The Varlet and the Voyeur

by L.H. Cosway

  “She’s also a sexpot. I rest my case,” David continued.

  I rolled my eyes. “Your case is far from rested.”

  “Why don’t you give her a call? I read in the tabloids just last week that she’s still single.”

  Now I pursed my lips. “She made herself very clear she wasn’t interested, David. A call would be pointless. Besides, I barely think about Alicia these days. I’ve moved on.”

  “To a lookalike.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “One you haven’t even spoken to yet.”

  “I’ll introduce myself when the time is right.”

  “The time was right weeks ago. You’re practically stalking the poor woman.”

  “I’m not stalking her. I’ve never tried to follow her home. I only ever see her here.”

  “It’s still a second cousin to stalking. Soon you’ll go all Robert John Bardo on me. I can see it happening. Before we know it, you’ll be slapped with a restraining order. Better to introduce yourself now before things get out of hand,” he chided teasingly.

  I folded my arms. “I’ll introduce myself when I’m good and ready. And I do not appreciate being compared with a murderer, thank you very much.”

  David grinned. “Thought you might be too young for that reference.”

  “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

  He chuckled and shook his head before lifting his mug for a sip.

  Later that day, I was still pondering David’s advice as I got ready for work. Tonight, I was meeting with a newly divorced divorce lawyer. The irony was not lost. Her name was Cathy and we’d spoken on the phone several times before I agreed to take her as a client.

  My work as an escort spread through word of mouth. I never advertised, never had business cards printed up. If a lady enjoyed my company, she was inclined to recommend me to a friend, and so on and so forth.

  I first got into the business because I was young, desperate and needed the money. Now I did it because people fascinated me, women in particular. If I could indulge that fascination while also making a living, then who was I to say no?

  Everybody was a little bit of a weirdo once you got to know them, and I relished discovering the weirdness inside each new client. Enjoyed facilitating them to live out their peculiarities with me.

  “That’s a nice shirt,” Rose commented when I came out of my bedroom. Both she and her significant other, Damon, were in town for work, and they always stayed with me when they were in the city. They divided their time between London and Damon’s cottage on the Isle of Skye in Scotland. I’d visited them there once or twice. It was a beautiful spot, but far too isolated for my liking.

  I needed to be around people or I went insane. My mind required constant stimulation and I preferred to be busy. Rose and Damon were the opposite. They liked the city well enough, but whiling away their days in the peaceful island life was their favourite.

  “Thanks,” I replied, noting she had her head buried in a book yet again. Rose was currently obsessed with the popular Sasha Orlando series. It was a set of novels based on the trials and tribulations of Sasha, an investigative journalist who wrote about love and relationships. There were already seven books in the series and Rose loved to regale me with Sasha’s latest adventures.

  I much preferred eavesdropping on Elodie at the Polka Dot Café, but to each their own.

  Rose eyed me speculatively. “Are you meeting someone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Work or pleasure?”

  I shot her a crooked smile. “Why can’t it be both?”

  She shook her head. “Sometimes I think you could be a character in one of these books.”

  “Oh? Does Sasha cross paths with a handsome male escort who shows her a night she’ll never forget?” I teased.

  “No, but that would make for an excellent story. I should email the author and suggest it.”

  I dropped down onto the couch beside her and plucked the paperback from her hands. Skimming the page, I smirked when I saw she’d gotten to a sexy bit.

  “Give me that,” she complained and grabbed for the book, but I held it out of reach.

  “Maybe these stories do have something going for them,” I grinned and recited a paragraph. “Sasha’s cheeks suffused with warmth as Sebastian stripped off, revealing toned, tanned muscles. He was a sight to make any woman’s underwear melt, and hers was currently ablaze. It was too bad this encounter was to help her write a column about male strippers, because she could’ve gone for a night alone with Seb, just the two of them, a hotel room and several hours to spend as they wished.” I chuckled as I handed the book back to Rose and she scowled at me in annoyance. “Why Rose, I do believe your cheeks are “suffused with warmth” right now.”

