by C. C. Koen
Intensity
Dedications
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dear Readers
About the Author
Acknowledgements
INTENSITY
Copyright © 2014 C.C. KOEN
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this novel with another person, please purchase an additional copy. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the written permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Thank you for respecting the work of all authors.
PUBLISHED BY: C.C. KOEN
http://www.cckoen.com
Formatting and Interior Design: Christine Borgford,
Perfectly Publishable
Cover Design: E-book Cover Designs by Carey
Editing: Laurie Boris
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks, and word marks mentioned in this book.
Contains mature content and language. Not recommended for readers under the age of eighteen due to sexual situations and subject matter.
This one’s for you, Mom.
I miss you every single day.
I felt your love shining down on me as I wrote this story—
my first romance novel.
You always loved them, just like I do.
My one and only baby (even though you’re a woman).
Always pursue your dreams.
Don’t let anyone or anything stand in the way of you achieving them.
Remember how much I love you…
To the moon and back, to the moon….
To the readers and anyone that may be…stuck in the past.
I hope you enjoy this story. It’s one that’s near and dear to my heart. As the novel evolved it became a story that spoke to me personally. Thank you for taking time to read it.
I hope you fall in love like I did.
The flawless-skinned woman sitting across the table had to be out of her mind. Maybe I heard her wrong. No, her unsmiling lips and unblinking olive-brown eyes revealed she’d been serious.
I examined the Cafe Haus to see if anyone had overheard her. The loud rock music must have kept her voice from carrying. In the back corner, a girl with punk rocker multi-colored hair, her nose buried in a book, bobbed her head to some tune playing in her earbuds. The only other customer was a gray-haired man on the opposite side, pencil in hand, scribbling in a newspaper.
The coast clear, I leaned across the table toward Mylaynee Johanson and whispered, “You want me to be an escort?” I stood with such force my chair skidded across the tile floor, making an eerie screeching noise.
She grabbed my arm. “Please, give me a few minutes to explain.”
Embarrassed by the scene the exchange must have created, I scanned the room. The older man gone and the young girl halfway out the back door, I returned my attention to the stranger who’d just rocked my world, as if I needed any more surprises in my life.
Curious, but reluctant, I plunked down in the wooden chair. The previous day while working at a fundraiser, as I shuffled between two crammed tables carrying a tray stacked with overflowing plates, her chair rammed into my leg. Her quick hands and my knee-jerk save kept the other high-profile attendees from wearing their next meal.
Near the end of the evening, she approached me and struck up a chatty conversation. One thing led to another, and before I knew it I disclosed my hectic lifestyle, including three under minimum-wage jobs. When she mentioned a high-paying prospect, the possibility of earning a livable wage had me interested right away. Information exchanged, we agreed to get together. After hearing what she had to offer, it seemed fate got the last laugh, knocking me down another peg and reminding me I had no control or say about the obstacles thrown my way.
Wearing an air of confidence and a white silk pantsuit that no doubt cost more than I made in months, she took a slow sip of her chamomile tea. Her eyes never wavering from mine, she alleged, “It’s not a common escort service. You’re not forced to sleep with anyone.”
What? I cleared my throat. “I don’t understand.” Scooting my chair closer to the table, I clenched my hands on top and inquired, “How does anyone make money?”
“Sometimes clients need a companion for an event like last night. That’s why I was there. It doesn’t always include sex.” Mylaynee spoke softly and measured as if every word had been well rehearsed. “Background and financials are checked in advance. They’re wealthy professionals that pay one- to five-thousand for each date.”
Thousand? One particular point kept replaying in my mind, and I spit it out as fast as I thought it. “No sex? I’m guessing there wouldn’t be many of those. If you don’t get appointments, you don’t get paid, right?”
She stirred her tea and spoke to me like we were longtime friends. “You get to choose. It’s all agreed to in advance and based on your preferences. If a client wants sex, he’s matched with someone who’ll provide it. There’s a lounge to get to know each other better. It’s in a secure building and invitation only. Our apartments are there too, but they aren’t permitted in them. It’s a strict rule.”
“You live there?”
“Our boss owns the place and rents to us, but you don’t have to. It’s convenient and affordable though.”
Images of a dilapidated shack with peeling paint and holes in the walls filled my head. A glance down at my clenched hands revealed a crumpled Goodwill linen skirt that had been wrinkle-free this morning. On a debt-laden budget, the store had become a saving grace. This discussion and the lavender-scented perfume she wore made my stomach flip-flop. My silence must not have fazed her, because she continued to reveal more.
“The owner makes sure we’re safe, and he manages everything. I’ve worked there five years and never had a problem. We’d take good care of you, Serena.”
My eyes closed, and I drew in a deep breath. The blackness left me in the dark. No insights. No clues. No idea why I was still sitting here. Was this what my life had come to?
