I’d been on for nearly nine hours and was looking forward to going home and maybe getting in a run, when an attractive woman in her mid-fifties came in and sat at the bar. That was unusual—like I said—most customers preferred to sit at a table and be served by one of the wait staff. She was polished and sleek, reminding me of a greyhound, suppressed energy radiating through her. She was expensively dressed, and the pearls she wore looked real.
I smiled at her and she stared back coolly, before choosing to return my smile.
“What can I get you, ma’am?”
“I’ll have a gin and tonic.”
I couldn’t help noticing that she had a slight accent. French, maybe, but I didn’t think it was French-Canadian. It was classy—it suited her.
“We’ve got Gordon’s or Bombay Sapphire.”
“Gordon’s, please, with diet tonic.”
“Yes, ma’am, but it tastes better with regular tonic, and you sure don’t need to worry about the calories…”
She raised her eyebrows as I stuttered to a halt.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean…”
She smiled again. “Not at all. I will take it as a compliment. Gordon’s with regular tonic, please.”
“Ice and lemon?”
“Just the lemon.”
I mixed the drink for her then went to serve one of the regulars, an old guy who liked to talk about when he was someone in Hollywood.
A couple of elderly ladies came in for their afternoon Dubonnet with Seven-up, and noticed that I’d been to the barbers. They insisted on stroking my short hair and that made me laugh. It wasn’t every day I got felt up by grandmother types.
When I looked over again, I saw that the elegant woman had an empty glass.
“Can I get you another, ma’am?”
“Thank you.”
She watched while I mixed her a fresh drink.
“Have you worked here long? I haven’t seen you before.”
“About three weeks, but I don’t get that many shifts.”
“That can’t be easy.”
“It’s okay. Gives me time to do other stuff.”
“Such as?”
I looked up at her, but she seemed genuinely interested.
“Um, well, hang out at the beach. Swim, surf. I like to paint,” I murmured, almost under my breath, half hoping she wouldn’t hear. But she did.
“Paint? As in oil painting?”
“Um, yeah.”
“So, you’re an artist?”
I didn’t believe I could call myself an artist unless that was how I earned my living.
“Nah, it’s … just a hobby.”
“Oils and canvas must make it an expensive hobby.”
“Yeah, I guess, but I love it, so…”
“And what does your girlfriend think of your expensive hobby?”
“No, I … not at the moment, yeah, um…”
I wasn’t usually awkward when talking to women, but something about the way she stared at me, as unblinking as a lizard, was making me nervous.
She nodded slowly and held out her hand. Her skin was soft and slightly cool, her nails perfectly manicured.
“I’m Eloise,” she said, dropping her eyes to the name badge on my chest. “A pleasure to meet you, Hallen.”
“You too, ma’am.”
She smiled and leaned forward on her elbows.
“Hallen—that’s an unusual name.”
I was used to comments like that.
“It’s Swedish,” I answered, automatically. “My dad was Swedish…”
She nodded, still staring, a half smile lingering at the corners of her mouth, as if I amused her in some way, as if she was in on a joke that had gone over my head.
“Well, how would you like to earn $500 for one day’s work, Hallen?”
“Who do I have to kill?”
She laughed at my response, and I grinned back at her.
“Well?”
I stopped wiping down the bar and looked up.
“Um, sorry, what?”
“My offer. $500 for one day’s work. Well, one afternoon and one evening.”
“Are you hosting a party? Because I know Gareth, the owner, offers a bartending service and…”
“No,” she said, smiling. “I don’t need a bartender—I want you to escort my daughter to her friend’s wedding.”
I stood staring at her, looking as confused as I felt.
“Um, you want to pay me $500 to date your daughter?”
She sighed.
“Yes, I suppose that’s what it comes down to. It’s like this, Hallen. She’s going to her friend’s wedding and her boyfriend—her ex-boyfriend—informed her two days ago that he’s met someone else and he’ll be going to the wedding with his new partner. I believe he knows the groom so he can’t be excluded, sadly. Véro is devastated and she’s talking about not attending. But Cicely is her close friend since grade school and Véro ought to go, not hide away. It’ll be so much better for her if she could attend with a date. So…”
Now I understood.
“You want me to pretend to be her date?”
“Yes, exactly.”
I didn’t know how to respond so I played for time.
“You just met me—I could be a complete douchebag for all you know.”
“I hardly think so. I’ve seen the way you talk to everyone here—friendly and respectful. You’re a good looking young man—I think you’ll be perfect. Besides, I’m an excellent judge of character.”
“And I just have to take her to this wedding?”
She laughed brightly. “Yes. I’m not paying you to sleep with my daughter!”
I looked at her uncertainly.
“Be attentive. Tell her she looks lovely. Pull out her chair. Hold her hand. Smile at her. Treat her like a princess. My daughter is a beautiful woman—it’ll be the easiest $500 you’ll ever make.”
I thought about the porn movies I’d made when I was 18. I’d got paid $50 to have a stranger suck my dick, and $250 for, well … I’d thought that was going to be pretty easy money; I’d learned there was always a catch. But five-hundred bucks—that would buy a lot of groceries, let alone oils and canvas … even if there was a catch.
