The Learning Curve

by Collins, Kelly

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  I wasn’t positive, but I remembered the vast amounts of men who asked Mark how they could be a mentor. Surely, one of them—or one like them—would exchange cash for no-strings sex.

  “Could you sleep with a man and not feel dirty?”

  She grabbed a fry and broke it in half. “I’d have to lie to myself, but then I’d pay my rent and feel better.”

  “Let me see what I can come up with. There are no guarantees, and you’d have to put out and keep quiet about it. These men have too much to lose if word got out they were paying for it. We have too much to lose to let the word get out.”

  The springs of the cushion squeaked under her bouncing bottom. “We can be like Illuminati—except we’re a secret society of whores.”

  I rolled my eyes at her. “I prefer to think of myself as a concierge. Someone who supplies something to someone in need.”

  “Oh my God, that’s it.” She slapped her hand in front of her open mouth. “You can be a madam and open a business that’s only a front. You know, like a massage parlor that offers happy endings.”

  I rocked my shoulder into her. “First of all, I’d never own a massage parlor. Second, if I ran an establishment like you described, it would be high-end, where only an elite class of clientele could join.” I pulled a twenty from my purse and slapped it on the table. “For a girl who was busting my chops a while ago for spreading my legs for cash, you sure sound eager to join.”

  She slid from the booth and took the twenty. “I’m in it for the orgasms. Let me get your change.”

  With my purse in hand, I rose from the booth. “Keep it. You’ll need it to buy some sexy underwear.” I’d seen her underwear. No man was going to get a woody looking at those white cotton granny panties.

  “Where are you going?” she called from the register.

  “Shopping.” I walked out the door and turned left toward West Thirty-fourth Street and my favorite Macy’s.

  Chapter 8

  A pink garter belt and black thigh-high stockings were all I wore under the ruffled minidress, whose stretchy fabric would make for easy access.

  This nervousness I felt was crazy considering I’d been under this man in the most intimate of ways at least a hundred times, but I still paced across my living room. What if he didn’t show?

  I uncorked a bottle of red wine and poured a glass to calm my nerves. He’d never been to my apartment. Why had I agreed to let him pick me up? One look at the place, and he’d know I wasn’t anything more than a poor college student.

  I looked around, trying to see it through new eyes. It was small but cozy. Cheap furniture had been turned into quality pieces with paint and adornments. My throw rug was threadbare, but it was an antique and came from Persia.

  My walls were bare except for a signed poster I’d purchased at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was an abstract piece painted in my favorite palette: white, black, and gold, with a dash of red thrown in. Lines went in every direction with a red dot in the center. I always felt like I was that red dot standing in the center of chaos. When I’d seen the work was titled Anything is Possible, I’d bought it. I knew anything was possible. I’d made it from a nudist colony to an elite college; the rest should have been easy. It wasn’t.

  I drank the wine and chastised myself for surrendering to self-doubt. If I didn’t believe in myself, who would?

  A soft knock sounded on the door, and my heart took off racing. I tugged at the short skirt and adjusted the off-the-shoulder tunic before I answered it. When I opened the door, he was there with a big smile and a bouquet.

  “Come in.” I opened my door like I was inviting him into a palace, and in a way I was. This was my kingdom.

  “These are for you.” He pressed the mixed flowers into my hands and gave me a kiss. “They reminded me of you. Each one is different in a beautiful and exciting way. You’re always a surprise. Always beautiful. Always exciting.”

  I closed the door behind him and walked toward the kitchen where a cabinet door still hung from its broken hinge. “Don’t mind the door. I’m going for a new look.”

  “Post-apocalyptic, or 1940s bomb shelter?”

  “Ha ha, very funny.” I lifted up on my tiptoes and kissed him. “These are the first flowers I’ve ever received.”

  He looked pleased with himself. “We’ll have to remedy that. A beautiful woman should always have flowers.”

