by Amy Briggs
She came back out to the living room, with the white card I’d written out, and the blue box in her hand. Her mouth was covered with the other hand, and tears were running down her face.
“Is this for real?” she asked, holding out the card.
“Hmm, let me see.” I extended my hand to take the note from her. “Let me read it to you.
“My Dearest Elise,
I’ve known from the literal second that I met you, that you were made to be with me. You light up every day of my life, and I thank God that you were brought to me when you were. I cannot imagine a day without you in it, and I would like to spend the rest of my life finding new ways to make you smile.
Will you marry me?
Carter
“Yeah, this seems to be the real deal, Ms. Regan. So, what do you think?” I got down on one knee, opening the box to her. It was the biggest ring I could find, and I used every cent of my Infidelity money to buy it. It’s what she deserved, and that money was a gift meant for me to use on her. I’d already known she was the one before the first deposit was ever made into my account, so I just left it there, waiting to be used on the ring I hoped she’d agree to marry me with.
“You want to marry me?” She was still in shock.
“Of course I do. You’re the sun, baby. You light up every day of my life. That’s what it says,” I chuckled.
“I thought you wanted out of the contract because you were going to leave.” She fanned away her tears, starting to laugh at herself.
“I know. I may have pulled one over on you a little bit. But I do want out of the contract. And into a new one. So, what do you say?” I was still on one knee.
Laughing, she dropped to the floor with me. “Yes!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around my neck. “Yes! Of course I’ll marry you. I’m too old for a boyfriend anyway!”
While laughing, we kissed, hugged, and became a real couple. The kind that takes care of each other because they want to, not because they have to. You see, I had to mess with her just a little bit, because part of my job was to make sure she stayed light-hearted, and in doing so, it kept me full of joy and love too.
We were fated. Meant to be.
The End
More Kindle Worlds from Amy Briggs
Novellas
Stoker Aces Operation Alpha
Saving Sarah
Uncovering Davidson
The Fidelity World
Revelation
Fated
Passion, Vows & Babies
Tough As Nails
Lucy
The decision was easy. I didn’t even need to think it over. One year of my time as the “companion” to a wealthy, well-connected man for a ton of money? It wasn’t really about the money at all. I mean, that was definitely going to help, of course. I was able to keep myself in high fashion through secondhand stores in the city, but what I really needed was to network. I wanted to rub elbows with the elite of New York City, finally making a name for myself. No more being the intern, no more fetching coffee. Mostly, no more ‘small town girl in the big city’. I would be on the fast track to notoriety, finally.
I left home when I was eighteen. School had come easy for me, and when I secured a scholarship to New York University, it was no surprise. My mom couldn’t afford to send me, and she wouldn’t have helped me, even if she could. She blamed me for my father leaving my entire life. I wasn’t even angry about that, or her abuse, anymore. I simply did what I had to do to get out of there. Small towns have a way of holding you back if you aren’t careful. Small towns breed small minds. I left it all behind and hadn’t been back in five years. In fact, I had no plans of ever returning. There was nothing left for me in New Jersey, except for maybe the beaches.
Everyone thinks New Jersey is all Hoboken and the wannabe shit part of New York, but it’s not. There’s a whole lot of New Jersey that’s all pine barrens, farmland, and beach. When the hurricanes hit is usually the only time anyone remembers we have beautiful beaches. My fondest memories of New Jersey all took place at the shore, and usually included my high school boyfriend. I left him behind too.
As soon as I moved to Manhattan, I stopped going by Lucy. No one in New York knew who I used to be, and it was my chance to reinvent myself. The Lucy of my formidable years was no more. I’d become Lucinda Quinn. For years, I’d daydreamed about moving from the small town to the big city, and while it wasn’t quite like I’d dreamed, I was one step closer to the woman I wanted to be.
I’d been working for a PR company as an intern - unpaid, of course - through the last two years of my undergraduate program. On top of that, I’d managed to find work as a cocktail waitress at a high-end nightclub downtown. I knew that the me I wanted to become was too good for serving drinks in a low-cut tank top, but I was willing to do anything to get where I wanted to be. Our nightclub was frequented by the ‘who’s who’ of Manhattan, and if serving drinks gave me even the slightest opportunity to meet the city’s elite, it wasn’t above me at all.
When the opportunity arose to interview as an employee for New York’s best kept secret, Infidelity, I wasted no time. Sharon, the owner of Seasons, the nightclub I worked at, told me she’d spent one year as the companion to a wealthy finance guy, and she agreed to be my sponsor. The thing about Infidelity, is that it’s much like Fight Club. The first rule of Infidelity is that it doesn’t exist. Confidentiality was paramount, and you were never to speak of it. Immediately, I assumed that it was a ‘sex for money’ exchange, and she corrected me immediately. In fact, she’d also become an employee to network around the city, and used the money she earned to purchase the nightclub she now owned. That kind of real estate doesn’t come cheap, and Sharon had turned a shitty, rundown property into one of the hottest spots downtown.
