Claiming Callie: Part one

by Rion, Paige

  “Prostitution?” Dean’s eyes glitter an ominous blue, and the word ricochets in Callie’s head. Ever since she came up with this scheme, she’s been determined to keep it as far away from that particular “profession” as possible.

  “I will not have sex with any of the men. Even if I find one I’m attracted to. I’m not like that in the first place. If I’m simply dating them, it remains an escort service. Nothing more. There’s a huge difference, and escorts are completely legitimate.”

  Dean runs a hand through his dark hair. “Yeah, sure. I’ve heard stories about ‘escorts,’” he says, making air quotes with his fingers.

  A customer enters the shop and the bell chimes on the tail end of Dean’s words. Jinny gets up to wait on them, but Callie barely notices. She leans back in her chair and narrows her eyes at Dean. “Why are you here anyway? You’re not working, and Jinny’s handling the customers just fine.”

  “I got done playing ball and wanted a drink.”

  Callie raises a brow. “Coffee. You wanted coffee after a workout?”

  “Iced coffee,” he says in challenge. “When’s your first date?”

  Callie rolls her eyes. “This big brother routine is a little tired. I’m a big girl, Dean. I’m not a pigtailed ten-year-old anymore who needs your protection on the playground or a brokenhearted sixteen-year-old who needs you to beat up her cheating ex-boyfriend. I can take care of myself,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee.

  The muscle in his jaw flicks. “I’m well aware that you’re all grown up. Too aware,” he mutters, before running a hand over his scruffy jaw.

  What the hell’s that supposed to mean? “Too aware?”

  “And I know you can take care of yourself. It’s just…” He pauses.

  “Just what?” Jinny asks as she rejoins them.

  “Don’t you see how this can be dangerous? If these men are so desperate that they need to pay for dates, who knows what they’d do if—”

  “Despite what you might think, I’m not a complete moron. I’m not going to be alone with these guys. All dates will be in public places with tons of other people around. And I truly think the bulk of my clientele will be—”

  “Clientele? Now you have clientele?” Dean’s eyes look as though they might pop out of his head.

  “Get a grip, Dean,” Jinny says, rejoining them.

  “Anyway,” Callie says exaggerating the word. “As I was saying…most of my clientele will be businessmen, like Jinny mentioned. Or like the guy I’m going out with tonight, who wants a date for a wedding.” Callie smiles in victory. “That’s totally legit. Tons of people get all freaked out about having to go to a wedding alone. So, see? Perfectly safe. Perfectly acceptable. And very much public.”

  * * *

  Date #1

  SingleMatch.com Profile: Kyle Klein (Not to be confused with Calvin Klein.)

  Age: twenty-three.

  Occupation: Computer Technician

  Hobbies: Fixing computers, working on computers, playing on computers. Anything with computers.

  Seeking: Date for wedding. Must be hot. Doesn’t matter if she’s single.

  Maybe she is a moron. Callie is a big enough girl to admit it.

  She sits across from her date in the tight confines of his moonlit car. Her blonde hair is piled into an updo on the top of her head, emphasizing the tension in her neck. She sits with her back stiff, face tight, wondering how she let this happen. She is alone. In a car. With her date—a virtual stranger—in the parking lot of an abandoned gas station.

  She swallows hard and stares at him with wide eyes and tries to ignore the menacing flicker of the old neon sign above them that says, “Closed.”

  Dean was right. This guy is a psycho murderer who pays for dates, then kills them. He’s the next craigslist killer. An abductor. A serial murderer.

  Oh, God. What did I get myself into? Just make it quick. Please make it quick…

  Wait, no! Are you stupid? You need to fight. Fight to stay alive. Quick, look around. See if there’s anything in the car you can use as a weapon.

  Kyle—her date—sighs and rests his forehead against the steering wheel, and it’s enough to make her jump. But he doesn’t notice. His fiery red hair curls around his head, a sharp contrast to the black leather interior, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He says nothing, just sits there like that, with the wheel pressing into his forehead while Callie watches.