  “Wine?” I held up the open bottle and a glass.

  “Sure, one glass and then we have to go. We have eight o’clock reservations at La Grenouille.”

  “Oh my gosh, you’re taking me out to a real restaurant with French food and a maître-d’.”

  He took the glasses and walked into my living room where an overstuffed white sofa sat in the center of the room flanked by simple gold-leafed tables. “Where did you think I’d take you, McDonald’s? This is a date.”

  “I don’t know. I thought maybe something less expensive or something more discreet.”

  “It’s not against the law for me to date you. It’s frowned upon because I’m more than a dozen years older than you and I’m in a position of authority at the school. But not illegal.”

  I’d almost forgotten about the school. I pulled the bottle from his hands and set it on the table before I climbed into his lap and kissed him with every ounce of passion I possessed.

  “Thank you for the scholarship.”

  “And here I was thinking you were happy about the dinner.”

  “I’ll show you how happy I am about the dinner later, but right now I want to properly thank you for your generosity.”

  “Sweetheart, if you properly thanked me, we wouldn’t leave here.” He pressed his erection into my bottom, and I ground down hard on it.

  I was just as bad as he was. My appetite for him never went away. Weekends used to be my favorite time, but now they meant I wouldn’t see Mark. But if we were officially dating, weekends wouldn’t be off the table.

  “We could stay.” I bit my lower lip and looked into his cocoa-colored eyes.

  His head shook back and forth. “Nope. Your value goes deeper than how far I can bury myself inside you. I owe you a night out.”

  He knew I loved it when he talked dirty, and hearing him talk about being inside me made me want to strip and take him on my pristine white couch, but I slid off his lap and handed him the bottle of wine instead.

  “Pour the wine,” I said in a resigned voice. “If I can’t have my favorite vice, I might as well drink.”

  He poured two glasses of wine, and we sat in silence for a few minutes. His head turned left and right taking in my home.

  “I like it.” He sipped at his glass, then placed it on the table.

  “The wine?”

  “No, the wine is fine, but I meant I like your place. It’s shabby in a chic way.”

  I smiled up at him. “Shabby chic is a good way to put it. You want the grand tour?” I set my glass down and pulled his hand so he’d follow me. There wasn’t much to tour. It was a one-bedroom.

  “I like this couch.” His voice was low and gravelly. “I’m going to like it even better when I spread your legs and eat you here.”

  I slapped at his arm. “No eating in the living room,” I teased.

  “Rules are made to be broken. I’m going to enjoy breaking that one.” He followed me into my bedroom where a four-poster bed sat front and center. That was another of my prized possessions; I’d had that sucker on layaway at the secondhand store for months before I could finally bring it home.

  “This is my bedroom.” I walked toward my closet and opened the door, but he didn’t follow me. He stayed back at the bed, pulling on the corner post.

  “This has a lot of potential.” A wicked grin lifted his lips. He pulled on his tie—my favorite lavender tie. “Lots of potential.”

  My knees went weak at the thought of giving him that much control. I wasn’t sure I could gift him with that—yet. I giggled
as I reminded myself this was only our first date.

  I pointed to my walk-in closet, the best part of the whole apartment. “Those are the clothes you buy me.” What once had inches of space between hangers was now a crowded place where every piece vied for space and attention.

  “I’m glad to see my money is being well spent.” He rustled through the hangers until he came to a purple dress I’d never worn. “Wear this Monday. I think I’m going to love you in purple.”

  “I bet.” I pulled the dress free and hung it on the back of my closet door.

  “Shall we?” He held out his arm like he had done the night we were at the fundraiser. I still had mixed emotions about that night—it was when he’d cemented my belief that love didn’t exist. But maybe tonight he could change my mind.

  We hopped into a cab and drove through town to La Grenouille. Mark walked me inside like I belonged to him, and deep inside I knew I did. Some people were born to play the piano. Some were born to sing. I was born to live and dining five-star was the life.