In simple terms, Infidelity was an agency that matched up companions. The client - in my case, a man - paid for my services. Those services could be attendance at events or general companionship, that sort of thing. Karen Flores, the woman I interviewed with, made it very clear that Infidelity was not in the business of prostitution, and that sex with the client was not a requirement at all, which was a huge concern for me. She had a standard line she must have said a hundred times: “At Infidelity, our clients buy poise, class, companionship, and compatibility.” She also went on to explain that the clients at Infidelity were exclusive and successful.
“Your contract is binding. When we find a compatible match, you will be, for all intents and purposes, in an exclusive relationship for one year. Do you understand that?” she asked me.
I watched her stare intently at me as she stood in front of the floor to ceiling glass windows in her office. Without hesitation, I acknowledged her directly. “I absolutely understand, and I look forward to the arrangement.”
I was paid five-thousand dollars for my time that day, and instructed not to contact her again. I had gone through extensive questioning during the interview, much of which highlighted my goals and ambitions, as well as my history, which she already knew much about. Apparently, the wealthy are well-equipped to investigate you and find out that you work an unpaid job, you serve cocktails, and they can even find out that your abusive alcoholic of a mother tries to call you once a month to ask for money.
Being honest to a fault was my greatest weakness, and I admitted my relationship with my mother was strained at best, garnering no evident reaction from Karen. It seemed that the questions about my past were mostly to ensure that I wasn’t lying, because she already knew everything I had told her.
“We are interested in you because, yes, you’re beautiful, but we like ambition in our employees. Our clients are smart, wealthy, and successful, and they want companions that can keep up. Your hustle makes you desirable, and I don’t think we’ll have to wait long to find you a suitable match. Do you have any more questions for me?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.
“No, I believe I understand the contract, and the expectations,” I replied.
“Thank you very much for your time,” I said as I stood up to leave. My heart was racing with anticipation. I couldn’t wait to get matched up with someone. And begin the next chapter of my future.
Chapter 2
Ryder
As I stared at Mr. Whitaker from across the large, oak conference room table, I nodded in agreement, while rage boiled up inside me. Listening to him explain that men of my position needed to engage in more social affairs, but that I should consider finding a suitable escort to such events. More appropriate than I had in the past. Being told what to do was infuriating, especially when I was being told that, at twenty-four years old, I needed to find someone with the right resume or status to bring with me to events. Not to mention the fact that he was a client, not really my boss.
“Listen to me, Ryder. I'm not saying you need to get married, or anything of the sort. You're a young man. I understand needs. But here at Whitaker, we like to have a certain… look and feel that we like to convey. The playboy bachelor is not that look and feel. You get me?” Brad Whitaker raised his eyebrows to me, looking for my understanding.
“Of course, sir. I'll vet my escorts to events a bit better moving forward,” I replied with a tight-lipped smile.
“You do that, son. If you need help finding a suitable date for next week’s gala, let my secretary know. She's got a list of pretty, young socialites with a good reputation we can have her set you up with. Girls that know how to act at our corporate events and such.” He nonchalantly grinned, as if this was a normal conversation to have. What daughter of someone important could we pair me up with, simply to be seen. It was insane to me, and I had no desire whatsoever to be matched up with some dumb socialite that his secretary found for me. No thanks.
What this old man didn’t understand was that the Manhattan of today wasn’t like the Manhattan of forty years ago. The women in this town were power hungry and only about the money.. The ones that were appropriate escorts, as he so noted, also wanted more than I had to give. Not the type of woman you’d bring to a charity function or cocktail party without some kind of expectation for a relationship, which was most certainly not what I was looking for. My love was my work. I left my small town after college and after two years of graduate school, I was already one of the best security analysts in the city. Brad was my client, and while he was paying me a shitload of money to work for his firm, I could leave at any time.
Manhattan had a lot of new money, but it also had old money. Old money is what I was after. The typical aging baby boomer didn’t know shit about security systems, and I’d made my niche quickly by hacking their systems for free, and showing them their weaknesses. Then, for a ton of money, I’d show them how to address the holes that I found. I enjoyed my work, but somehow, I ended up going to more events and bullshit sessions than hacking systems after a while. Even though it sounded like I was complaining, it wasn’t a bad life. I had an obscene amount of money in the bank, especially for a hometown Jersey boy, and I was always busy.
The hole in my life was what most people filled with a relationship. My last relationship was in high school, and I didn’t care to go back. I chose a local college to try to make it work and she broke my fucking heart. Since then, I couldn’t be bothered with feelings or commitment. I was often in the company of beautiful, well-connected women, but they were never going to get more than a couple dates from me. Not only did I not have the time, I didn’t want to make the time. Relationships make you weak, and I would never be weak like that again.
After my conversation with Mr. Whitaker earlier that afternoon, I thought about how to handle the upcoming gala. In this day and age, there shouldn't be such a stigma on going stag to these events, but with old money comes old philosophies. They wanted me to have someone for their wives to talk to. Someone they could pawn their dates off on. Since Mr. Whitaker wanted me to find someone more suitable than the usual wannabe socialites I was bringing along to events, I decided to turn that process into a business transaction.
