Client No. 6: A Dial-A-Date Romance

by Cassandra Dee

  I almost scream into the phone, but stop myself seeing that Urth Café has other patrons. No need to make a scene when this has already reached disaster proportions.

  “Who else do you have available?” I say stiffly while gritting my teeth and shooting glares Jason’s way. He doesn’t even look concerned, idly listening as I lose my cool. “Is there anyone else available for a high school reunion in Charleston this weekend?”

  “Hmm, let me see,” says the woman, tapping away at her keyboard. She disappears for a moment before coming back on the phone. “I’m so sorry Ms. Lake, but none of our other escorts are available on such short notice. Maybe next weekend? Would you like to book Mike or Rob then? They’re top-rated gentlemen as well,” she coos. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy your time with them.”

  By now, the top of my head is about to blow off. Does this woman not understand the urgency of the situation? Does she not understand what timeliness and responsiveness mean? Clearly, my predicament is nothing to her. So stiffly, I say, “No thank you. And I’m going to contest this charge on my credit card, just to let you know.”

  “Of course,” says the woman. “But remember, when you pressed accept on our website, you accepted all of our terms and conditions, including your right to a refund. Once we send that contract to your credit card company, it’s very unlikely that you’ll win.”

  I bite my tongue just to keep from screaming because this is a nightmare come to life. It looks like I’m going to be out twenty-five hundred dollars and get absolutely nothing in return. Just my luck. But there’s nothing more to say, and with an abrupt click, I hang up.

  “How’d it go?” Jason asks casually, blue eyes scrutinizing my face. “Things work out okay?”

  “You know they didn’t,” I say stiffly. “They won’t give me a refund. And there’s no one else available.”

  “Guess you’re stuck with me then,” he drawls amiably. “When you have lemons, make lemonade.”

  I shoot him a sharp look.

  “I realize this is funny to you, but it’s not for me. This is a disaster of titanic proportions, and I was really counting on Southern Charm to come through. What a shit company,” I say disgustedly. “I’m going to complain to the Consumer Protection board, or whoever it’s supposed to be.”

  “You mean the Better Business Bureau?” he asks casually, with a twinkle in his eye. “I think you mean the BBB, right? The Consumer Financial Protection Board is a body formed by Congress after the 2008 recession. Their focus is on banks, savings and loans associations, and the like.”

  Oh screw that. Mr. Professor here is more than I can bear, even if inside, I’m secretly inpressed with his smarts. Again, Jason got a full ride for a combination of athletic talent and intelligence, and I can see why he deserved it. But I’m not giving him an inch, not when I’ve been played so badly.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll report it to the BBB. Thanks for entertaining me with your knowledge, but I have to go now.”

  And with that, I stand with what I hope is a queenly air, slinging my purse over my shoulder. Of course, clumsy Jennie is back and the bag clumps against the back of my chair, ruining the impression, but still. I shoot him one last shriveling gaze before spinning on my heel to make an exit.

  But then that big hand shoots out again, clasping my wrist with a surprisingly strong hold.

  “You don’t even want to entertain the thought?” he rumbles, his body still relaxed but those eyes flashing a little. “Imagine it. Me and you, walking into reunion together. We’ll say it’s a new thing,” he says, throwing the idea out there like this is a business meeting. “We’ve been corresponding by email and phone, keeping our relationship secret. But this is our coming-out party, and we want to announce ourselves to the world now.”

  I stare at him like he’s gone crazy.

  “No one would believe that,” I say stiffly. “This isn’t Romeo and Juliet.”

  “It’s not Romeo and Juliet at all,” he says agreeably, although there’s a dangerous flicker in those blue eyes. “There are no Capulets and Montagues because face it, we’re not teenage lovers with angry families at our backs. We’re adults, Jennie, who are nearing thirty. And what adults do is make the best of a situation. So like I said … when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”

  What the hell? His preachy tone makes me so angry, the patronizing words causing my temperature to shoot up to a hundred degrees. But at the same time, I can hear the reason in his voice because it makes sense on some sort of twisted level. First, I’m out twenty-five hundred dollars if I don’t work with him. That’s a lot of money to me, and I can’t afford to have that cash vanish into thin ar.