  We ordered the chef’s special, which I couldn’t pronounce, but I recognized it as some type of small hen.

  “Tell me about your childhood.” He looked over the glass with his sexy bedroom eyes. Eyes that could make me divulge anything.

  “I’m an only child. My mom is a hippie, a throwback from Woodstock who never lost her love for peace signs or bell-bottoms.”

  “Your father?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Who knows? He was a musician of some sort. I liked to pretend he was someone like George Harrison or Elvis. They were Mom’s types until she settled at Horizons.”

  “Horizons?”

  “It’s a free-love community that lives on the land and loves on each other.”

  “I’ve heard of it. It’s that upstate nudist colony. You lived there?” The waiter arrived with our meals. After he placed the tiny plated chickens in front of us, he topped off our wine.

  I lifted my hand in a peace sign. “Free love, baby.”

  Mark shook his head and swallowed his first bite. “It all makes sense.”

  “What makes sense?”

  “Why you’re so uninhibited and so open about your body and sex. I think I love your mother.”

  I reached under the table and pinched his thigh. “If you’re going to love anyone, it better be me since I’ll be the one sucking your—” I gave him a wink and skipped the word we both knew I meant. “You talk about love. Why are you thirty-six and single?” I picked at the couscous and savored the glazed baby carrots.

  “Am I single?” He looked around like I was speaking to someone else. “I’m on a date with a beautiful girl who demands exclusivity. That hardly sounds single.”

  “I’m hardly a girl.”

  Mark raised his glass. “Here’s to my woman.”

  My heart beat wildly in my chest. He called me his woman.

  Before I could react, though, a voice cut through our moment. “Is that you, Mark?” A man was approaching our table and holding his hand out for Mark to shake.

  “Dan, it’s good to see you.”

  I recognized the man but couldn’t place his face, so I sat back and smiled.

  “Do you mind?” Dan pointed to the empty space at the booth and sat down without an invitation. “Who’s this beauty?” He set his eyes on me and waited for one of us to respond.

  An endless minute passed before Mark spoke. I waited to see how he’d introduce me. Would it be as his girlfriend? His woman? His secretary?

  He did none of those. “This is Sandra, and I’m her mentor.”

  My heart broke a little. Somewhere deep inside, I wanted him to claim me, but I knew he couldn’t, no matter what he’d said earlier. He had a reputation to uphold. Mark embodied honesty and integrity and having sex with a co-ed for cash somehow didn’t blend with that picture.

  “Where can I get a job like that?”

  I thought about Jennie and spoke. “Students are always looking for mentors.” Mark gave me a look that would’ve silenced most women, but I wasn’t your average woman; I was Sandra Tierney. “We need sponsors.”

  “Really?” He looked between Mark and me and asked, “What does sponsorship entail?”

  Mark looked at me and lifted his eyes. I didn’t have an answer, but I was always good on the fly. I sat up and started my sales pitch.

  “The first requirement is a sizable donation to the school. Is it your alma mater?” I reached under the table and rubbed Mark’s leg, asking him silently to trust me.

  “Yes, I graduated twenty years ago.”

  “Super. Supporting the school comes first and foremost.” I knew if I made money for the school, then Mark couldn’t complain. “Second, the relationship you build with a student can be everlasting. Imagine molding a young person’s future.”

  “Men or women?” Dan asked.

  Had I judged him wrong? With the way he undressed me with his eyes, I’d been positive he went for women, but I could have been wrong.

  “Do you have a preference?”

  He frowned at me. “Women, of course.” A little salacious grin let me know the unsaid message was loud and clear.

  I smiled back. “Of course.” I looked at Mark and saw that his expression was one of concern. Or was that confusion? Maybe anger? I was making deals he’d have to honor, and I needed to clear that up. “You understand that an arrangement of this sort is not sponsored by the college.”

  “What do I provide the co-ed, and what do I get in return?”

