PLAYER (21st Century Courtesan)

by Pamela DuMond

  “What day is it?”

  “Friday,” he says, and walks into the bathroom and turns on the shower.

  The sun poking through the curtains warms the room but I shiver. It’s a cold August day in Memphis, the kind of mean girl cold that doesn’t care that it’s not supposed to trespass into a warm, luscious southern summer. Despair and grief are sneaky, malicious thieves, stealing a man’s soul in bits and pieces. I fear they have latched onto Dylan the way that black bird latched onto me.

  Maybe I should go home, let Dylan’s darkness win the round. Mom’s voice plays in my head, echoing from the day we ran into the Wolfe brothers: ‘Evie, you can’t heal everybody. You can’t fix everything.’

  I’ve learned over the years that she’s right. But I’ve also learned there are some things I can fix. I was scared senseless the day of the accident and yet I crawled out of that damn car and stumbled past one broken boy on my way to the other. I stared down at Wyatt Wolfe lying twisted on the hard snow, not knowing if he was alive or dead. And I wondered—could I save Wyatt if I touched him?

  I couldn’t feel my hands or my feet. My breath was trapped in my throat, completely useless, so instead I gathered my courage. I knelt down next to him, placed my hand on the soft white divot of skin that lay between his neck and his chest, and I willed my life back into him.

  I willed it so hard the warmth abandoned my body and practically bled into his. Paramedics hustled Wyatt into an ambulance and screeched away. I was pushed onto the sidelines and watched first responders hustle Easton Wolfe past me on a rattling gurney.

  Mom went to prison for six months charged with reckless driving. Ruby and I went into foster care. My whole world turned upside down and yet I still wondered about the Wolfe brothers. I heard through whispers and school gossip that both boys survived. Easton suffered a badly broken arm, leg, and busted ribs. But Wyatt nearly died. His organs ripped, bones smashed, his brain injured, he almost bled to death. A friend told me the Wolfe family moved to California to be close to a children’s hospital. They pieced Wyatt back together surgery by surgery. Fragment by fragment. And he lived.

  Perhaps it was coincidence, maybe fortune, even all the praying, but I wonder if I did something, no matter how small, that gave Wyatt just enough healing to stay alive. That boy did not deserve to die on that cold day just for crossing a damn road. And if I did help Wyatt heal -- I sure as hell am not ready to give up on Dylan McAlister.

  An idea percolates in my brain. I follow Dylan into the bathroom, strip off my T-shirt and panties. I step in the shower at the same time he is stepping out, dripping wet, muscles tight, abs ripped. “No shower sex?”

  “Not today,” he says.

  I run soap over my body and rinse off in record time, and step out of the shower. Dylan drags a towel over his hair, across his beautiful body, and wraps it around his waist. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a hot piece of stripper ass, McAlister?” I towel off, throw my clothes back on. I sit on the countertop.

  “Sadly, you’re the only one,” he says, and grabs a tube from his toiletry bag. He squeezes a dollop of cream into his hands and rubs them briskly together.

  “Let me do that.” I place a hand on his.

  He quirks a chestnut eyebrow. “Okay.”

  “Tell me.” I scoop the cream from his palm and smooth it on the scruff of his beard. “What do you feel like when you suspect you’re going to win the hand? When you’re almost sure the other guy is bluffing?” I draw the cream down along his jaw onto that soft area under his chin.

  “Relieved.” The artery in his neck throbs under my touch.

  “Before relief.” I pick up his razor and run it under the faucet.

  “Do you know what you’re doing with that?” He quirks an eyebrow.

  “Not really.” I lean in closer. “Trust me?”

  “You’re one of the few people I do trust.”

  “Good.” I concentrate and draw the razor up across the stubble on his cheeks, shaving in straight lines. A few careful swipes later and I haven’t cut him or killed him. Progress.

  “Maybe you’ll be a barber when you grow up,” he says.

  “Nope. When you look across the table at your opponent, squaring off at the last person who stands between you and victory and something clicks inside you and you just know—you’ve got ‘em.” I run the blade under the water. “You know that moment?”

  “Yes,” he says, his eyes clouding over. “It’s been a while, but I do.”

  “Tell me.” I shake the water off the blade. “What’s that feeling?”

  “Calm,” he says. “I feel calm.”

  “Chin up, please,” I say.

  He does.

  I angle the blade on the upper part of his throat and continue shaving him. “When’s the last time you felt calm?”

  He knits his sexy eyebrows together. “Months ago.”

  “Where did calm go?”

  “I don’t know. It vanished.” The big muscle in his jaw ticks. I nick him and he flinches.

  “Crap. Sorry!” I wet a washcloth, blot the blood, then fold the cloth and blot off what remains of the soap on his face.

  “We’ve gotta get to the airport, baby.”

  “We’ve got time.” I seize his hand and place it on my throat. “Humor me. Close your eyes.”

  He arches his eyebrows but he closes his eyes.

  “Tell me what you feel.” Warmth courses through my body. My hands tingle.