  Second, maybe we could pull off what he’s saying. It’s a little weird, to be sure, but at the same time, there are people who get married after meeting on-line. Isn’t that weirder? So maybe, just maybe, we could say we’ve been doing this long-distance thing but have decided to come out into the open at reunion. We want to announce our relationship to the world, and if it doesn’t work out in two months? No problem. I’m in New York and Jason’s down here, so we’ll just say something vague along the lines of, “Oh, the distance was really hard and we were both so busy.”

  Suddenly, my chest loosens a bit as I look into Jason’s blue eyes. Because this man is so commanding and persuasive. If there’s anyone who could pull this off, it’s the guy here at this table, with the world at his fingertips.

  “Okay,” I concede. “But I have one condition.”

  He leans back, smiling lazily, and once again, I feel like I’ve given up way too soon.

  “Shoot,” he drawls. “Ask and ye shall receive.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “We need to practice. We have to meet up at least one more time to put together a story because there are too many details that need to be hammered out. That means either tonight, tomorrow, or Friday, we have to meet again and talk.”

  His eyes gleam, and suddenly I have the feeling that I’m walking into the lair of a lion like a lamb who has no idea of the danger.

  “Sure thing,” he drawls. “I’m at your disposal. My schedule’s wide open.”

  I nod.

  “Tomorrow then,” I say firmly. “I’ll see you at eight p.m. Can you come to my hotel? I realize this is a little weird, but it’s the best way. I don’t want anyone to overhear our conversation as we figure out how we met.”

  Jason laughs, throwing his head back with real mirth.

  “You’ll find out that nothing’s weird in my line of business,” he says wryly. “I’ve seen it all. And sure, I can meet you at your hotel. Where are you staying?”

  Quickly, I give him the address.

  “Just call me when you’re in the lobby.”

  “Sure thing, pretty girl,” he drawls, blue eyes gleaming as I make my departure. “See you tomorrow.”

  And my heart leaps although it shouldn’t because this isn’t a real date. Jason Morgan and I are meeting so that we can plan the web of lies that we’re going to feed people during reunion. It’s wrong, and somehow, I feel like I’m sinking into quicksand rather than pulling myself out.

  But it’s too late. The money’s paid and the deal’s been set into motion. As I get into my car, I can feel Jason’s blue eyes still on me through the glass paned windows of the café. Unbidden, a shiver runs down my spine and my insides clench before going hot and loose. Because the man’s godawful handsome, charismatic with a sense of humor … and suddenly I feel like I’m the one who’s falling, and not the other way around.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jason

  I enter The Riverton, and look around the lobby. Nice, but not too nice. A fountain tinkles in the middle of the ornate interior, but I can see the furniture’s a little shabby. The bellhop’s uniform was slightly worn, and they don’t have any of the decorations that newer hotels have. No impressive fish tank, no giant floral sprays, not even a fancy chandelier to dazzle your eyes.

  But it makes sen
se. Jennie went off to New York years ago, and while she probably makes a good living, being an editorial assistant is hardly the most lucrative position. After all, the print industry is dying, what with magazines and newspapers drawing their last gasp. Hell, even books are dying although I’ll always be a champion of holding a physical book in your hand, rather than an e-reader. There’s just something nice about that tactile feeling as you turn pages, and then finishing something and putting it down with a sense of accomplishment.

  But Jennie doesn’t know that I know this. She probably thinks I’m some dumb high school jock from ages ago who barely managed to get into college and pass. We didn’t really know each back then, and I can see why she doesn’t have a high opinion of me. I used to date girls that were snobby and bitchy, and to my shame, did nothing when they picked on girls like Jennie.