  This was the question of the day, the down and dirty. No way was I going to tell him to pay her rent and fill her purse with cash so she’d blow him every day at lunch. Instead, I said smoothly, “That arrangement is better left to the individuals to negotiate.”

  Mark sat stiffly under my hand. Not the good kind of stiff, but the rigid, unhappy kind of stiff. I’d taken him out of the mix. His only involvement was collecting donations. How could he be upset?

  “I’m in. When can I meet my student?”

  “Leave your number, and I’ll contact you early next week.”

  He pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote his number on the back of his business card:

  Dan Stuart

  CEO

  Global Financial

  He was perfect for Jennie. She was a business major, so maybe they could share ideas between positions.

  He rose from the booth. “I’m so glad I stopped by. Who knew?”

  Mark looked at me with a blank expression. “Yes, who knew?”

  Chapter 9

  Dan was no more than five feet away when Mark raised his hand to flag down the waiter.

  “Yes, sir?” The man hurried to our table and stood in front of Mark like a butler waiting for instructions.

  Mark pointed to the food left on our plates. “Can you box this up and bring me the check?”

  The last time he asked for our dinners to be boxed up, we were at the Ritz and racing to his room. Today was a different story. His dark eyes weren’t full of passion. They were almost black from fury. He didn’t look like he wanted to have sex with me. He looked like he wanted to kill me. I flinched when he slapped his credit card on the table.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Not now.” Those two words were spoken with enough vehemence to make my skin prickle, but not in a good way.

  “But—”

  He thumbed my chin, so I had no choice but to look at him. “I said, not now.”

  The waiter returned with the boxed-up food and the credit card receipt. Once Mark signed it, he was out of the booth and walking toward the door. I ran after him, trying to keep up, but his stride was too long for my legs.

  I found him out front, flagging down a cab. He opened the door and pointed inside. I didn’t question the demand. I climbed in and slid to the far window, preferring the coolness of the glass to his frosty demeanor.

  “Mark.”

  “Sandra, if you don’t give me a few minutes to calm down, you are not go
ing to like how this ends.”

  My heart thundered at the word ends. Was he calling it quits because I was trying to help a friend?

  I turned from his icy glare and pressed my head against the window. I watched the city lights flash by, block by block until we came to a stop in front of my apartment.

  He grabbed the bag of food from the seat, paid the driver, and then slammed the door shut. I stood on the curb while he paced in front of me. It felt like a lifetime before he said anything.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” He tossed the bag at the side of the building. It exploded against the brick, and couscous sprayed out like rice at a wedding—only stickier.

  “You’re mad because I asked one of your friends to mentor a student? That’s rich. What’s good for you isn’t good for anyone else?”

  “You just offered up some co-ed like she was a whore.”

  One of my neighbors stepped out of the building and looked at us with curiosity before he stepped over the cold hen and walked down the street.

  “I did not. I offered a man something similar to what we have. How many people have asked you how to become a mentor? How many people want what you have?”

  “Don’t be naïve, Sandra. They don’t want just any woman; they want you.”

  “Who’s being naïve? They just want a hot box to slide into. It’s all you wanted.” I wanted to grab those words back as soon as they left my mouth, but I couldn’t. They were out there floating over us like thick, heavy fog.

  “You tell me not to treat you like a whore, and yet you just made yourself one.” He opened his wallet and tossed out all the bills he had. They caught on the wind and fluttered to the ground. As each one fell, so did my hope for something more with Mark. “I won’t allow you to turn my university into a brothel.”

  I looked at the sidewalk littered with twenties and walked toward my door. When I got there, I turned and looked back at him. “You’re a hypocrite!” I shouted at his turned back.

  He accused me of trying to turn his university into a brothel, but he thought nothing of turning my doorstep into a street corner. Not to mention he had me standing there in a dress with no panties like a hooker—a twenty-dollar hooker.