“Well, I guess, sure, why not? Is it what she, um…”
“Véronique. Véro.”
“Is it what Véro wants?”
Eloise frowned. “The poor girl doesn’t know what she wants, but I know that public humiliation at her friend’s wedding is definitely not in her best interests.”
Yeah, I totally understood that.
“She’s a little older than you. Actually I don’t know how old you are?”
“I’m 21.” Three weeks ago.
“Oh,” she paused, and I thought I saw the $500 disappearing beyond the horizon. “That’s even younger than I thought. Never mind. I’ll tell Véro you’re 26 if that’s all right. She’s 32.”
Okay, this was turning a bit weird.
“Are you sure she’ll want me to do this?”
“Trust me on that. No woman wants to attend a wedding where her ex is displaying his new girlfriend, and not have a date of her own. One’s self-esteem can only take so much.”
Good point.
“Now, I don’t suppose you own a tux?”
“Sorry, no.”
“I’ll rent one for you. How tall are you? Six-one?”
“Six-two.”
“Shoes?”
“Um, 13.”
“And I take it you have a driver’s license.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Well, I’ll sort out the car and the clothes—and you’d better give me your address. All you have to do is show up and be your own charming self.”
She handed me her card and five fifty-dollar bills.
“You’ll get the rest when my daughter says she’s fully satisfied.”
I couldn’t help a small smile at her turn of phrase and had to turn away when she quirked her eyebrow at me.
“No, ma’am,” I said. “One wedding escort ready for duty.”
I was slightly uneasy when Saturday rolled around, but then I figured it was just like going on a blind date. The age thing bothered me a little—not that Véro was older, but that Eloise had lied to her about me. I decided to focus on the money—and having a good time.
The tux was sent over by messenger that morning. I was amazed how well it fit considering I hadn’t been measured or anything. Even the shoes were reasonably comfortable and had been pre-shone. But I couldn’t fasten the goddamn bow tie. I spent a fruitless 15 minutes trying to make a passable knot, but the fucking thing hated me. I left it, hoping that Véro wouldn’t mind too much. I hunted through my closet and found a skinny black tie instead. If Véro really wasn’t happy, she’d have to take care of the bow tie herself. If she was anything like her mother, I was pretty sure she’d know how. I stuffed the bow tie in my jacket pocket and checked my wallet. I hoped it was going to be free drinks at this shindig otherwise the $250 that Eloise had already given me wasn’t going to last too long.
My apartment door bell rang for the second time that day.
“Car for Mr. Jansen.”
I ran down the stairs and had an out-of-body experience when I saw a Maserati Grancabrio, and I was practically drooling. It probably cost more than my entire apartment was worth.
My day was officially awesome.
The delivery guy had me sign, and then handed over the keys.
“Can you drive a stick shift?”
“Um, yeah. It’s been a while,” I replied thinking of the clunky old pickup truck Dad had left me, which was a world away from the sleek machine parked at the curb.
“Okay. Well just depress the clutch all the way down before you change gear. Be light on the brakes or you’ll stall her. And the parking brake is electronic. I’ll pick her up this time tomorrow. Enjoy.”
He turned to go.
“Hey, man, how much does it cost to rent this baby for a day?”
He smiled at me. “$1,300, dude. Don’t break her.”
Fuck me!
I wondered how much the tux rental had cost. It wouldn’t have surprised me if the suit by itself was more expensive than me, as well. I didn’t know whether to be pissed or amused.
I slid into the seat and it felt amazing, like I was wearing the car, not driving her. I pressed the engine start button and there was a soft throaty roar. Fuck, I got hard just listening to the motor. I pressed the accelerator lightly and the sound made me moan. I had to adjust my pants, for crying out loud.
I tapped Véro’s address into the GPS and headed out.
The road flew in a ribbon of windows, shops, houses—buildings passing in a blur. I was doing 60mph in third gear, with three gears still to go. God, this car was a dream, and in my fragile bubble of joy, I felt invincible. At that moment, I had no worries, no fears, the road was open ahead of me and I felt like I could be someone else—I felt free.
The ride was over too quickly. Was that a metaphor without me even knowing it?
It didn’t feel that way at the time. Hindsight is always 20/20, isn’t it?
I parked the car at my first stop, hoping the journey to the wedding venue would be further away. I really wanted to see what this baby could do, because the chances of me driving such an amazing car again were slim to non-existent.
I took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, ready for my blind date, appointment, or whatever it was. Thinking about it now, I’d probably have to call it a job interview.
Véro’s place was a classy condo near the beach. Unsurprisingly, it screamed serious money. I was so out of my comfort zone.
I straightened my tie, ran a hand through my hair then knocked on the door.
It was answered almost immediately. She must have been looking out for me. Perhaps she was nervous.
“Hallen?”
The woman in front of me was really attractive. She was small but curvy, with a short, sleek bob that shone in the morning sunshine. Her eyes were the same blue-gray as her mother’s, but her hair was lighter, with blonde streaks that might have been natural.
