Hard Work

by Micah Persell

  “Okay,” she said to the silent interior of her car. “It’s not a no.”

  But it’s not a yes, either.

  With a sudden calm—the kind she always felt when she went to work—Victoria placed her phone in her laptop bag.

  The Ricchezza had gotten another promising proposal. They were going to pursue both options until they could make a more informed decision.

  Another promising proposal? She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Masterson.” Had to be.

  Damn it, Masterson had gotten to them, too. Of course she had. She was the best.

  Victoria lifted her chin. “But I’m the best, too.”

  And this was all she’d ever wanted. Time to go to war.

  Chapter Four

  A ringing phone penetrated Victoria’s dream. The one in which she was licking up a particular prostitute’s thigh as she worked his erection with both hands.

  She groaned as she rolled to her side, her body aching with unsated lust, and she slapped blindly on her bedside table until her fingers encountered her cell. She raised the phone to her ear.

  “Hello?”

  “So, did you do it?”

  “Cassidy?” Victoria squinted at her clock. “It’s five-thirty. On a Saturday morning.”

  “Stop dodging. Answer the question.”

  “I’m not—Dodging?” She rolled to her back and flopped her forearm across her eyes. “I’m asleep. Like you should be.”

  “That’s cute. You think I sleep.”

  Victoria could hear the distinct sounds of a fistfight in the background. “How do I get in trouble for staying late in the office, but you’re allowed to stay up all night doing your job?”

  “Because my job is cool.”

  “Hey.”

  “I mean, oh, no, what was I thinking. I’ve seen the error of my ways.”

  “You’re a dick.”

  “Welp, you definitely didn’t get laid, Grumpasaurus Rex.”

  Victoria rubbed her eyes. “When’s the last time you got laid?” Turnabout was fair play.

  “Tuesday.”

  “Wait, what?” She was suddenly very awake. She jerked upright. “Tuesday?”

  “Yeah, you know, the day between Monday and Wednesday.” Cassidy sighed. “It was no good though.”

  All of Victoria’s protective instincts surged to the forefront. “I can’t believe I haven’t met the guy. You’re in a relationship?”

  Cassidy snorted. “Not if I can help it.”

  “Oh.” Victoria frowned, not sure how she felt about that.

  “God, I can hear the disapproval in your voice all the way across town, Mother Time.”

  “No, that’s not it.” In fact, hadn’t she been aching for a no-strings-attached fling herself last night? She propped her elbow on her knee and cradled her forehead in her palm. Her bedraggled hair dangled around her face, and she took a big breath. “I tried to. Last night.”

  All video game sounds abruptly ceased. “I’m going to need you to repeat that, because I swear, for a second, you sounded like a real woman.”

  “And I already regret this conversation.”

  “No, seriously. You tried to hook up last night?”

  The disbelief in Cassidy’s voice was insulting, but what was worse was that she was right to be disbelieving, because Victoria couldn’t even pick a fling properly. “He ended up being a . . . ” Was she truly going to confess this? “Prostitute.” She winced.

  “A—”

  Victoria nibbled her bottom lip as she waited for Cassidy’s response.

  Laughter, so loud and abrupt that Victoria had to pull the phone away from her ear, spilled out of the line.

  Victoria hung up with a vicious jab of her thumb and flopped down in bed. Almost immediately, her phone rang again, but she silenced it and stared up at her ceiling, which was just starting to brighten with the beginning of the day.

  After some sleep—interrupted though it had been—she was not so mortally angry at the man who had never even told her his name. The truth was, he had done nothing wrong. For that matter, she had not done anything wrong either. But she had sent over the drink. She had propositioned him. She’d even noticed and commented on how hard he was working with her; she just hadn’t realized he’d literally been working.

  It had just been a massive misunderstanding.

  Her phone chirped. With a sigh, Victoria raised it, already knowing what she’d find.

  ILU. I’m sorry. Pick up the fucking phone.

  When the phone rang again, Victoria answered it but didn’t say anything. Cassidy would first anyway.

  “So, why didn’t you have sex with him?”

  An excellent question. “With a prostitute?”

  “I believe they prefer the term gigolo. And yep, that’s who we’re talking about.”

  “Cassidy—” Victoria groaned. “I honestly don’t know how to answer that.”

  “Hey—” The sudden gentleness in Cassidy’s tone set Victoria on edge. “I know your last relationship was painful. Really painful.”

  There was something that sounded like fear in her sister-in-law’s voice. Oh, Cassidy. “Honey, that’s not why you’re avoiding relationships, is it?” Victoria wouldn’t be able to stand it if that was the reason. She wouldn’t allow her failed marriage with Jeremy to ruin another life.

  “We’re not talking about me.” Any sign of vulnerability had been vanquished.

  “We could be—”

  “The thing is,” Cassidy said, cutting her off, “a gigolo is kind of perfect. You know, if you’re trying to avoid relationships. I wish I would have thought of it instead of sleeping with Chris, who is now making awkward take on new definitions.”

  Victoria was silent for a moment. “Huh,” she said finally. Cassidy was right. A gigolo was kind of perfect. And you let the perfect one get away! “Damn it.”