  “You’re cruel.”

  “I just love making you blush,” I said and stood to put on my tie. I straightened it out in the mirror then ran a through my hair. I went to grab my coat when Rose said, “You should read the series yourself. I think you’d find a lot in Sasha that you can relate to.”

  “Maybe I’ll save them for when I come visit you and Damon on the island. I love a good romance novel when I’m on holiday.”

  ***

  A week later I was back at the Polka Dot Café, never one to miss an episode of my favourite real-life soap opera. Suze arrived regular as clockwork, followed by Elodie a few minutes later. She swished into the place on a gust of cold January air, ordered her usual and took a seat across from Suze.

  “How’ve you been, hon?” Elodie asked as they exchanged kisses on each cheek.

  “I’m having a ‘mare of a week, babes, and it’s only Tuesday. Two of the models for our show this weekend have the flu, so I’m in a mad scramble to replace them.”

  As far I’d gathered, Suze was an up and coming fashion designer, which explained her distinctive dress sense. Elodie worked in finance, something high up and well paid, but she didn’t discuss it very often. She was much more inclined to chat about her colourful love life, and I for one was grateful. I mean, it was great that she had a good job and all, but finance interested me about as much as retiring to the countryside.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you think you’ll have enough time to find replacements?”

  Suze sighed. “I mean, I hope so, but it’s Fashion Week. Every model worth his salt has been booked out months in advance.”

  Usually, I was as subtle and discreet as you could get. I’d been listening to these two for weeks and I was pretty sure neither of them ever noticed me sitting here. But for some reason today was my day to be a klutz. I lifted my cup to take a sip, and as I lowered it back down I missed the mark and brown liquid splattered over my table and halfway across Elodie and Suze’s.

  Suze let out a gasp as I apologised. “I’m so sorry.”

  I grabbed some napkins to wipe the spilled coffee from their table, inwardly cursing my sudden clumsiness. Awkward was not a word anyone would use to describe me. I didn’t have a clumsy bone in my body. I guess it served me right for paying too much attention on listening and not enough on what I was doing with my hands.

  Suze looked me up and down with marked interest. Her pretty eyes went wide as they travelled from my feet all the way up to my face. “Don’t apologise. I can’t believe I didn’t see you sitting there.”

  I gave her a charming smile. “Well, I am sorry for splattering coffee all over your table. Please allow me to pay for both of your drinks.” My eyes briefly went to Elodie, but she stared intently at the table. Her shoulders were rigid and her mouth a straight, tense line. That was odd.

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you’re simply beautiful. Have you ever modelled before?” Suze asked.

  “I haven’t, but thank you very much for the compliment.”

  “Are you a fast learner?”

  “Pardon?”

  She stuck out her hand. “I’m Suzanna Lee. I have a collection showing at London Fashion Week and I’d be forever in your debt if
you agreed to model for me this weekend. Two of my guys have come down with the flu.”

  I shook her hand. “Julian Fairchild, and I’m afraid I have to decline.”

  Her frown encompassed her entire face. “I’ll pay you handsomely, and I’ll be especially grateful if you happen to have a twin brother.”

  I gave a soft laugh. “Unfortunately, I’m an only child.” I glanced at Elodie again and this time managed to catch her eye. Hers got big and fluttery, like she was nervous or frightened, which confused me no end. I frowned as I returned my attention to Suze, feeling bad for turning her down so quickly. She really did seem desperate, and perhaps this was my chance to ingratiate myself with the two of them, get to know Elodie better by doing a favour for her friend.

  “I guess if you really need the help I could throw on some clothes and strut down a catwalk,” I told her, and she smiled wide.

  “Oh em gee, thank you so much! And do you have any friends who look like you? Handsome men run in packs, right?” she joked.

