Angel: Counsel Series

by Shenda Paul

  He says it’s because he likes watching me dance, that he especially enjoys others knowing I’m his. He may wish to flatter me, he may even believe that he is, but his ability and willingness to ask that of me is a stark reminder of what our relationship is. I doubt that he’d ask a girlfriend or potential wife, one of his suitable candidates, to perform so he can enjoy other men leering at her.

  Sarah and Amy say they envy me, that every escort is jealous and would swap places with me in a heartbeat. I understand, given their circumstances and Justin’s appeal, why they’d feel that, but what they don’t seem to realize is that, despite appearances, I still feel cheap and degraded. I’m paid to be at the sexual beck and call of another person—no matter how good looking, or rich, or famous he may be, to me, it feels like sexual servitude.

  One benefit of my new arrangement is that I’ve been granted access to a secret entrance to Liaison, which is accessed via a property at the rear of the club. The entrance to Liaison is through a hidden passageway leading from that property’s underground garage. I had no idea it existed, and I’ve been warned to keep it secret. I enjoy the privilege because of Justin. It affords him the privacy to come and go as he pleases, to avoid having his name linked to the club or, I think, by association, to me. I don’t care why I have access; I’m just happy I do because I don’t particularly want to be seen entering and exiting the club either.

  There can be no escaping what I am, of course, but this new arrangement with Justin, given my situation and how, potentially, bad it could have become, is definitely an improvement. Whatever his motives, Justin’s saved me from having to sleep with many more men. In return, I’m giving him the kind of companionship he wants right now. When the time comes, I have no doubt that he’ll walk away without a backward glance and marry someone he deems acceptable. Some part of me admits to being hurt by that thought, but I don’t dwell on it.

  Instead, I continue to dream about a better future. I just need a little more time, two years, I think, to build a nest egg to secure Mom’s care and provide enough for a new start for me, be it a ballet studio or returning to college. Justin’s talked about making a bid for national politics around then, so the timing would suit us both.

  I still hold deep shame whenever I let myself think of what I’ve become, and I try not to imagine Mom’s reaction, or what Dad would have said if he were here and they discovered the truth. Those thoughts drive me into a deep depression, so I concentrate on taking each day as it comes, grateful for whatever it was Justin saw in me that had him play a part in making this situation at least somewhat bearable.

  16

  A student’s mother arrived late to pick her up daughter; now I’m dreadfully late. To make matters worse, I’m stuck in slow-moving traffic, becoming increasingly agitated because I need to get home and then have a shower and change before meeting Justin at the club. He hates being kept waiting.

  To add to my stress, Justin’s ringtone plays from the confines of my bag on the passenger seat. Knowing he’ll become even more irritated if I don’t answer, I fumble around for my phone. I pull out a ballet slipper and other sundry articles of clothing instead, and his call eventually goes through to my message bank.

  I’m still worrying about Justin’s irritation when, suddenly, I’m plunged forward to the sound of a sickening, metallic crunch. Looking around, somewhat dazed, I find my car’s ground to a halt, bumper to bumper with an expensive-looking sedan.

  “Just what I needed…” I mutter, my heart sinking to my feet. I’m still fumbling with my seatbelt when the other driver emerges, his face, a picture of indignant anger. He mouths something, inaudible, but I can tell he’s cursing. He bends over to inspect the back of his car, and I can definitely hear his language now.

  He straightens to his considerable height at my approach. I only barely resist the urge to return to the sanctuary of my car; the man is bristling with anger. Rather than marring his obvious good looks, as one would expect, though, it enhances them. His chiseled face is taut with anger, green eyes flashing, almost iridescent as he glares down at me. His eyebrows, pulled together in an almost straight line, emphasize his straight nose, now, slightly flared as he fumes. His hair, which would be deemed unruly on any other man, springs from his brow like the crowning glory to his striking face.

  I apologize immediately and try to explain my momentary distraction. “Are you blind? That was a red light,” he practically yells. My face heats in embarrassment—at causing an accident, at being cursed at, but mostly, at being on the receiving end of his blistering rage.