  “I smell the soap on your skin. You’re making me hard, Evie. We don’t have time for this right now.”

  “We have plenty of time.” I’m dying to put my hands on him, not just to undress him or fuck him. I want to heal him. “Tell me what you feel, Dylan. Not what you’re thinking.”

  “Fine.” He sighs. “Your skin is soft.”

  “What else?”

  He slides his fingers across my neck. “This vein pulses when you get wound up. It’s sexy. I want to fuck you.”

  I catch my breath under his fingers. “Veins don’t pulse. Arteries pulse.”

  “I watch veins pulse in the necks of people I play card games with.” He opens his blue eyes and stares into mine. “It’s a subtle tell.”

  “What else?” I ask.

  He moves his hand and tugs strands of my hair. “The way your neck curves into your shoulder.” He works his fingers lower, brushing them across my shoulder. “Your collarbone. It’s elegant.” He lowers his hand to my chest and the V between my legs grows wet. “The way your heart beats faster, harder, when I grow closer to your heart.”

  He slips his fingers inside my T-shirt and fondles my breast, tugging a nipple. His erection pushes against my leg – warm, throbbing, growing harder by the moment. “Dylan,” I say. “Do you still want to fuck me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lose the towel.”

  He drops it with a flick of his wrist.

  I take his hand and lead him from the bath to the bed. “Lie down,” I say and strip off my clothes, tossing them. “On your back.”

  He does as I ask, his breath coming quicker, his dick growing thick in record time. He reaches for me but I pull back and shake my head. “Tell me details. What changed when you moved from my throat, when you moved your hand toward my chest.”

  “Your heartbeat increased. Your skin grew warmer. Your lips grew fuller. Biteable.” His cock is swollen and hard, bobbing up toward his abdomen.

  I caress the top of his hard dick, using his precum as lube. I circle his erection and slide my fist down his dick, crown to base then back up and repeat. “More.”

  “Evie,” he groans. “This isn’t fair.”

  “Life’s not fair and yet we find ways to deal with that. Tell me more. Things you haven’t told me before. Tell me details.”

  “Details? Things I haven’t told you before? I’ve told you a lot.”

  “Something happening in the here and now. Something you feel.”

  “You have a scar. Right here,” he says, rea
ching his hand an inch into my hairline. “I never noticed it before.”

  My heart bumps around awkwardly in my chest right before it plummets into my stomach.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Queasy says, wringing his hands. ‘That’s your scar from the accident. Think about all the panic attacks you had. Think about the anxiety you suffered. Don’t go there.’

  My scar from the accident with the Wolfe boys is a centimeter within my hairline. I stroke his dick harder, his breath coming faster. My breath comes faster because I’m starting to panic. “Tell me about the scar. How do you think I got it?”

  “Knowing you? Doing something fearless.” He caresses it with his fingers. “Hiking the woods in the cold winter snow when you were a kid. You tripped and fell into a barbed wire fence. Or, something flew through the air and smashed into your head.”

  My sister Ruby’s tablet flew through the air in the backseat of Mom’s shitty SUV and sliced into my forehead when we hit the Wolfe boys.

  I freeze. I am blindsided. Smashed. Just like when those boys flew off our car. I can hear the tires screeching. I can hear the thuds in my head. I wince and glance down at my hands. They’re trembling.

  “Baby,” Dylan says, pushing himself up, staring at me. “What’s going on? Are you all right? Evie!”

  “What?”

  “Are you all right?” He seizes my hands. “Is it your empathic thing?”

  “Not my empathic thing,” I say, holding onto his hands like they are a lifeline, the irony not lost on me because I’m supposed to be his lifeline. I shake my head. “It’s something else.”

  “Can I do something? Do you need me to do something?”

  “Yes.” I’m so close to helping him and yet I can’t do it right now. I just can’t go there. “You, Dylan. I need you inside me. Now.”

  And just like that we switch roles. Protector becomes protected. Wounded becomes healer. He folds me into his arms. He kisses me. He makes love to me slowly. Sweetly. When I orgasm I cry his name.

  9. Dallas

  DALLAS

  We step off the plane at Dallas Fort Worth Airport and follow the signs to Baggage Claim.

  “You’ve been to Texas before?” Dylan asks.

  “Never had the pleasure,” I say.

  “A virgin,” he says.

  “Hardly after what we did this morning.”

  He smiles and draws his hand down my neck, down my back, heat blossoms on my face. “Welcome to the Lone Star State, Lucky Charm.”

  “Sadly, the Lone Star State’s seen far better than me. I feel like something the dog rolled in.” I pause in front of the Ladies Room. “Give me a moment.”

  “Take two.” He leans back against the wall, and checks his phone.

  I use the facilities, stand in front of the mirror, run a hand through my hair that feels heavy and stifling hot on the back of my neck even though the air conditioning is blasting. I’ve been gone a week. I’m lying to my friends and my employer. I’m not making any money. We agreed to one last game and then he puts me on a plane back to Chicago. I’ll be home tomorrow night. I don’t know if I should be celebrating or if I should buy a beer and cry into it.

