chanel bag that I borrowed from Amelia, and swipe one last reinforcement coat on my lips. I’ll do my best to be unemotional and remain professional. I’ll give this job my all. I hold my head high, take a deep breath, and move into the bar’s entrance. I’ve stared at Dylan McAlister’s picture I don’t know how many times now and yet I still worry that I won’t find him.

  I don’t have to worry.

  He finds me. Immediately.

  “Evelyn,” he says, standing up from an intimate round table in the corner.

  Wow. He’s tall. Muscular. He’s wearing crisp dress pants with an immaculate white shirt open a few buttons revealing groomed chest hair. Be still my heart. Dylan’s hotter in person than he is in his pictures. I make my way toward him feeling a little weak in the knees. I take in the smattering of light freckles on his high cheekbones, and the lock of chestnut hair that falls over his forehead. His blue eyes light up appreciatively. My pulse races, my cheeks feel hot.