  “I’m so sorry! I…I just reached for my phone—” I try to explain, but he ignores my apology.

  “You shouldn’t be using your phone. Someone could have been hurt or killed.” That comment cuts deep. He couldn’t possibly know, but it doesn’t prevent the pain I feel at the reminder of Mom and Peter’s fate. I understand him being upset, angry even, but I feel he’s being unreasonably boorish. Does he seriously think anyone would deliberately run into the back of another car?

  “I’ve apologized; there’s no need to be an ass about it. It was just a tap, and as you can see, your precious car’s fine,” I respond icily, deciding that I’ve had enough of his behavior. He shoots me an incredulous look, then bends and makes a show of inspecting his car. I don’t show it, but internally I cringe as I, for the first time, take in the damage to what I can now tell is an Audi—a very expensive and what looks like a practically new, sporty Audi.

  He rudely demands my name, license number and insurer’s details. The man is intolerable. I decide not to co-operate and tell him so. He threatens me with a lawsuit, and I call him insufferable. I do something then, that, before today, I would never have thought myself capable of. I lean into my car, grab my bag and pull out the notepad I always carry around, and then scribble angrily, before ripping out the page and shoving it roughly into his chest. He’s taken aback and fumbles to grab onto it. Good, I think, pleased to have gained the upper hand, even if only for a moment.

  “Here, I don’t have time for your histrionics,” I snap before retreating to my car, and, before he can react, back up, cringing again at the scraping sound the disentanglement of our cars makes. I drive away as he angrily makes his way toward me. He’s too late to stop me, and I watch, my heart thudding against my ribcage, as his gesticulating figure disappears in my rearview mirror.

  A short while later, when my temper cools and sanity returns, I suffer regret. I can’t help wondering about his reaction when he realizes I’ve given a false name. What I did was wrong, very wrong, but he infuriated me, and I wanted to remove that arrogant, self-righteous expression from his very handsome face.

  I’m so late now, that I decide to head straight for the club, and by the time I arrive, Justin’s pacing the room.

  “Angelique, I told you I only had two hours. I have a social engagement at eight-thirty; it would be rude for the guest of honor to be late, don’t you think?” he greets me coldly. As fond as I’ve grown of him, it irks me when he resorts to reminding me of my place. Whenever he does it, despite the progress in our relationship over the last fourteen months, it reminds me that I’m no more than a paid sexual partner to Justin, there to do his bidding.

  At those times, like now, I choose to concentrate on the normal aspects of my life, my relationships with Mom, Mandi and the girls, Samuel and Nic, my job teaching ballet. I forget about Liaison most easily when I’m dancing, and I try to do that as often as possible. Each time I enter this place, though, despite its opulence and the expense and trouble Justin’s taken to create something resembling a luxurious hotel suite, it doesn’t change the fact that we meet in a high-class brothel, and that I’m paid to please him.

  I bite my tongue, swallow my annoyance, my shame, my pride, and smile apologetically. “I’m sorry; I was held up, and then I was involved in a minor traffic incident. Why didn’t you just go; we could have met up later?”

  “I haven’t seen you for a week, and
I wanted to unwind before I have to shake hands and talk politics. Come here,” he says, irritation replaced by lust.

  “Mmmm, I like you in your ballerina getup,” he whispers as he takes my earlobe into his mouth and pulls the pins from my hair. “Take your clothes off,” he demands huskily.

  Some days later, while enjoying breakfast in front of the television, the program is interrupted by a newsflash.

