Callboys

by SororityProblem

  25: Why is this girl I used to babysit standing in the same bar as me?

  But Marissa was determined to change all that. The money was a start, but ManCard was going to do the rest. She didn’t care if it wasn’t a real relationship- she was going to have a guy at her side at the party tonight to silence her family once and for all. And so with a renewed fire in her belly, she picks up her phone and opens the ManCard app.

  WELCOME, it says. YOU’VE BEEN APPROVED. PICK YOUR MAN.

  Suddenly the screen displays pages and pages of guys- except they weren’t just guys. They were the kind that scattered Marissa’s thoughts when she walked by them in the grocery store; the kind she could barely order from at a bar because she would lose her words in her mouth; the kind she used to watch hold hands in the hallways with their cheerleader girlfriends in high school and want to kill herself. And Marissa couldn’t believe that they were all available to her. She felt more powerful than ever before. After a lifetime of being overlooked, of being a supporting character in a world full of leading ladies, she was finally on top. She almost didn’t care that she was paying for it. If she could afford it, why not?

  And it’s not like she was looking for a husband, after all. In fact, she couldn’t even imagine what was driving so many other girls her age take the plunge, and that wasn’t just the bitter singleton in her talking. Marissa couldn’t even figure out what to eat for breakfast in the morning, or what kind of coffee to get on her daily stop at Starbucks- what on Earth made her think she was ready to choose the one guy she was going to spend the rest of her life with? The way she looked at it, most of these girls were simply picking the most qualified bachelor around and then hitching their wagons to him, with no clue that one day when they were forty they were going to wake up and realize they hated each other. Why not dabble around for a few years and pick someone you liked being around?

  Or simply liked hooking up with?

  She looks back at the screen. What kind of guy do you want? it asks her. Marissa couldn’t help but smile. There’s something I’ve never been asked before. The app displays a long list of attributes and tells her to pick some, and because she has no idea where to start, she enters “short-haired,” “smart” and “polite.” Then it shows a selection of guys matching her choices, and just for shits and giggles she clicks on one that looks like Zac Efron’s little brother.

  “Not one for romance,” his profile reads. “Enjoys slapping, spitting, and choking.”

  Spitting? Choking? No thanks. Or not on the first date, at least. She closes out the window and picks a guy who looks like James Franco’s younger cousin instead. “Doesn’t enjoy dates,” it says. Okay? So Marissa was just supposed to meet him for parking lot sex or something? No thanks. She would at least like someone to pretend they enjoyed her company. But still, she couldn’t deny that she felt like a kid in a proverbial candy store, only this candy store sold orgasms instead of Milk Duds.

  Suddenly a new guy pops up at the bottom, with a little icon saying NEW HIRE. Marissa was instantly drawn to him, and not only because he looked like a slightly rough-around-the-edges star of some CW teen drama. There was something in his eyes that stuck to her like facial mud: he almost looked like one of those sad artists you’d see on the sidewalk in tourist towns, creating beautifully melancholy images of sunsets and beach scenes. Marissa had no idea why it was so appealing, but it was. She takes a quick breath and clicks on his profile.

  “Well-mannered, soft spoken, Southern Gentleman,” it reads. “If you want to impress Mom, choose him. But if things go to the bedroom, beware of this stallion and his supreme skills.”

  Okay, she notes with a laugh, maybe it was a little cheesy. The entry was so corny it almost reminded her of Slutty Selfie Bombers for some reason, the girls who posted Facebook photos clearly meant to show off their cleavage or butts, except with idiotic, barely-believable captions like “loving my new manicure!!” or “what do you think guys, should I buy these jeans or not???” But still…something about Nate stuck. Marissa felt a chill on her skin as she skims over his photos again. “Beware”…she almost liked the sound of that. He’d be perfect, because he’d be a good date for the party, and then afterwards they could go up to the hotel room and find out what “beware” really meant.