  Because back then, my client wasn’t the woman she is today. Back then, Jennie wore baggy, over-size clothes that swathed her figure in loose drapes, making her look like a walking pile of sheets. Plus, if I remember correctly, the girl had braces and glasses, both of which are gone now.

  But ten years can make a huge difference, and the female’s a bombshell now. Gone are the shapeless clothes. In are the contacts, and an even white smile, and boom! Jessica Rabbit’s standing where before, there was nothing. Plus, Jennie’s got exactly the type of figure that I crave: curvy everywhere, with big tits and an even bigger ass.

  Because I like them round. Call it unfashionable if you will, but I like girls who have a little junk in the trunk. Make that a lot of junk in the trunk. I like it when it jiggles and wiggles while she moans, I like when there are love handles to grab and dimpled thighs that shake as I plow her good.

  Because under the cover of my thick Southern drawl and impeccable manners, I’m a dog. I can’t help it. Women are my weakness and I love making them moan and scream, the better if they’re calling my name as they do it. I love women hands down, and that’s why I signed up with Southern Charm. It’s not that I can’t get women. Quite the opposite, they’re practically throwing themselves at me, begging for my attention. But Southern Charm promised to shake things up a little. These women would be buying my affections, albeit only for a night. Once it was done, all contact would be cut off and I’d be a free man to ply my trade once more.

  Okay, so it’s a little more complicated than that. The clients sometimes get attached, and I guess that’s natural because I shower them with attention and love. What’s wrong with doing that? A lot of ladies these days crave the attention, and I’m a pro at doing it with grace and ease. It comes naturally and I’ve had a lot of practice, to say the least. But Southern Charm works out well because I only have to turn on the charm (pun intended) for a limited amount of time, before going back to my asshole ways. So this job is perfect for me.

  And by no means is this my main line of business. Quite the opposite. Escorting is something I do on the side to keep me occupied. Sure, I’m busy as a movie producer but that industry has its slow times. Sometimes you feast, but sometimes it’s fucking boring. So occasionally, I’ll pimp myself out just for fun. The fee I get is almost irrelevant, to be frank. One movie for me rakes in millions of dollars, and I’ve been doing this for years now. By contrast, each escort outing makes me a paltry thousand or two. A drop in the bucket compared to my real job.

  But Jennie presented a weird situation. To be honest, she’s only my sixth client so far. I’m picky, and there’s no sense in going out with old crones or women who are desperate. That’s the luxury of being Jason Morgan. I can turn down jobs, and Southern Charm basically swallows it to keep me on their roster. It’s good to be me.

  But again, I don’t like dating women over fifty. Nothing wrong with older cougars, but it’s just not my cup of tea. A saucy forty year-old? Yeah, sign me up. But my age restriction cuts out a percentage of the clientele.

  Nor do I like dating women who have that desperate air. I don’t know, sometimes you can just sense it from a mile away. We almost have a meeting before the actual “event,” and occasionally, I’ve had to pull the plug immediately. There’s just something about her come-hither gaze, or the way she’s dressed seductively despite the fact that we’re meeting at a café. It’s the bad news bears, and I’ve learned how to nip those adventures in the bud before they even begin.

  So that doesn’t leave me with too many women, and as a result, my “number,” so to say, is pretty low. Jennie will be my sixth client, and she’s exactly the type that I like most. Sassy with a smart mouth, and a curvy body to die for.

  Because shit, that body. I keep coming back to it but I could hardly believe my eyes when she showed up at the café. This was the same Jennie Lake from high school? The one who wore sacks to class and had terrible acne? But sure enough, that skin had cleared up and she now dressed to suit her body type, revealing a delectable woman that made my mouth water and my cock harden.

  Because that’s the other part about escorting. It skirts a fine line between legal and illegal, and I get why people are confused. Sex for money is illegal. But if you go out on a nice date with a man, and the chemistry’s so good that you end up falling into bed together? Totally legal. So yeah, I’ve had intimate relations with some of my clients, and it’s been sizzling.