  “VOXP has uncovered details of an investigation into an alleged drug and sex ring operating right under the noses of our authorities. The syndicate, reportedly one of long standing, is said to involve some very prominent Bostonians, including Senator Justin Wade who, allegedly, is associated with a high-end escort agency implicated in the investigation. Senator Wade, the youngest and, arguably, the most popular member of the Massachusetts Senate, is part of a political dynasty dating back generations. He could, if allegations prove to be correct, find himself responsible for our biggest political scandal of recent times—”

  I yelp as hot tea spills onto my chest and race to the bathroom with the newscaster’s voice still ringing in my ears. I strip out of my top before running a cloth under cold water to hold against my chest. A million thoughts churn through my head. None make any sense to me; I simply can’t believe that Justin’s involved in drugs. I dab soothing lotion onto my skin and move to the bedroom to find another top. I’m still trying to decide whether I should break the rules and call him when my phone rings. I race back to retrieve it from the living room.

  “Hello?” I answer breathlessly.

  “Did you see the news?” Amy asks excitedly.

  “I just saw it.” I tamp down my disappointment. How stupid to think he’d call? I’m the last person he’ll be worrying about right now.

  “Well?” she asks eagerly.

  “Well what, Amy?” I snap. Amy’s a good friend, but her insatiable need for gossip can be incredibly wearing.

  “What do you know?”

  “The same as you, I’d say.”

  “The senator hasn’t called you?”

  “Why would he do that? I’m his escort, not his girlfriend.”

  “Things are different with you two; you know that.”

  “They’re not that different. Look, I have to go, I need to get to the studio,” I say, hoping she’ll take the hint.

  “So, you haven’t heard from the senator. Are you going to call him?”

  “You know the rules as well as I do, and I’m certain I’m the last person Justin needs to hear from right now, don’t you?”

  “I guess,” she replies dejectedly. “Sorry, I should have asked; are you all right?” She sounds genuinely concerned, and some of my irritation melts.

  “I’m fine, Amy. Just shocked, as you can imagine.”

  “I know; I’m sorry I was so thoughtless. Do you want me and Sarah to come over?”

  “No; thanks, all the same, though. It’s lovely of you to care.”

  “You’re my friend, of course, I care. I’ll speak to you later, okay? Call me or Sarah if you feel like company.”

  I hang up after saying goodbye. What on earth was I thinking? Of course, Justin wouldn’t call or want to hear from me. The entire state’s probably wondering about his possible involvement in drugs and an escort agency; of course, he’s not going to want to call the woman in question. I’ve only ever been an escort to him, and now I’m also an embarrassment and liability.

  Instead of doing my barre exercises before class as I normally would, I buy a newspaper. Justin’s name and photograph are plastered on the front page, and it takes an enormous effort to wait until I’m seated in the little coffee shop a block from the studio with an unwanted cup of tea in front me before I start to read. There’s nothing new. Justin’s the only high-profile person to be linked to the story at this stage, the report states, and they’ve yet to uncover the name of the alleged escort agency. Justin hasn’t issued a personal statement, although, it reports, his office has issued a general ‘no comment’ on the matter.

  I pray this whole mess proves to be nothing more than speculation and that it blows over soon. I can’t help selfishly hoping that my identity is never uncovered or linked to the story. My heart sinks to the soles of my feet when considering the impact it would have on Mom and my friends, should the truth be revealed.

  Days pass, in which I don’t hear from Justin. The news reports nothing new, but the media interest hasn’t subsided as I’d hoped it would. The subject’s being kept alive by continued speculation and supposed new tip-offs. I’ve been glued to the television while home, switching from one channel to the other in my quest to learn more. Mostly, though, I want to hear that the initial report’s been proven wrong and that Justin’s name’s been cleared. I can hardly believe my eyes when, watching the news that night, the man whose car I drove into appears onscreen. I turn the sound up.

  “Assistant District Attorney, Adam Thorne, who attended last night’s Abercrombie Foundation’s Charity Gala, held a press conference after the arrest,” the reporter announces. My heart leaps into my throat. I can’t believe I drove into a district attorney’s car and then left him with a false name—how stupid can one person be?

  Despite the cold finger of dread running down my spine, I can’t help noticing how good Adam Thorne looks in a tuxedo. A tall, dark-haired and good-looking man of about the same age stands beside him; both look solemn as Adam Thorne prepares to address the media.