  She imagines him turning suddenly, wielding a knife, and she glances to her right at the door.

  Maybe I can just make a run for it. One, two, thr—

  “Uh-huuh-huuh!” Kyle keens, breaking the silence. His whole body shakes.

  Callie yelps, and her hand slips off the door handle. She brings a hand to her chest, where her heart beats fast and hard, like a stampede of buffalo. Her breath comes out in quick, short huffs. It’s all she can do to keep herself from hyperventilating. But as the seconds tick by and Kyle still has not attacked her, she narrows her eyes at him in an attempt to reassess the situation.

  Maybe he’s dying…having a heart attack.

  At twenty-three?

  The fog of fear clears as she focuses on him.

  No. He’s crying!

  Unsure of what to do, Callie just sits there. This could be a trick. The second she goes to console him, he’s going to whip around and…and what? Stab her? Strangle her?

  God, I’ve let Dean’s ridiculous worries get to me.

  Sighing, she relaxes in her seat and shakes her head just as Kyle lifts his now puffy-red face and glances at her in despair.

  This dope is harmless.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, feeling less scared and more embarrassed for him by the second.

  What ever happened to strong, macho men? Ones who never cried. Ones who arm wrestled, split wood, opened beer bottles with their teeth. Okay, maybe she wouldn’t want a guy quite like that—he would likely have chips in his teeth and very poor fashion sense—but…

  Kyle sobs once more and wipes his face, spreading the sheen of snot underneath his nose. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I just… My ex-girlfriend was at the wedding and I just thought… I don’t know. I thought that if I came with a hot date like you, she’d be jealous. I just wanted her to see that I could get someone else and that I’d moved on. But I should’ve known better.” Kyle hiccups. “She’s already with someone else, while I’m still in love with her. It’s useless.”

  Ah.

  If there is one thing Callie’s good at, it’s games like these. She could help Kyle and make this heartbreaker jealous, all while getting paid. No problem.

  She reaches out and pats Kyle’s back with just her fingers, not wanting to touch him too much. “Maybe all is not lost. I’m a pro at making other women jealous, but we can’t do that if we sit here in an empty parking lot all night. We’ve got to get to that reception!” she says, trying to force as much enthusiasm into her voice as possible.

  “I don’t think so. I saw the look on her face. She doesn’t care about me. She’s moved on.”

  “Nonsense. Were you together a long time?”

  He sniffs. “Two years.”

  “See! Two years is a long time. You have a history. And how long has she been with this new guy?”

  “Just eight months. You really think I could get her back?” His eyes glitter—a combination of hope and tears.

  Callie clasps her hands together. “Of course. She has a much less significant amount of time with this other guy in comparison.”

  Kyle’s eyes dry. He stares off into the distance and Callie can tell his mind is faraway. “I think she invited me to the wedding just to punish me.”

  Warning bells go off in her head. Why would his ex be in charge of invitations?

  “Say what?” Callie cocks her head.

  “Yeah. You know…I think she just wanted me to watch her walk down the aisle and get married to torture me.”

  Callie’s smile freezes. “Your ex…she’s the bride?”

&nbs
p; Kyle nods, turning his miserable gaze back to her. Red splotches cover his pale cheeks. “So, you think I have a chance?”

  Oh, this is going to be a long night…

  * * *

  Date #2

  SingleMatch.com Profile: Rick O’Toole.

  Age: twenty-five.

  Occupation: Veterinarian Pharmaceutical Sales Rep.

  Hobbies: Likes wine and conversation. Vegan. Enjoys documentaries, the History Channel, and Animal Planet.

  Seeking: Unattached female. Wants to find a compatible mate, someone with shared interests.

  While Rick O’Toole’s profile seems promising, more so than the twenty-something computer tech wedding date, he is living up to Callie’s now unbelievably low expectations.

  Why the man before her would want to pay for a date when he’s looking for a “compatible mate” is beyond Callie. Did he really think he might find a wife by hiring an escort?