  “Excellent. So, here’s what we’re going to do.”

  “Do? We’re not going to do—”

  “I can set everything up for you. I’ll text you the details, and all you’ll have to do is show up.”

  “Like my pimp?” Please, God, let this horrific conversation be a dream and not real life.

  “Oh, sweet Victoria, no. Like his pimp. Silly girl.”

  Victoria cleared her throat. “I think we should talk about family boundaries again.”

  “Trust me, sis. You won’t be sorry.”

  “Now wait a second—”

  Dial tone.

  “Well, shit.” New definitions of awkward indeed. “I can’t think about this right now.” She groped the space beside her bed until she found her laptop where she’d left it after drafting a response to Davis’s assistant last night. She’d known better than to send it after a couple of whiskies and some disappointment.

  Work was the perfect solution to everything. So, she’d work. And she’d sweep the floor with Masterson.

  But while she typed away, her mind wandered, and her defenses crumbled. What could it hurt, going along with this scheme of Cassidy’s? After all, the only opinion that mattered to her anymore was Cassidy’s, and she was, obviously, on board with this madness.

  When Cassidy’s text arrived, Victoria might just read it. Might.

  Chapter Five

  “Kipling.”

  “Mother.” He dutifully leaned down for a kiss that never reached his cheek—his mother could never bear to smear her lipstick. Her perfume nearly choked him as he caught a particularly unlucky lungful.

  When they both stood upright again, she patted a hand near, but not on, her silver hair and took a moment to peruse him. Kip braced himself as her blue eyes took on a sharp glint.

  “Is your shirt pink?”

  “Intentionally so.”

  “Hmm.” She pursed her lips, and Kip marked the time down as three seconds—only three seconds since he’d arrived, and he’d already managed to earn her disapproval.

  A personal best.

  “Where’s Dad?”<
br />
  She turned from him, already losing interest. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  Which meant he was probably in the game room watching television for entertainment and not research—a pastime his mother hated and therefore pretended didn’t exist.

  He started that direction but hadn’t made it two steps before his mother said, “Don’t get too comfortable. Dinner will be ready any moment.”

  “There’s no danger of me getting comfortable,” he muttered beneath his breath.

  God, he hated Sundays. But he still showed up every week, because if he started thinking about why he came, he’d have to face some of the feelings he’d been avoiding for years.

  He straightened the cuffs on his pink button-down shirt as he rounded the corner and found his father just where he knew he’d be: watching golf from the leather lounge chair that was permanently conformed to his shape.

  Kip took the empty lounger next to his father, who grunted by way of greeting. A commercial came on, which was when his mother would have focused, but Kip’s dad turned his way. His brown eyes took on a merry glint as he scanned Kip’s attire. “Bet your mother loved that shirt.”

  “For Christ’s sake.” Kip tugged at his collar. “It’s just a shirt.”

  “Nothing is just anything in this house.”

  He took a page out of his dad’s book and grunted. No kidding.

  There was a squawk from behind them, and neither of them turned toward the intercom system that had been in the house since his childhood—the house his mother optimistically referred to as the mansion.

  “Dinner is served,” said a tinny, compressed version of his mother’s voice.

  With a heavy sigh, his dad pushed from his chair and clicked the television off before dropping the remote on the side table. Kip eyed his father’s browbeaten expression. Does my face look anything like that? There was a definite tugging at his eyebrows. He intentionally tried to straighten them just in case.

  “Let’s go to supper,” his father said in the same tone someone might say Let’s go to the DMV.

  “Right behind you.”

  They walked through the house silently until they arrived at the formal dining room where his mother was already seated at the head of the table. Father took the other end of the table, and Kip took the place setting in his usual spot halfway between the two.

  And so it begins.

  He tipped his wrist so he could snag a peek at his watch. Two more hours. A person could do anything for two hours, and he often had.

  He smiled, thinking of one particular time when a client had been very generous with more than just her money—

  “And how was your week, Kipling?” His mother cut into the lobster tail Mary, their cook, had prepared. “That smile you’re wearing looks promising.”

  Kip cleared his throat and reached for his own silverware. “It was a good week,” he said carefully. He always said everything carefully. Too much cheer would make his mother suspicious—happiness was always questioned in this house. Too much gloom, and his mother would remind him that he had only himself to blame.

  “Anything in particular stand out?”

  He chewed thoughtfully and then swallowed. “No.”

  It was the same conversation they had each Sunday, and so far so good. It was the Sundays during which they deviated from the script that made him cringe.

  “Any luck on the job front?”

  Annnnd, we’re deviating from the script. Kip set his knife and fork down, what little appetite he’d had vanishing into the lush carpet beneath his feet.

  “Oh, Georgiana, leave the boy alone.”

  She sipped from her wine before saying, “I believe we have. It hasn’t helped.”

  “I’m still looking.” Kip rubbed his finger over a water spot on his fork, one that—had his mother seen it—would have been taken out of someone’s hide in the kitchen staff.

  “Hmm.”