  Right then and there, Marissa decides to do it. She was going to take Nate to the party, she was going to enjoy second of it, and then she was going to take him back to her room and see what happened. She’d already “gotten money,” and now it was time for the “fuck bitches” part of the rap song that was apparently becoming her life, according to Bubbie.

  “Hi there, Nate H,” she says as she double-taps his photo. She had hid in the shadows long enough, and it was time to be brave. And if she couldn’t do that, she’d put on some false bravado and use that until it hardened and deepened into true bravery.

  As blood surges in her ears and her skin tingles with an electricity that told her big things were about to happen, she clicks on his contact box and types out a short message:

  Hello, Nate. I’d like to see just what I’m supposed to be afraid of.

  XI

  Hands

  All the next day Nate alternates between wanting to get wasted and forget the ManCard thing ever happened, and wanting to get on his bike, drive to Mexico, and never come back. But in the end he did nothing, because neither of those options involved getting Addie back. So he decided this: he’d take the signing bonus, work a few clients to build up his savings, and then quit as soon as he had enough money to get Addie back home. That was it. No more, no less.

  He hoped.

  Being at ManCard headquarters had really gotten him thinking about dating in the age of technology. He’d tried online dating once before, actually, but it had left a taste so acid in his mouth, it still lingered on his tongue. He’d downloaded an app that lets you message people if you both “like” each other’s pictures, and the first girl he matched with had instantly messaged him asking how many children he wanted. He blocked her immediately, but the hits kept on coming. One girl drunk messaged him one Thursday saying she wanted to “smell him,” and another tracked him down on Facebook and sent him a friend request barely five minutes after they had exchanged hellos. If that was what was out there, he thought when he finally deleted the app, then he was glad he hadn’t been dating since Courtney left. And the older he got, the more girls seemed to want to settle down and basically become Marriage Zombies. Nate wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet. He wanted to look down at the tops of clouds from between two roaring engines, luminous in the dying sun. He wanted to swim in the waves of the Pacific and breathe in the winds of the Spanish countryside; he wanted to walk the streets of Paris like the men of yesterday, golden and alive under the streetlights. And none of that looked possible with a wife and two kids by the age of thirty.

  At four Nate went to the gym to kill off some nervous energy, focusing on cardio and legs, the two things that exhausted him the most. It barely worked, and as he showered afterward his whole body tingled with excess nervous energy. After the gym he got on his bike and headed off into the evening, deciding to face his fate head-on. It was his favorite time of day, the golden hour, and the city was radiant. He’d traveled around a bit in his life, down to the Florida coast and up to the big cities of the North for funerals and such, back when his parents still acted like his parents. But he always knew he’d come back to Atlanta in the end. He loved everything about the sprawling city- the way the vast highways unfurled themselves across the rolling green hills like veins wrapping across a beloved grandmother’s wrist, the way the heat seemed to swallow you up in the summer and hold you close, the way the burnt yellow leaves quivered in the cool clear wind that came off the lakes in the fall. It wasn’t bustling like New York or breathtaking like Los Angeles, but it was home; warm and comfortable and familiar, and he hoped that when all was said and done he’d return back that orange clay he had always adored so much. Most of all he
loved to escape to Lake Lanier in August and sit on the red clay shores watching the summer thunderstorms come in, admiring the way they seemed to pile up at the edge of the lake like a group of runners straining at the starting line of a race before finally spilling over and unleashing their grey curtains of rain across Lanier’s olive green surface. Sometimes he’d fall asleep right there on the ground and dream that he’d suddenly grow so big and tall, he’d take a big breath of air and try to blow the whole storm away, push it back with the wind from his lungs so the rain and the fog wouldn’t touch him. But no matter how hard he blew, the storm had always come.

  Nate parks in a public lot on Twelfth and walks the two blocks in the twilight to Peachtree and Fourteenth, the address given to him earlier by Lena. After he crosses the street he finds Ryan waiting, and for some strange reason Nate smiles to himself. If two days earlier at dinner someone had told him that he would actually be taking up that ridiculous job offer, he would’ve laughed in their faces. Desperate times and desperate measures, he thinks dryly as he shakes Ryan’s hand.