  “I’ll make a short statement, then Senior Detective Holmes and I will take questions,” he says, his voice honey-smooth, no trace of the brittle anger evident in our encounter.

  “Tonight, Boston police searched the homes of Silvio, Joseph, and Enzo Cordi, and three of their associates. Several arrests have been made as a result of evidence found. Charges will be laid within the mandatory timeframe, and we’ll provide details of those when appropriate. We’ll take one question at a time, please.”

  Stunned, I continue to listen, hoping to learn something, anything that will allow me to determine exactly how precarious my position is. Adam Thorne provides only limited information and, eventually, raises an arm to silence the clamoring reporters before making a closing statement.

  I remain on the sofa long after he and his companion have disappeared into the hotel, long after the commencement of the program I’d been watching, and after I muted the sound. My mind reels as I try to make sense of what I know. The man whose car I drove into and then lied to about my identity is a public prosecutor, Joseph’s been arrested, but I don’t know what for. Does it involve Liaison, could Justin possibly be involved—if so, then how? Will I be implicated? What have I gotten myself into, what if I’m arrested? And Mom…will she find out now? Please don’t let her, I pray. What about money, how long will my savings last?

  I don’t know how long I sit there before my phone rings.

  “Angelique?” Tom asks brusquely.

  “Tom, do you know what’s going on… have you spoken with Justin?”

  “Things are difficult right now. He can’t contact you, and you mustn’t contact him, is that clear?” I don’t appreciate his tone. Does he actually think I’d try to make things awkward for Justin?

  “Tom, I haven’t tried, and I wouldn’t contact Justin, but I am worried. Is he all right?”

  “He’s in a bit of mess, but we’re working on getting him out of it. We need to keep his involvement with Liaison, and that means you as well, out of the press or from the police. I don’t want you to speak with anyone, not even the police. You’ll make things worse for him if you do, Angelique. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” I say, feeling sick to my stomach. “I won’t speak to anyone, I promise. Is Justin going to be okay?”

  “He’ll be fine; we’ll take care of him.”

  “What about me, Tom, can the police arrest me for anything?”

  “They’d have to catch you in the act of soliciting. Right now, they don’t have anything on you, or the other girls, for that matter, other t
han the fact that you’ve worked at Liaison as dancers and escorts. But if and when they find out that you were Justin’s escort, they will definitely be interested in you, so you mustn’t say anything that could incriminate either yourself or him further.”

  “I won’t; I’ve already said that. Will I be able to talk to or see him at some time?”

  “I’ve advised him against that, and now I’m telling you the same. We can’t risk you being seen together. The club will, no doubt be, watched, even searched, so stay away. I’ll arrange to have any personal items of Justin’s and yours removed, and I’ll let you have your things when I can. In the meantime, if you want to know anything, call me. I’ll text you my details.”

  “Tell Justin….” I say, but he hangs up before I can finish.

  The next day at work drags, and for the first time, I find myself irritated by parents who stand around chatting instead of just collecting their children and leaving.

  “In a hurry to get home, Miss Angelique?” Declan asks, and I return his smile. He reminds me so much of Dad. Not that he’s anything like Dad physically. Declan’s probably seventy or older, while Dad was only in his mid-thirties when he died. It’s Declan’s love of all things Irish that reminds me of Dad. I’ve grown very fond of Declan, and I like to imagine that if my grandfather were alive, he’d be very much like him.

  Declan doesn’t have to work, but he likes to keep busy, he’s told me. I think he’s lonely since his wife passed away. He lives with his daughter, Fiona and her husband, and they both work, so he has no company during the day. Ruth allows him to help around the studio, with light chores mostly, because, like me, she’s fallen under the spell of his charm.

  “Not really, I just have a lot on my mind,” I answer his question.

  “Are you all right, lass?” he asks, blue eyes that don’t miss a thing, looking at me intently.

  “I just need to figure some things out,” I tell him with what I hope is a reassuring smile.