The Power of Tess

by Angelina J. Windsor

  I like the man right off the bat. He seems genuinely happy and I’m a sucker for a positive attitude—even if it feels a little disingenuous.

  He gestures me to a salon chair and I dutifully sit down. Surely I’m in good hands?

  “You are a natural redhead! How could you allow this to be done to your hair?” He asks in horror as he picks up a long blonde strand and shakes his head in dismay.

  “Uh, well, my hair is what I’ve heard called ‘titian red’ naturally. My roommate needed someone to practice on.”

  “Practice on!” His voice raises an octave or two.

  I lick my lips and look at Jonathon. He smiles and I relax.

  “I’ll see you later, Tess. Just text me when you’re done.”

  Mr. Marco nods and stays fixated on my hair, shaking his head as if he has a very hard task to accomplish and tut-tutting occasionally.

  “Not to worry, we can fix it all, beautiful!” he finally announces with aplomb and begins to mix up a concoction on the counter beside me.

  Three hours later and I am more than pleased. I sway my shining titian hair back and forth and laugh aloud at how it dances about my shoulders. I have never looked better. My makeup is perfect, my hair is perfect, and I give Mr. Marco an impromptu hug before exiting the salon with Jonathon. He’s quiet as we leave and I’m wondering if he is disappointed by the results. My heart sinks with dismay at the idea. Is this a deal-breaker?

  “I don’t want to know how much that cost, but please, accept my heartfelt thanks,” I say as we pull away from the salon.

  “You look too beautiful for words, Tess. I’m glad you’re pleased.” He smiles almost shyly and I am taken aback. Mercurial in temperament; from serious to sweet in a heartbeat. I like that. So different from me. For some reason it gives me hope. Gran always said Grandpa was the exact opposite of her and that lasted fifty-one years. What am I doing thinking about marriage? Get a grip, Tess.

  He appraises me with a lingering look, his eyes seeming to caress their way down my body, and I melt inside. He turns back to the road. Fortunately, traffic is light this morning. The car feels too warm though the air-conditioning is quietly blowing air out of the vents.

  “You’ll need all kinds of clothes. You look too petite for regular woman’s wear. What size are you?”

  “I range from a zero to a four, depending on the line. Like my Gran used to say, ‘careful not to wear pants so tight that you show everything you got.’” I speak in fun, enjoying the bemused expression that fills his handsome face at one of my Gran’s expressions. I also enjoy the way his jeans lie so enticingly on his hips. He’s got an Adonis build all right. I sigh with the thought.

  “Why the sigh, Tess?”

  Startled, I realize I’ve sighed aloud. Biting my lips, I glance out the car window.

  “I guess a lot has happened very quickly.” I move my thoughts away from Jonathon.

  “You’ll be fine. I promise you.” God, I hope he’s right.

  We pull up in front of Le Chez Amie, a high-end clothing store, and he promptly comes around and opens my door while I’m gathering my purse and my scattered thoughts.

  “Thanks,” I murmur and we venture in through the front door.

  “I want this young lady outfitted with the basics of a good wardrobe,” he encourages the salesclerk who politely greets us with a small smile. She immediately perks up. It’s either from seeing him or hearing his generous offer. I can only imagine it’s both.

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. We have so many wonderful new styles for you to choose from. What are your exact requirements?”

  He purses his lips. “A few choices for evening and a couple of casual day outfits that are still dressy.”

  She smiles more broadly, tantalized by the commission, I’m certain. I know I would be. She gives me a quick assessing look as if gauging my size.

  “Wonderful. Well, let’s get this show on the road.” She directs us to the back of the store where we find a fitting area with comfortable chairs and a few private dressing rooms. She assures us she will be right back with some items to try on.

  Jonathon sits down, looking so graceful and comfortable in his own skin I envy him. But I’m thinking this could be fun. It has shades of Pretty Woman written all over it. I stay standing because I’m too excited to sit and I’ve been sitting all morning getting my hair, make-up and nails done. I look at them now. I love the new French manicure that makes my hands look so dainty. Are you selling your soul for make-up and clothes? The unwelcome thought scares me. Nervous, I watch with trepidation as the salesclerk dances up with an armful of garments. The room has clouded with my dark thoughts and I don’t return her broad smile.