  God save him from his mother’s hmms. He sighed and placed his hands in his lap. His parents didn’t know he had a job, and he certainly wasn’t going to correct that impression, as the knowledge that he made thousands of dollars a week selling sex would only turn up the heat in the hot seat.

  Luckily, they hadn’t paid close enough attention to his life—except in this one area of employment—to notice that he was able to support himself nominally well since they’d cut him off without any aid about a year ago when he had refused to follow Georgiana’s footsteps and join her firm after college graduation. He knew they expected him to come crawling back any moment, unable to make it on his own. That was not going to happen. In fact, earlier today, Kip had secured a brand-new client for tomorrow evening. His client list was increasing, not decreasing.

  “Your charm can only get you so far, Kipling.”

  Ah, yes. Now they were back on script. It wasn’t a Sunday Dinner if his mother didn’t remind him that all he had going for him was his looks and personability.

  It had always been Kip’s opinion that those two things counted for a lot in this world, but it wasn’t an opinion his mother shared. Little did they know his charm had made him a successful man—well, semi-successful. Okay, no one else would define prostitution as success, but give him a break.

  He’d probably stroke out if his mother looked at him during one of these Sunday Dinners and simply accepted him for who he was. Loved him. Put him above her ambition for one second—

  And, he shoved those thoughts aside—the very ones he’d be trying to avoid by not thinking about why he showed up at this house every week like clockwork, seeking approval from his family like some sap whipping boy who hadn’t learned better by now.

  He didn’t need approval or acceptance. He’d make it on his own. Hell, was already halfway to making it.

  Technically, Kip knew, the money he’d already managed to save was enough to open a business. A small one, but one that belonged all to him, and one in which he would have to answer to no one. The problem was, he didn’t know what kind of business he wanted to open. Which would be worse: working a little longer while he saved more and figured out his path or starting a business now only to find out his mother was right? That he didn’t have anything going for him but his charm?

  And because Kip was good at fucking everyone, including himself, he’d managed to raise his money in the one way that would keep him from being able to go legit if word of it ever got out. Georgiana was far too well known in this town. That her son was a gigolo would spread far and wide if anyone found out, and then no one would do business with him and he wouldn’t be able to join her firm—the backup plan that still made him shiver.

  “He knows all of this, Georgiana.”

  Kip pressed his lips together as his mother turned her attention fully on her husband. “Does he, Avery?” she said softly.

  They both knew that tone. His father broke eye contact and reached for his own glass of wine. Had his father dared to challenge Mother as she presided over Sunday Dinner? When was the last time that had happened?

  Dear old dad was a kept man. Georgiana had come from money; Avery had married into it. At one point they’d probably been in love, but that point was far, far behind them. Avery didn’t work, and, as far as Georgiana was concerned, that meant he didn’t get a say in running the home.

  Kip was a feminist—a gigolo kind of had to be; his mother was something else altogether. Equality? Nope. She wanted everyone in the world beneath her boot, and for some reason, his father had volunteered to be at the bottom of the pile.

  “I do know,” he said softly, hoping to deflect his mother’s attention back to himself—something he usually did everything in his power to avoid. His dad owed him. Big.

  It worked. Her attention nearly audibly snapped his way, and as she set down her own silverware, he knew he was in for it now. He tucked his chin into his chest and pretended to listen as she launched into a lecture on how he was wasting his life and blah, blah, blah.

  He kept his father in his pe
ripheral vision as Avery turned back to his meal, suitably cowed by his wife’s dominance. The fuck I’ll ever end up with a woman like that.

  No other woman would ever strong-arm him. Boss him around. Make him live a certain way.

  Look at him like he was a waste.

  Because if he had to live the rest of his life like he’d lived under Mother’s thumb for the first eighteen years, either under her roof or under her dominance at the firm . . .

  I’d rather turn tricks for the rest of my life.

  Chapter Six

  Victoria paced the room of the Desert Oasis Hotel & Spa, a luxurious hotel well off the Strip, until she could see the imprint of her sensible heels in the pattern of the carpet. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” She nibbled on her thumbnail. “I can’t believe I’m doing this!”

  Her stomach flipped as she paced, but she wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or anticipation. In just a few minutes, she could finally be having sex again.

  “Okay, I’m definitely doing this.” The guy—whoever it was Cassidy had hired yesterday—was on his way over here this second. It was too late to back out now, and she wasn’t sure she even wanted to.

  Don’t lie to yourself. You definitely don’t want to.

  She’d taken extra care with her grooming today, shaving places she hadn’t shaved since Jeremy had been alive. As she walked, her bare lips rubbed together, creating a silky slide so pleasurable that this guy Cassidy had hired was not going to have to touch her at all to get her ready.

  She was already good to go and chomping at the bit.

  At least, she thought she was. But when there was a soft but firm knock at the door, Victoria jumped.

  She placed a shaky hand over her stomach. What am I doing?

  This was crazy. She’d been so adamant a couple of nights before with her I don’t have to pay for it. Here she was, paying for it.

  It’s never too late to back out. With a breath for courage, she walked toward the door. She’d simply tell him this had been a mistake and then head back home, stopping by the gas station on her route for more batteries.

  She had dignity. She had—