I’d heard of Infidelity from a colleague about a year prior, and couldn’t believe that in his drunken stupor over insanely-priced scotch, he told me he’d met his wife through a service. It wasn’t your average dating or matchmaking service, though. It was highly exclusive, and unless you drank too much scotch, it was also completely confidential. For a hefty sum of money, you are matched with someone suitable to play the part of your companion. It seemed that, for all intents and purposes, you were in a legitimate relationship with this person, as far as anyone knew, and it was a one year arrangement, stipulated by a binding contract that included confidentiality. For my colleague, this particular person was so well-matched that after the year was up, he married her. Now, that wasn’t at all what I wanted, but it would be nice to not have to deal with the hassle of finding someone to accompany me to things. Someone I could explicitly trust, because they were being paid to be trusted.
As I sipped on the mid-priced scotch my father had sent me, I mulled over the idea, which had become more and more appealing. The more I thought about it, having a stand-in girlfriend for the next year seemed like the perfect solution for my needs at work, but also because my family perpetually questioned me on my bachelorhood. It was the ideal arrangement for the next year.
It was settled. I was going to use my money to become a client at Infidelity.
Sarah
It had been almost a year since Egypt, and I still struggled every time I had to fly anywhere on the continent of Africa. I’d been on the DFW to London route the last two weeks, but the airline was insistent that I return to other international routes after my time off. I hadn’t taken any vacation, and in fact, after the situation in Egypt, I returned to work more quickly than I should have because I didn’t know what to do with myself.
Rayne Jackson, the flight attendant I was kidnapped in Egypt with, had moved to Ft. Hood where her boyfriend, and also one of the men who saved us, was stationed, and ended up taking a job with a different airline. I missed seeing her. She was the only person who understood the sleepless nights, the terrors, and the uneasy feeling I had everywhere I went after that. In fact, I’d been considering finding a different job, but didn’t know what to do with myself. I’d been a flight attendant since right out of high school. My mom was a flight attendant, and in serious stereotypical fashion, she’d married a pilot; my dad.
Everyone knew what had happened to us, and I couldn’t get past the fact that every time I flew, I felt like the other flight attendants just looked at me with pity or with something that resembled fear. Like my experience would rub off on them or something. Getting kidnapped by terrorists in a foreign country isn’t a disease you could catch, but it did often feel like an ailment to me. I guess I couldn’t blame them; I felt bad for myself half the time too, and even somewhat guilty for making it awkward for my colleagues.
Since I never completely unpacked because of flying all the time, I took the dirty clothes out of my suitcase to wash, and packed some casual clothes for my trip. I’d been to so many wonderful and exciting places in the world, but I was spending my vacation just outside of Ft. Hood. Because I had overwhelming anxiety consistently, and Rayne and I had become close after our ordeal, she invited me to spend a week with her. She had been doing so well after our ordeal, and she thought it might be a good opportunity for me to talk to her therapist, which I really didn’t want to do, but it was also a chance to let loose where I’d feel safe. It would be an opportunity to talk, have some girl time, and rest. I wasn’t sleeping well anymore, and while I did everything I could to prevent it from affecting my job, I was growing resentment every day toward travel and had started to become a hermit when I wasn’t working. I just never felt safe anymore, and no matter what I did, or how I prepared myself for doom, I couldn’t shake the overwhelming fear. Just reminding myself of
it as I prepped for my trip gave me goosebumps and a nauseous feeling.
I’d done a lot of research on how to get past traumatic events. I knew it was in my head; nothing bad happened to me other than what I saw. I felt like an asshole, and guilt overwhelmed me for having so much trouble getting past it. I didn’t even have it as bad as Rayne and she was adjusting well. For Christ’s sake, she had been moments away from being raped, and somehow she’s achieved normalcy. The whole thing made me feel inadequate at best, and I hoped the week away would help bring me down off the ledge I felt I was always teetering upon.
I had a therapist - if you could even call him that - in Fort Worth, where I lived, and while he gave me drugs for my anxiety, which mostly just put me in a state where I didn’t give a shit about anything, he wasn’t particularly helpful in terms of finding a way to get out of the mud. That’s what it felt like. It was like standing in sludge all day. I couldn’t move. My heart rate would increase. I couldn’t make decisions. I was lucky I wore a uniform and that most flights were the same, no matter what. It took the guesswork out of deciding what to bring on my trips. I stopped going on tours, and I stopped exploring cities, which are the reasons most of us become a flight attendant in the first place. I mostly stopped growing, which made me sad. But I truly didn’t know how to fix it; I’d lost my motivation to do much of anything, except show up for work.
When we were kidnapped - or rather, became hostages - we didn’t realize it was happening until it was too late. We’d agreed to go on a “sightseeing tour” with some strangers, albeit Americans, and assumed they’d taken the necessary precautions, like vetting the tour company. It turned out they hadn’t; they’d fallen for what was a common trap for robbing tourists, but it became much worse. On one of the stops of our tour, we’d been led to a room to explore, and unfortunately, never let out. After being led from room to room over a period of days, Rayne was taken away by herself, and a bomb was detonated in the room that I’d been left in.