  Shaking away her thoughts, she tries to focus on him. This is a clean slate, she reminds herself. Forget the horrid wedding date. There’s no reason this can’t be a perfectly normal, enjoyable evening.

  Rick smiles at her from across the table. Something green covers his front tooth, evidence of the spinach salad he consumed prior to his entrée of fettuccini with roasted vegetables. Maybe it’s the fact that his hairline recedes past his ears—revealing the shiny skin pulled taut over his skull—or maybe it’s the deep furrows creasing his forehead, or the wire-rimmed glasses perching on his nose, but Callie bets twenty-five is a stretch—a stretch a mile wide.

  “You know,” he says, pointing to Callie’s plate with his fork. “Not only is red meat bad for you, but the conditions of the slaughterhouses and how they care for the cattle…” Rick’s face contorts. “Well, let’s just say if you watched the documentary The Task of Blood, you wouldn’t be wanting that porterhouse right now.”

  Callie nods and glances at him with kind eyes, then shifts her gaze to her plate. Screw it. I already got paid.

  Ruthlessly, she saws off a thick hunk of the medium-well meat and pops it into her mouth. She chews, pleasure lifting the corners of her mouth. “Mmmm.”

  Not exactly the attitude that will garner repeat customers.

  Rick clears his throat. “Well then…” He twirls his fork in his pasta, winding it as tight as his nerves apparently are. He takes a generous bite, and Callie wonders whether the pasta will dislodge the spinach in his tooth.

  “So, what do you plan on doing after you graduate?” he asks.

  No such luck. The roughage shifts to cover his right canine. Callie’s stomach churns, her appetite gone, but she focuses on her food regardless. No point in letting her dinner go to waste. At least she hadn’t bothered to put any preparation into the date. She left her apartment just in time to meet him at the restaurant, not even bothering to touch up her makeup, and only combing out her blond ponytail once she was in the car. Because she dresses impeccably on all occasions, her clothes hadn’t needed to be changed.

  “Um…” It takes her a moment to focus back on their conversation. “I have a job with GG Financial.”

  Well, sort of.

  Rick’s eyes brighten. “Really? They’re a pretty big firm. I imagine it’s really hard to get your foot in the door there.”

  Callie nods. “Well, I lucked out and had a professor recommend me for their internship. This will be my second year with them as an intern, and there’s one position up for grabs at the end of the year. It’s promised to me.”

  That is, if men like you continue to pay for dates and I can lay off the sales rack at Nordstrom. But who needs details? It’s not like impressing Rick O’Toole is a top priority.

  He narrows his eyes, waving his fork as he talks. “Well, I sure hope so. If not, it’s probably slim pickings for a—what did you say—a math major?”

  “Yes.” Callie slouches in her seat.

  The corners of Rick’s mouth curl before he forces them down. “You don’t find too many women who are good at math. Especially attractive women like you…”

  What is this? The Dark Ages?

  Callie stops listening for a moment. Instead, she smiles and inserts the occasional “uh-huh” for good measure. But, as she eyes the chocolate volcano cake for dessert, something Rick says manages to break through his mind-numbing tirade.

  “…not too often you can find a female escort. Seems kind of strange someone so smart would sell themselves, especially someone with a future at a place like GGF…”

  Callie’s head whips up. Selling herself? “I have my reasons, and I would hardly say that I’m for sale.”

  Rick chuckles. “Okay. However you want to put it.”

  Callie grits her teeth and takes another humongous bite of her steak. She lets a rivulet of juice roll down her chin, hoping it repulses him. But when Rick spots it, he licks his lips.

  Gah! Disgusting!

  He watches her chew a moment before the trance is broken and he glances to his plate, then around the dining room. “We’re almost done here. I need to get the waiter…” His voice trails off and he begins furiously waving his hand when he spots their server at the other end of the room. Though the guy has already started toward them, Rick whistles to make his point clear—that he needed him yesterday! He lowers his hand and while he waits, he glances to Callie and mutters. “These people…they’re so slow. It’s no wonder they couldn’t actually do anything better with their lives than serve food.”