  But she’s bossy and soon has me in the dressing room trying on clothes. The first outfit she’s chosen is an ice-blue sequined gown and matching high heels that have miraculously appeared. It fits like a glove and hugs all my curves making me appear more womanly in the mirror’s reflection than I think I am. Who is that stranger? But I ignore the question and obediently follow the salesgirl out of the dressing room to model it for Jonathon.

  “Very nice. A definite keeper.”

  And so it goes for over an hour. The pile of clothes chosen grows carefully and slowly as I turn down anything extra. I don’t want this costing too much.

  “Okay, now for some lingerie.”

  Horrified, I immediately realize the import of that word. That means you will be undressing for someone, Tess.

  “Uh, is that really necessary today?” I inquire, wanting to stall the inevitable.

  “Yes.” His expression closes at my objection and I resign myself to more dressing and undressing. Who would want to be a model? I’m overwhelmed with this new direction I’m taking, and wishing for a reprieve is useless.

  And it does get dicey. I blush with the first racy items the salesgirl has gotten approval from Jonathon for me to try on—a pink merry widow that cinches tightly at my waist, making it appear even tinier than its twenty-one inches, delicate white lace stockings that tie to the straps front and back, sheer panties that allow my fiery bush to show through, and sky high silver heels. Great. I look like a hooker now. Well, when in Rome. I take a deep breath and bravely head out to let Jonathon see.

  My breasts threaten to spill out of the top of the merry widow and I try not to breathe too deeply just in case.

  Jonathon looks up from his phone where he’s been busy texting and stares without saying anything. Finally, he clears his throat. “Normally we ask for a Brazilian wax, but in your case I think natural enhances the view quite admirably. This is perfect, you look incredible.”

  The salesgirl frowns at his words as if trying to make sense of them while I stand there too stunned for words. How can he sit there and talk like I’m some kind of object? I’m equal parts angry and embarrassed. I’m just hanging onto my temper by a shred of my Southern training.

  “More of the same?” the salesgirl asks innocently enough, obviously still thinking of her adding to her commission and preferring not to understand. But I know she does by the quick glance she throws me.

  “Yes, and some see-through bras and matching panties.”

  I bite my lips together and stiffen my backbone to keep an angry retort under lock and key because I know I asked for this.

  Finally, Jonathon appears satisfied. He pays by credit card and asks to have all the items delivered to an address I don’t recognize.

  “You must be starving,” he observes as we leave the store, a very happy salesclerk escorting us in style right out the front door as if we were her new best friends.

  “Yes,” I answer simply. It was after two o’clock and I haven’t eaten today. I was too nervous about our meeting, and our first two stops had taken longer than I imagined. I’m calmer having managed to put his comments that made me feel like some kind of object into perspective. I chalk it up to his being a businessman. That thought alone tells me I’m still plenty uneasy and need to be careful.


  “We’ll grab a bite and then I’ll show you your new apartment.”

  “You make it sound like it’s a done deal,” I reply shortly, not at all happy that he seems to be suggesting that I don’t have a say in my new place. Were other things he told me not on the up-and-up? Low blood sugar and worry are eating away at my confidence.

  “Tess, if you don’t like it, we can find you another. I just thought it would be perfect for you. I should tell you it’s in my building.”

  “In your building?” I’m shocked by this revelation. Though the idea does have merit. A handsome hunk, a sort-of-pimp keeping an eye out. Probably a good idea. Though how I was going to keep my lust under cover was anyone’s guess.

  “But first we feed you. You seem a little off. Did you eat this morning?”

  I shake my head and his lips thin. “That’s a no-no, Tess. You need your stamina. Are you an exerciser?”

  “Yes, when I can,” I reply truthfully.

  “There’s a great gym located in my building. I can be your exercise partner if you like. Everyone needs someone to help them stay on track.”

  As he steers us into traffic, I seethe inside thinking of all the things he seems to be taking for granted that I’ll just go along with. But didn’t you ask for this when you signed on? Yeah, well, maybe, but I think he’s taking it too far. I’m almost pouting. A different experience for me, to be sure. I really do need to eat.