I didn’t even notice her dress—she was hot. And suddenly so was I.
“Are you Hallen?” she repeated.
“Yeah, sorry. Hi.”
I held out my hand.
She shook it briefly and dropped it quickly, a strange look passing over her face and she sighed.
“You’d better come in for a moment.”
The way she said ‘moment’ made me think I’d be out on my ear soon.
I followed her inside but stopped when I saw the black and white photograph she had hanging in the entrance.
It was a landscape with a blazing sun rising above sculpted mountains, silvering the snow below. It was austere but erotic, totally arresting. It made me energized and restless, envious and awestruck.
“Do you like that?” she asked, curiously.
I cleared my throat several times before I could speak, reminding myself that $250 depended on pleasing this woman, and not drifting off into a panegyric on photographic perfection.
“Yeah,” I agreed with cool understatement. “I’ve always loved Ansel Adams, but I’ve never seen an original print outside of a gallery before.”
“You know art, Hallen?”
“Yeah, a bit,” I admitted, still studying the photograph.
“Where did that come from?”
I shrugged, not wanting to get into it. Too personal.
“I just like it.”
I tore my eyes away and followed her inside. More stunning photographs decorated the walls. I was mesmerized by the sheer quantity and quality of what I was seeing. She had a collection of six Robert Mapplethorpes—they were original prints, too.
I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm anymore.
“Fuck me, Véro! This shit is amazing!”
She laughed lightly.
“Well, thank you, I think. But please try not to swear at the wedding—Cicely’s parents are a little … old-fashioned.”
I felt my skin heat up with embarrassment. “Sorry,” I muttered, irritated and out of my depth.
She smiled. “Don’t worry. And it’s refreshing to talk to someone who appreciates art. Oliver never did.”
Her lips turned down and she looked like she was going to cry. I guessed Oliver must be the douche ex-boyfriend.
She looked crushed, exposed and ripped raw by painful memories.
I took a step forward and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“Hey, the guy was obviously a dickwad. You’re too good to spend time worrying about an asshole.”
Her eyes snapped up to my hand and I dropped it, afraid I’d over stepped the mark.
“Sorry,” I said again. “Shit.”
“Maybe we should talk about how this is going to work,” said Véro, but at least she didn’t seem to be mad at me.
“Yeah, that would be good.”
“So, your name is Hallen. That’s unusual.”
“It’s Swedish. My dad was from Malmö.”
“Ah, that explains the blond hair and blue eyes. And your mom?”
“From Toronto. She lives in Newfoundland now.”
“How did you end up on the west coast?”
“I went to school here. I just graduated and…”
My words trailed off as I realized I’d made a mistake.
“How old are you, Hallen?”
“Shit,” I said, softly. “Twenty-one. I know that’s not what your mom told you. I’m sorry.”
Véro rolled her eyes, but amusement lurked in their warm depths. “That’s my mom. She never could resist a cute guy. Well, that’s what Dad says. And what do you do now?”
“Just looking around. Working at a local bar. That’s where I met your mom—in the Harvest Moon on Melrose. Look, I know this is weird, but…” I gestured helplessly. “If you don’t want me to go to this w
edding with you, I’ll understand.”
She smiled wickedly and the expression made her look a lot more like her mom.
“Oh no! I will definitely be flaunting my young date today. Oliver was 11 years older than me, so this is perfect. I intend to throw myself at you, Hallen. Think you can handle that?”
I grinned back, relieved. “Better believe it, baby.”
“Baby?” Véro laughed out loud. “Let’s go set those tongues wagging.”
“Wait.”
She looked puzzled as I reached toward a small piece of lint on her dress.
“May I?”
I stepped forward, our bodies just inches apart, feeling her breath catch as my fingers brushed against the thin fabric just below her throat.
My cock twitched at the contact and I had to remind myself that this was a job not a date.
“Thank you,” she said.
I held out my hand and she took it.
“Oh wait! My suitcase. I’m staying at the hotel overnight. Mom is meeting me for lunch there tomorrow. I think she’s hoping to run into Oliver and tear him a new one.”
“Yeah, I can imagine that,” I agreed.
We shared a conspiratorial smile, then I picked up her small overnight bag and escorted her to the car.
She whistled through her teeth. “Nice ride! Mom?”
“Yeah. God, I love this car. It’s an orgasm on wheels.”
Véro chuckled quietly. “I meant what I said about your language, Hallen, but you do make me laugh. By the way, didn’t you get a bow tie with that tux?”
“Yeah, but I couldn’t tie the fuc… I couldn’t tie it. I brought it with me in case…”
“No, I like your look. Don’t change it.”
I nodded, pleased she wasn’t going to make me do the full penguin-suit shit.
“So, where we going?”
“Santa Monica. The Fairmont Miramar.”
I bit back a curse—it was the same damn hotel where Carl worked. I really hoped he had the day off, because I didn’t want to explain to him what I was doing at a society wedding in a rented tux, driving a car that cost more than our old apartment.
Fuckin’ luck.
Véro reprogrammed the GPS and we were soon heading out of town.
At Your Beck & Call Page 5