  This man—with his shining bald head, his old-man spectacles, his bug eyes, and falsified age—has the nerve to belittle someone else?

  Callie swallows the bite of steak and opens her mouth to say something, but is beat out by the waiter, who stops in front of them and asks what they need.

  Rick’s large eyes bulge behind his glasses like the waiter must be daft. “What I need is some fettuccini that isn’t watered down! Did you even put cheese in this?”

  Callie’s forehead furrows as she watches, unsure whether he’s joking. Is this for real?

  She slinks down in her chair as the waiter clears his throat, his face now the shade of a ripe strawberry. He stutters a moment, then says, “Um. Well, I didn’t cook it, but it looks like you finished most of it…” His voice trails off as Rick’s face tightens and lines of displeasure encapsulate his mouth.

  “Are you trying to say that I’m making it up?” Rick narrows his eyes and throws the cloth napkin from his lap onto the table. “You’re calling me a liar. This is just unacceptable. Where’s your manager? I need these meals paid for.”

  Callie glances around to see that most of the patrons in the restaurant are now staring at them. Rick continues to argue, throwing a couple of insults in for good measure, and she just wants to die.

  In fact, crawling under the table to hide is looking like a better option by the second.

  When the waiter skulks off, he turns to her. “Incompetence!” He shakes his head. “This happens to me all the time.”

  Callie points to the table. “You do this all the time?”

  “Hey, no one should have to put up with crap service or crap food.”

  So this is how he must justify paying an escort. He gets all his meals paid for!

  Callie gestures toward his plate. “But he’s right. You scarfed down almost all of that in record time. You can’t possibly expect them to pay for it. And…and you were so rude.”

  Rick stabs a finger at his chest. “I was rude? I was rude? Did you hear the way that guy spoke to me?”

  Callie flinches at the spray of spittle that hits her in the face. With a grimace, she picks up her napkin and wipes herself off, and before she can say anything further, the manager shows up. As Rick begins filling him in on how horrible the establishment is, Callie slinks out of her chair and away from the table. She scurries off, face burning as the other diners’ eyes follow her. Without looking back, she runs for the sanctuary of the restroom and slams the door behind her. She leans against the door before darting to the si
nks, where she runs her hands under cool water, then presses them to her flaming cheeks.

  What a complete jerk! Oh my God. How am I going to go back out there? I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life.

  Still gripping the sink, she glances up at herself in the mirror and studies her reflection, but something catches her eye. A window.

  Could I? I so could!

  Turning, Callie moves her gaze about the room, trying to figure out how she can reach the window. Realizing that using the toilet as a step stool is the only way, Callie marches right up to the stall and gingerly places one high-heeled foot on the rim of the toilet. Her ankle wobbles, her shoes slip, and she nearly breaks both her legs trying to climb onto the water tank.

  The one time I should’ve worn flats!

  Placing her hands on the windowsill, just above chest height, she pulls herself up. Half-hanging from the sill, she kicks her legs wildly, trying to find something, anything to push off of to give herself more leverage.

  If someone walks in right now and sees me, I’ll die.

  Her foot hits the metal frame of the stall door, and she’s able to use it to anchor her foot and push herself up the rest of the way to the windowsill. Placing one foot in front of the other, she squats on the narrow ledge and takes a deep breath.

  Head first or feet first?

  “Feet first. It’s always the way to go,” a voice says behind her.

  Callie turns and nearly falls from her perch. A middle-aged brunette stands at the sink, a grin brightening her round face. “Trust me. At fifty and still single, I’ve had lots of experience with this. Always go feet first.”

  Chuckling, Callie mutters her thanks and slides open the window, then grips the edge until her knuckles turn white, and places all her weight on her right leg while stretching her left one outside of the window. The ledge digs into her butt as she straddles the windowsill and manages to put her remaining leg outside of it. Slowly, she slides herself out and hangs by her arms, feeling the strain of holding her weight in her muscles before she lets go and falls the last couple feet to the ground with a grunt. Dusting herself off, she glances around.

  Whew. At least no one was watching.