  Ten very quiet minutes later we park in the lot of a local diner. I recognize it from a rave review it received from the Food Network a few weeks back. It looks so homey that my mood perks up just walking through the door. My appetite growls with anticipation helped considerably by all the tantalizing odors drifting over from the grill. Observing all the happy campers nestled together in booths down the narrow aisle further improves my mood.

  Seated in a window seat, I notice a park across the street. A family flies a kite, a golden retriever running in circles around them. It brings a smile to my lips. Normalcy. After a morning in an alternate universe, it feels good.

  The waitress takes our order for the house special of chicken Caesar salad and briskly walks away. Jonathon leans back, nonchalantly laying his arm along the back of the booth and inquires, “Tell me about your family, Tess. Where did you grow up?”

  How much should I share? Just the facts, I decide.

  “I grew up in Harlan County, Kentucky—coal mining country. My parents were killed by a drunk driver when I was eleven and my Gran raised me after that. A very special lady, my Gran.” I forget all about my hunger as I mention my favorite person. “She has her own set of rules that she was constantly drilling into me. No swearing, no being late and remember to act like a lady, no matter what the provocation. I find the last one challenging at times. A lot of rude people in the world.”

  “Too true. I’m sorry about your parents. People make bad choices all the time.” He looks sincere as he speaks his condolences. He pauses and then continues, “I noticed on your resume that you’re majoring in Business Administration. How are you finding it?”

  Something makes me say, “I guess I’ve learned enough to know that prostitution is a billion dollar business.”

  “Is that what you think we’re doing here? You’ve got it all wrong, Tess. This is not that kind of business. My sister started this agency because she saw so many unhappy people in the world who needed companionship. And she has a good head for business. Look.” He ran his hands through his hair with what looked like agitation, his expression turning hard. “I don’t need to defend her choices. I’ve seen people make far worse choices in the business world. They think they’re so high and mighty with their insider trading and their pyramid schemes and the gutting of pensions that people are counting on—hurting the small people without a second thought. Soul suckers I call them. The escort business doesn’t hurt anyone. It’s a mutually agreed upon service that satisfies both parties. Explain to me where that’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought of it like that.” I feel contrite and only want to change the subject. He’d certainly given me food for thought. I ask, “Where did you grow up, Jonathon?”

  He looks out the window and then back at me with those blue eyes of his that should be declared lethal weapons.

  “Right here in LA. Born lucky, I guess, into a wealthy family. The original money came from bootlegging back in the twenties. So it was a little off-color from the beginning, you could say.” He smiles ruefully. His good-natured spirit seems back in play.

  “Do you use your real name in this business?”

  “No, actually we don’t—at least not our last name unless we have to travel. We have to protect our clients above all. Their privacy is paramount to our business. I would recommend that you think up a new last name that cannot be traced to you. Keep your first name because it’s very hard to change it. So, Tess—what?” he asked playfully.

  “What’s your real last name?”

  He looks guarded for a moment and I hold my breath. Would he trust me? Somehow this really matters to me. I feel that if he tells me then I am in the right place at the right time. I cross my fingers under the table, waiting. Something of paramount importance hinges on this small thing.

  “Kennedy.”

  “Nice name,” I breathe and can’t help myself in saying, “I declare you’re putting a lot of trust in someone you just met, Jonathon Kennedy.”

  “How do you know I’m telling you the truth?” he archly replies.

  I can see he’s teasing and I really relax for the first time today.

  “Tess Fairchild,” I say after a bit just as the waitress delivers our salads.

  “Nice, works for me,” he agrees and then asks, “What’s the H stand for? I saw it on your resume. H. Tess Summerlin. “

  I take a bite and chew it slowly. “Heavenly,” I finally admit.

  “Heavenly Tess,” he comments, a grin playing at the edges of his well-formed mouth.

  I fish around for something—anything—to change the subject. “You mentioned yesterday that there are two types of orgasm. Care to explain, coach?” I drawl my words in a deliberate Southern way. It’s deliciously tongue-in-cheek and I relish his answer even before it comes.