  I’m acutely aware I signed up for this gig of my own accord. I’ve got some savings stashed away in an account that will cover a few month of bills. But the biggest bill, the one that needs to be paid the first, is Mom’s invoice from the Institute. Tick-tock. The clock counts down and I’m dangling from the pendulum swinging back and forth between my desire to spend time with Dylan and my need to make enough to keep Mom and Ruby and me above water.

  I drag a brush through my hair, twist my locks into a loose bun, and secure it with a pretty clip. I snag a lip gloss from my purse, apply a fresh coat, and check my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Not horrible. I wet a paper towel with cool water and press it against my face, my neck, my chest. I thought Chicago was hot in the summer. Texas heat kicks sand in Chicago heat’s face.

  Thank God this is just another game and I don’t have to impress anyone. I’m here for Dylan. The game’s tonight and part of tomorrow. No matter what happens I go home tomorrow night with a clear conscience and a heavy heart. Mom needs healing, Ruby needs babysitting, and my needs do not come first.

  I swipe my phone off airplane mode and ping-ping-ping am inundated with texts.

  Amelia: Where are you?

  I text back with the truth for a change.

  Evie: Dallas.

  Amelia: WTF are you doing in Dallas?

  Evie: Explain later.

  Amelia: I’m worried about you.

  Evie: Don’t. I’ve got this.

  Evie: I mean -- I think I’ve got this.

  Amelia: You need to tell me what’s going on.

  Evie: Sure.

  Evie: I’ll explain everything when I get home. I’m on a tear.

  Amelia: A tear?

  Evie: Figuring out a puzzle.

  Amelia: OK?

  Amelia: You can always run stuff by me, you know. I’m happy to help.

  Amelia: I’ll water your plants.

  Amelia: Make sure your Fan isn’t walking around naked in your apartment while you’re OOT.

  Amelia: Playing with your underwear.

  I shiver.

  Evie: TY for the lovely visual.

  Evie: No worries I’ll be back tomorrow night late.

  Amelia: K. Let me know if anything changes.

  Amelia: I’m a little worried about you.

  Evie: Will do.

  Amelia: Promise.

  Evie: Promise.

  I check more texts.

  Madame M: As much as I like you, Evelyn -- you are replaceable.

  Madame M: Just tell me if you don’t want to work at Ma Maison.

  I sigh.

  Evie: LOVE working for Ma Maison.

  Evie: Finishing up a personal issue. Sorry. Back soon. Promise.

  Madame M: Don’t disappoint me.

  I scroll.

  Ruby: In a pinch. Send $ please. I’ll pay it back.

  Ruby: Seriously -- need your help.

  Crap! What’s going on now?

  Evie: How much?

  Evie: What’s going on?

  Ruby: Some crazy guy.

  Evie: Crazy BF guy?

  Evie: Crazy meth head Joe?

  Ruby: I won’t put up with the kind of stuff like Mom did.

  Ruby: I’ve got to get out.

  I frown.

  Evie: OK.

  Evie: You can’t do what Mom did – right?

  Ruby: No! This is a once in a lifetime problem. Swear.

  I roll my eyes.

  Evie: Except this is the third time.

  Ruby: Talk later. ’K?

  Ruby: Paypal me a thousand.

  Ruby: TY!

  I log in at Paypal, check my credit, and hit ‘Send.’ I scroll to the next text.

  Mom: Ruby’s trying to scam money off me.

  Mom: She’ll ask you next. Tell her ‘No.’

  Mom: I have ESP about this shit. Something’s hinky. Say ‘No.’

  Crap!

  Mom: I miss you.

  Mom: When are you coming to visit me?

  Mom: I miss the old days.

  Evie: Miss you too, Mom.

  Evie: We’ll talk in next couple. ’K?

  Mom: Love you, daughter.

  Evie: Love you back.

  And in less than a minute my shoulders have knitted to my ears. I mute my phone, stuff it in my purse, and exit the bathroom. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let family drama cut into whatever time I have left with Dylan. My sexy player’s leaning against the wall, looking Texas boy next door handsome in jeans and cowboy boots, his casual shirt open a few buttons. My pulse picks up. “Hey, hot cowboy,” I say walking toward him.

  “Everything okay?” he asks as we make our way through crowded airport corridors.

  “Another day, another drama.”

  “Anything important?”

  I shake my head. “Family stuff.”


  “Know that one well.” He’s not meeting my eye. The springs are already pre-loading within him, coiling tight.

  “You’re doing it again,” I say.

  “Over-thinking?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “The Dallas game is my opportunity to win back my money. Redeem my pride. Be my Lucky Charm tonight?”

  “Yes,” I say, trying to keep my heart in check because I can’t play this part forever. Being with him forever, for real, just isn’t on the table. “I’ll be your Lucky Charm tonight. But you’ve got to chill out. Get grounded. Do the things we talked about.”