  “I have one, but he’s older.”

  “How old?”

  “Fifty-one, I think, but if asked he’ll tell you he’s not a day over forty-five.”

  Suze laughed. “Well, it’s a gentleman’s prerogative to shave off a few years. Do you think he’d be up for a bit of modelling?”

  “I’m pretty sure he’ll love the attention, but I’ll run it by him first,” I replied and pulled out my phone to text David. I still couldn’t believe how quiet Elodie was being, and I was more than a little disappointed that she hadn’t taken the opportunity to flirt. Like Suze said, I was a handsome, well-groomed specimen of a man. She should be all over me.

  Or maybe my ego had lost the run of itself. It wasn’t like every woman I met fell at my feet. I’d been rejected my fair share of times just like everyone else. Still, the idea of being rejected by Elodie bothered me. Having listened to all her stories, I felt a kindship towards her.

  Didn’t she realise we were soulmates? At the very least two peas in a pod.

  I focused on texting David and his reply was prompt.

  David: Sure, I’ll do it, so long as there’s champagne and models to ogle.

  I grinned at his message and typed back.

  Julian: Models young enough to be your daughter, yes, there’ll be plenty.

  David: Great. Thanks for ruining it for me.

  I looked to Suze. “He says he’ll do it.”

  “Fantastic! Here, let’s exchange emails and I’ll send you everything you need.”

  As Suze was emailing me all the information, I turned to Elodie and held out my hand. “Hello, I’m Julian. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  She stared at my hand like it had a venereal disease, then lifted her eyes to mine. Now that I was looking at her up close, there was something strange about her irises that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  “Elodie,” she mumbled, not taking my hand.

  “Is everything all right?” Suze asked as she slid her phone back in her handbag.

  “Yes, perfectly fine. I was just introducing myself to your very beautiful friend here.” Elodie’s cheeks went bright red, suffused with warmth as Rose’s book would describe it, and I couldn’t get my head around why she was being so incredibly awkward.

  “Oh, do you hear that, Els. This beautiful man thinks you’re beautiful, too. Isn’t that something?” Suze chimed with a wink.

  Elodie stood from her seat and gathered her things. “Uh, I’ve just remembered I have a meeting at work. I have to go.”

  Quick as a flash she fled the café, leaving Suze and I frowning in her wake.

  “I’m sorry. She’s not usually so abrupt,” Suze said.

  I waved her away. “No worries. I guess I’ll see you at the weekend.”

  “Yes, and I look forward to meeting your friend. Please do send me a couple pictures and his measurements so I can decide what outfits to put him in.”

  “Will do. Do you need mine as well?”

  She smirked and ran her eyes down my body. “No need. I already sized you up the moment you spilled your coffee.”

  I chuckled at that. Quite like Elodie, Suze was my type of lady. At least, I’d thought Elodie was my type. Suze went and I sat back down, wondering about Elodie’s sudden departure and personality one-eighty. Did I smell bad? Was it something I said? Did I remind her of a cheating ex? Really, it could’ve been anything, but disappointment still filled me. I thought that once we finally met we’d get along like a house on fire.

  Instead she’d fled the house running and screaming.

  Oh, well. Perhaps she’d turn up for Suze’s show on the weekend. That would give me a second chance to win her over. I’d be my most charming self, and if all went to plan, she’d be mine before the night was through.