  He chuckles and takes a swallow of water and replies, “Well, Tess, aren’t you just full of surprises.”

  Chapter Five

  “Nobody fuckin’ move! I ain’t afraid to shoot!” The man screaming in the narrow aisle of the diner waves a gun at shoulder height. I can see spittle spraying from his mouth, he’s so close.

  My view is unimpeded for I’m facing the agitated man and Jonathon’s back is to him. He’s standing only two booths away and my eyes are fastened to him. He’s wearing dirty jeans and a dark, ripped sweatshirt. He holds up a cheap duffel bag that one would get free just for signing up for some mail order offer.

  “Listen up all you mother fuckers! I want all your wallets and jewelry. Put ‘em in this bag.” He throws it at the nearest person who takes it, hesitates just a couple of seconds, and then places their wallet obediently inside. He hands it off to the others in his booth and they all comply. One woman slips off her large dangling earrings and adds them.

  “Next booth!” the man barks. It’s the one just before ours and my heart thuds in fear.

  Other than a few muffled screams and curses when he announced his intentions, the diner is quiet as everyone eyeballs the man. I look from his angry eyes to Jonathon’s and I see something dark and dangerous appear in their depths.

  And then the thief’s at our booth and leering down at me.

  “Okay, your turn, Red.” He nods at the bag he’s dropped on the table. I grab my purse and add it to his cache. Jonathon takes his wallet from his pants pocket and adds it. But watching Jonathon’s eyes, I’m suddenly even more worried. He looks like a panther ready to strike. His muscles appear coiled and ready.

  But nothing happens and the man continues on. Collecting the last wallet he turn
s and runs back our way. The man stumbles. Jonathon is up and on him. He hits the man hard, wrestling with him over the gun. He hits the man again, once, twice, three times, knocking his head against the floor with each solid punch. I hear the man grunt in pain.

  “Call 9-1-1!” I scream at the waitress. My words wake her from her frozen stance and she scurries for the phone.

  The two men continue to struggle and I see the gun fall from the robber’s hand as Jonathon twists his wrist hard. Eyeballing it, I see there is just enough room for me to squeeze out of the booth. I go for the gun, picking it up from the floor. It feels heavy and reassuring in my hand and I turn toward them. Jonathon still has the upper hand and I breathe easier, hoping I don’t have to use the weapon. I place both hands firmly around the pistol just as Dad taught me, bracing my legs.

  “Stop! I’ll shoot!” I say unflinchingly.

  My abrupt words cause both men to freeze and look at me. I keep my game face on. The thief’s eyes open wider, taking in my steely determination. He slowly raises his hands over his head.

  Spontaneous applause breaks out as Jonathon jerks the man to his feet. I keep the gun leveled on the man. Another patron retrieves the bag and begins rummaging through it to find her personal effects. Other burly customers advance on the man and push him into a booth, surrounding him. I hear him mutter to himself but can’t make out what he’s saying over the loud buzzing sound that’s now filling my head like I have a nest of angry bees residing in it.

  I can dimly hear sirens in the distance and pray the police come quickly.

  “I’ll take the gun now, Tess,” Jonathon speaks firmly, getting my attention. With relief I hand it over. He looks fine, a little disheveled, but he’s smiling at me and I feel warm from the glow of appreciation shining from his eyes.

  “Good work. Where did you learn to handle a gun?”

  “My dad was adamant that his daughter would be able to protect herself. Mama just went along with it. I’m glad he took the time, teaching me to target shoot and hunt with a rifle. In hindsight it was some of the best times of my life with him. Just the two of us alone walking through the woods, talking about plants and wildlife. He was a real nature aficionado. Felt that if people would just spend more time in nature, they would be happier for it in the long run. He loved the Shakespeare quote, ‘a touch of nature makes the whole world kin’. He wasn’t exactly your average Southern gentleman—not born to it by any means, but a kinder, more generous man you’d be hard-pressed to find. He thought about life on other planets and read a lot when he could. He managed a hardware store. He was a good man and a good father.” I suddenly realize that I’m talking nonstop about private family matters. I feel my body trembling.