  “You’re three minutes early,” Ryan says. “I like that. And your outfit’s good, too.”

  Nate plays with the collar of the designer suit Lena had messengered to his house from Neiman Marcus earlier in the day. It was dark blue, very slim, and very expensive, and he had felt like a douchebag the instant he’d put it on.

  “Thanks. Lena had it delivered a few hours ago.”

  “Sweet. It’s perfect. Follow me.”

  Ryan turns to the left and crosses the street. As they walk, Nate finds his curiosity rising to the surface.

  “So, can you give me any specifics about tonight? Lena was kinda vague.”

  “Hmm. All I know is that you’re escorting some chick to a business party, with an option to seal the deal later tonight, if she wants to.”

  “If she wants to?”

  “Just have a glass of champagne and be charming,” Ryan smiles.

  “Is she hot?”

  “Didn’t see a picture.”

  “What is-”

  Ryan stops and looks back at him. “Dude. You’re getting money to go to a fancy party and have sex. Chill.”

  “I see your point,” Nate nods. “Gotcha.”

  They walk another block or two and reach a circular carport, a towering skyscraper hulking above them.

  “Dude,” Nate says uneasily as he nods at the doorman. “We’re at the Four Seasons. They probably have a lobby clerk whose whole job is to look out for hookers.”

  “That’s one of the perks of being a male escort,” Ryan smiles. “Everyone’s so busy looking for the female ones, they never bother to look at you.”

  Together they enter a glittering marble lobby with a sweeping grand staircase facing them and a dazzling chandelier above. Ryan veers toward a bank of elevators and then turns to Nate.

  “She’s on the forty second floor, room 4208. Knock on the door three times and then ring the bell, that’s how she’ll know it’s you. If she does anything super weird or tries to hurt you or anything, you can leave, but Lena won’t be happy unless it’s bad. Just text her if you need help, she’s always available.”

  Nate’s mind races, and he grows almost nauseous with nerves. Nothing had seemed real until now. “There are so many things I never thought to ask. What if she’s a murderer?”

  “Something tells me you’ll be able to overpower her.”

  “What if she’s hideous and I can’t get it up?”

  “Come on, you’ve probably slummed it before. Close your eyes and imagine she’s Beyoncé.”

  “But what if I’m not that attracted to Beyoncé?”

  “Then you, my man, have bigger problems to worry about.”

  Nate laughs a little, but his stomach is still twisting in knots. “How long does she expect me to…perform?”

  “She paid for the whole night, but it’s up to her.”

  “The whole night? You mean I might have to sleep here?”

  Ryan rolls his eyes. “I know, man, it’s so terrible, being made to sleep at the Four Seasons with a woman who wants your body. You might even be forced to have breakfast in their five-star restaurant, too. The horror.”

  After Nate doesn’t respond, Ryan puts a hand on his shoulder. “Seriously, stop thinking, dude. You’ll be fine. You can do this. But there are a few things you need to know. The cops have been circling a bit lately, they don’t like all the press we’re getting, and we don’t want any issues.”

  “Cops? What?”

  Ryan looks around to make sure no one can hear. “It shouldn’t be a problem, but if the term ‘ManCard’ comes up, at all, in any way, I want you to leave immediately.”

  “Leave?”

  “Yep. Excuse yourself to the bathroom, call a cab, and go. We aren’t taking any chances. But you should be fine. Show up, be nice, pour her a drink, take her to the party, be charming and friendly, and then take her up to the room and finish the deal. Just forget that you’re even being paid- act like it’s a normal date.”

  Nate’s stomach plummets towards his shoes. “Got it. I think.”

  Ryan slaps him on the back, flashes a thumbs-up, and points at the elevators. “Go get ‘em, tiger. It’s all in your hands now.”

  Nate nods as his palms slicken with sweat and then heads for the elevators. As it speeds toward the forty-second floor, he tells himself that this is it. Turn back now or forever live with the fact that you have been paid for sex.