  ** Coming August 2018! Pre-Order Fauxmance now! **

  Other Books by L.H. Cosway

  Contemporary Romance

  Painted Faces

  Killer Queen

  The Nature of Cruelty

  Still Life with Strings

  Showmance

  The Cracks Duet

  * * *

  The Hearts Series

  Six of Hearts (#1)

  Hearts of Fire (#2)

  King of Hearts (#3)

  Hearts of Blue (#4)

  Thief of Hearts (#5)

  Hearts on Air (#6)

  The Rugby Series with Penny Reid

  The Hooker & the Hermit (#1)

  The Player & the Pixie (#2)

  The Cad & the Co-ed (#3)

  The Varlet and the Voyeur (#4)

  Urban Fantasy

  Tegan's Blood (The Ultimate Power Series #1)

  Tegan's Return (The Ultimate Power Series #2)

  Tegan's Magic (The Ultimate Power Series #3)

  Tegan’s Power (The Ultimate Power Series #4)

  Sneak Peek: Dr. Strange Beard, Winston Brothers #5

  By Penny Reid

  *Roscoe*

  Most people have approximately eleven or twelve stories, and that’s it.

  When I was a kid, I used to think older people were just forgetful. A ten-year old me considered folks over thirty-five ‘older people.’ But as I grew older myself, I realized people of all ages were forgetful. Well, a lot more forgetful than me.

  I also realized nobody wants to be told that they’re repeating themselves, that they’re sharing the same tales and anecdotes for the seventh, eight, or twentieth time. Folks hate that, even more so if you remembered their story better than they did.

  Every time I reminded someone that they’d already told me a particular story, on such-and-such date and time, or I tried to correct their recollection, they’d get irritable and frustrated. Like it was my fault for having a good memory and not theirs for having a poor one.

  So, I learned to keep my trap shut. I let people tell me their eleven or twelve stories over and over, pretending—each time—like it was the first time I’d heard it. This was a skill I’d perfected, acting interested, surprised, laughing believably at the right parts or looking sad and troubled at the wrong ones.

  I was a real good actor. I was excellent at being disingenuous, and I rationalized the insincerity of my outward reactions by reminding myself that the deceit was due to necessity, not design. I sincerely didn’t want to be obnoxious, or to piss people off.

  Which, I suppose, is the main reason why I preferred my own company to anyone else’s. Memories of solitude don’t clutter the mind. But if I had to be around people, I preferred the company of strangers to long-time acquaintances, and my family’s company over everyone else’s.

  Strangers’ stories are always new, so there’s that.

  I love my family, and their stories almost never got old. Though, every once in a while, if I wasn’t in the mood for another telling of a familiar tale, I could get away with complaining about the repetition. They might get testy, but they had to love me, no matter what.

  It wasn’t until I was seventeen w
hen I realized it was rare for people to tell stories for the benefit of the listener. Usually, but not always, a story is told mostly for the benefit of the teller. The story about “how I got so drunk that one time I climbed the fence of that celebrity’s compound and was invited to breakfast,” or “how I rescued those folks from a rattlesnake” demonstrates how the teller has lived a live full of adventure, of meaning; that they’re comical, self-deprecating, and brave; that they’re ultimately a person worth knowing.

  It’s as though folks need to remind themselves of their own worth, and they do this through telling and retelling their favorite eleven or twelve stories, the anecdotes that fundamentally define who they are.

  And therein lies the burden of having an above average memory, and why I’m rather finicky about making memories.

  I don’t get to decide which stories to remember. The stories never fade. I remember them all. I have a lot of stories, ones I never tell, even though they might fundamentally define who I am, and many I’d prefer to forget.

  But I couldn’t.

  That’s why, sitting in my car, staring out my windshield and through the large wall of windows into the small road-side diner, I was undecided about what to do. I was also assaulted by a gamut of vivid memories. All my memories were vivid, but these were ones I’d prefer to forget. But I couldn’t.

  Simone Payton wasn’t supposed to be at Daisy’s Nut House.

  Today was a Thursday, the second Thursday of the month. Simone wasn’t home on Thursdays, and never during second week of the month.

  For five years now (five years, four months, and twelve days), Simone always arrived on the first Friday of the month, her flight landing 5:16 PM at the Knoxville airport, which meant it was safe for me to grab dinner at Daisy’s until about 6:00 PM. After that, I knew to steer clear of the diner until Simone took her plane back to Washington D.C. on Sunday night.