  But somehow, I can tell with Jennie that it’ll be even better. Maybe even the best of my encounters judging from her body, and as a result, I’ve packed a multitude of condoms. She probably has no idea. Sweet Jennie Lake, with the shy smile and giving ways. She was cute back then, I just didn’t have the cojones to approach her. High school is like jail, and back then the code of the cool kids was that we only went out with each other. Everyone else was shit, especially someone who looked like her.

  So that’s my fault. But now it’s time to make it up to her, and with sure strides, I walk across the lobby and press the elevator going up.

  Ding!

  The lift rushes me to the fifteenth floor and within moments, I’m standing in front of Jennie’s door. Without any hesitation, I rap firmly, and wait for her to answer.

  “Hold on!” comes her voice from within. “Just give me a minute.”

  I look down at my watch. I’m right on time, so she should be ready. Impatiently, my foot taps. What in the world? I’m not accustomed to waiting for others. Instead, they usually wait for me.

  But finally, Jennie opens the door and my breath freezes in my chest because the girl’s dressed in nothing but a bathrobe, cheeks rosy with her hair hanging in wet ringlets over her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry,” she gasps, stepping aside to let me in. “I was at the gym working out and lost track of the time. And when I saw the clock, I jumped off the elliptical and ran to my room, but now you get this ….” She said, gesturing wryly at the robe. “Just give me a minute.”

  I stride behind her into the room.

  “Sure, take your time,” I drawl. “Absolutely no rush.”

  And grabbing some things from her suitcase, Jennie scuttles to the bathroom, firmly closing the door behind her.

  “I’ll just be a second!” she calls out. “So sorry about this!”

  I would have much preferred her to get changed in front of me, but everything in its own sweet time. Lazily, I look around the room. It’s tiny, not much more than a ten by ten box. There’s a full-size bed against one wall, plus a desk, a chair, and then a tiny nightstand. At least they put in some nice artwork, pictures of old Charleston when people drove buggies and wore hoop skirts. Ah, our antebellum past.

  But I’m not here to critique interior design. Instead, I’m here to learn more about my intriguing client, so I wait impatiently until Jennie finally reappears, toweling her still-wet hair.

  “Sorry about that,” she says breathlessly. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting. It’s just that working out is such a huge part of my life now, and the gym is like my home away from home,” she says wryly. “So I lost track of the time.”

  “No worries,” I say casually,
although the very sight of the brunette made my cock jerk in my pants. Because she’s dressed in shorts and a tank top. Nothing revealing, and yet there’s nothing the fabric can do but to show off those glorious assets. Her boobs have to be at least Double Ds, enormous under the soft cotton before nipping into a small waist. And the shorts are cut high enough to show off toned legs with strong thighs and shapely calves. Oh shit. I’m a goner, and mentally, I tell my cock to behave.

  But Jennie doesn’t notice any of it. She continues drying her hair while plopping down on the bed.

  “Sorry we don’t have two chairs,” she says apologetically, “but I hope you understand why I want to meet here and not in public. People can’t hear what we’re talking about. They just can’t.”

  I nod, keeping my voice smooth.

  “Absolutely. Totally understand the need for discretion. But next time, sweetheart? Just ask and we can do it at my place. I’ve got five thousand square feet all to myself, and it’ll be good to have a guest once in a while.”

  Of course, Jennie flushes immediately. Because what do I mean by “next time”? I’m here as a paid companion, so am I hinting that I want her to hire me again?

  But that’s part of my MO. I like keeping the women unbalanced because a little mystery never hurt. So sure enough, Jennie takes a deep breath then, and pulls out her notebook.

  “Okay, so where do we start?” she says seriously, tucking a curl behind her ear. “I figure we should write everything down and study it so that we’re prepared for Saturday night.”

  I almost laugh out loud. Is she serious? But at the same time, I have to admire her organization and discipline. Most women I know would have jotted things down on a scrap of napkin, only to become lost and befuddled when the night came. So I nodded agreeably.

  “Sure sweetheart. Whatever you like.”