  But then he sees Addie’s eyes, and he knows what he has to do. He’d gladly throw himself off a cliff if it meant saving her, and having sex in the Four Seasons was a tad better than suicide.

  The elevator reaches forty-two, and Nate’s heart throws itself against the walls of his rib cage as he glides down the hall, arrives at her door, knocks three times, and then rings the bell.

  “This is all in your hands now,” Ryan’s voice echoes in his mind as the pounding in his chest grows by the second.

  But what if I don’t want this on my hands?

  Just as Nate turns to head back down the hall, the door swings open.

  XII

  Two Souls

  Marissa almost didn’t go through with it. When she got the conformation that Nate would be officially accompanying her to the party, she almost threw her phone into the bathtub and locked herself in her closet for the night. What the hell was she even thinking, paying someone for sex? It was crazy. And stupid. And reckless. She pictured herself sitting in a cold jail cell after some undercover cop spotted her and arrested her for solicitation, her family mortified, her future ruined. Was she really willing to risk that?

  But then she pictured what she’d be spending the night with if she chickened out: her empty bed. Or her lonesome couch in her dark living room. Unwilling and unable to return to her cold, empty life, she took a deep breath and reserved a room at the Four Seasons on the phone.

  “And how many will be staying in the room?” the clerk had asked in her Russian accent.

  “Two,” Marissa answered. “I hope.”

  After raiding her sister’s closet, she found a floaty cocktail dress the color of her hair that fit reasonably well. It still had tags from some shop at that fancy mall Lenox Square, and she didn’t even stop to check the price for fear of having an aneurysm. She paired it with her favorite pair of dark green, twenty-dollar heels from H&M, made finishing touches to her understated makeup, and headed out the door at four with something between butterflies and acid in her stomach.

  As soon as she arrived at the hotel she noticed that people were treating her totally strangely. She immediately got the largest suite available, the bellboys fell all over her, and the maids scurried away from her in the halls, terrified. At first she wondered if her Chronic Bitchy Resting Face syndrome had gotten even worse, but then she realized it was all probably due to the black AmEx card that Mr. Cohen had just hooked her up with. Being rich, it seemed, would take some getting used to.

  Once ensconced i
n the room she had nothing to do but wait. Her grandma couldn’t make the party, obviously, and at about four Marissa looked at her phone and saw the following text:

  Remember: you are not allowed to be buried in a Jewish cemetery if you have a tattoo. Have a fabulous evening at the party!

  Marissa rolled her eyes. Jewish grandmas, what can you say? She wanted to invite some girlfriends to the hotel room to show off and get her mind off ManCard, but sadly she had no idea who she’d even text. As her late teens had bled into her early twenties and those in turn had coasted into her quarter life crisis years, it seemed like her circle of friends shrunk and shriveled away until she had was a few girls she occasionally exchanged texts with but barely ever saw in person. Marriage and motherhood had claimed some, while others had moved away to get jobs and find their lives. And some just moved away to get lost, waiting tables or barista’ing in LA or Brooklyn or Portland while supposedly “working on their art” but mostly just doing drugs and disappointing their parents. But if things went well with her “date,” she hoped she wouldn’t even need a friend around at all after too long.

  Next she tried to distract herself with a movie, but Gravity was the only good thing playing, and as she watched Sandra Bullock spin alone in the blackness of space, desperately attempting to reach out and connect with anything that would save her, Marissa shared a dark laugh with herself.

  “I’m in the same boat, girlfriend,” she said to no one in particular. “You’ll find it soon enough. And if you don’t, just pay for it.”

  Then the TV system went into sleep mode and turned itself off, and then did it again. After the third blackout she threw a fit and tossed the remote across the room, where it knocked over a lamp and picture frame and caused all kinds of mess. Suddenly Marissa was struck with another thought: both of my grandfathers had fought in world wars by my age, and here I am having meltdowns because of a TV remote?