Three years ago when Gram was diagnosed with canc
er the roller coaster started. As her health continued to decline, I quit college and stayed at her side. She became my priority. After a hard-fought battle, she succumbed to the slow, ravaging disease, leaving me alone and on my own.
I never would’ve imagined that at twenty-one, I’d be a hundred thousand dollars in debt. Costs for treatments and in-home nursing care, loans, and other money problems I never told Gram about left my finances a mess. One day a week working as a nanny and whatever time I could put into Gram’s accounting business wasn’t enough to keep up with the bills. After her death, I got the catering job, which brought me to this particular offer.
“Serena.” Mylaynee’s gentle voice beckoned me.
When I opened my eyes, she reached across the table and rested her hand on my fist. “We can help you,” she said with compassion.
“I’m a virgin.” The blurted truth seemed to echo in the space. A piece of paper tossed around on the sidewalk all of a sudden became the most fascinating thing in the world. “I don’t think I’m qualified.”
She squeezed my hand. “No one would know unless you told them. Experience isn’t required. Believe me, you’d do very well. I’ve seen you working a few events in the city. Men can’t take their eyes off you. Besides, they’d get off knowing you’re a virgin and pay a fortune for the honor.”
Yeah, and I’d be surprised if I didn’t have an ulcer at the end of this conversation. The blackening storm clouds swirling outside mirrored my tumultuous mood. “I don’t think I can do it. Even if the money’s as good as you say.”
“You don’t have to decide right now. Think about it over the weekend. Give me a call on Monday and let me know either way. I’ll need more information if you decide to interview. Linc, the owner, handles that.” She stood up, a twinkling diamond purse strap slung over her shoulder. “You can do this.”
Right, she probably told everyone that.
She strolled out the door carefree like she hadn’t just burst the biggest bubble of hope I had building in me since yesterday. As I watched Mylaynee walk away, “The Voice Within” by Christina Aguilera played in the coffee shop. The lyrics struck me and replayed in my head the entire walk back to my apartment, in the pouring rain.
I didn’t feel one drop.
I set the flowers on the roof of my car. My destination framed by two large oak trees at the top of the hill. Sprigs of budding leaves spread along the branches, alerting to the impending season. A few weeks before spring, the weather could be unpredictable, ranging from sunshine, rain, or an occasional lingering snowflake. Overcast with a slight chill in the air, a sudden gust slapped against my face, causing my eyes to water. A loud screeching bird soared overhead. Its large wings flapped against the lofty winds and circled above me multiple times, as if searching for something.
It wasn’t the only one.
A glance to the hilltop and another blustery gust sent chills through my bones, numbing my fingertips. I pulled my cardigan closed, knotting the dangling belt around my waist. Flowers in hand and one foot in front of the other, I climbed toward the top, reading each name along the way: Johnson, Finnegan, Langley, Wright, and Smith. At the crest…Thomas.
Kneeling before the headstone, I sat back on my legs. Every Sunday I visited, a time to remember the greatest, most loving person I knew. Her high school portrait, a black-and-white image molded into the marble, reminded me of her constant smile and beautiful features. Our only likeness and my favorite, her sea-green eyes.
“Hi, Gram.” Memories of sitting together on the front porch drinking sweet tea and chit-chatting tugged at my heart. “I’ve been working real hard, but things aren’t goin’ so well. I know what you’d say. ‘No problem is too big. You can do anything you put your mind to.’”
The creaking tree limbs and whistling wind sent another chill through me. I grabbed the collar of my sweater and tucked one flap tighter over the other, dipping my chin to ward off the cold as best I could.
“I’m sorry, Gram. The bank took the house. I tried, but…”
Overwhelmed by my situation, I pressed my temple along the frigid marble surface and sobbed. Tears flowed down my cheeks and chin, pooling in the dirt below.
Help me, Gram. I don’t know what to do.
I leaned back and dropped my hands in the dirt. My fingers scrunched into the cold ground, lifting clumps in each hand. I stared as it sifted through my fingers, remembering her last day.
Weak and frail, bedridden for months, she slept most of the time. On occasion she’d wake and mumble, sometimes decipherable, other times not. While I sat at her side, she opened her eyes and called out, “Come here, child.”
I rose and leaned closer, smoothing my hands over her thinned hair. She set her fragile hand on my cheek. “Serena, my love, my sweet, sweet girl.” Her breath wheezed with each word. “Always remember…good times.” Her hand dropped, and I grabbed it, pressing it to my cheek. Her eyes were distant and unfocused as the whistle in her lungs grew louder, the words choppy as she drew in shallow breaths. “Don’t be…sad, spread the sunshine, child. Be happy…proud a you…no matter what.” She sucked in one quick breath. “Love you.” The wheezing slowed and her eyes drifted closed. Never to open again.
I glanced at her headstone and the smiling photo again. “Would you be proud?”
No answer.
A spunky, modern woman, she talked to me about the birds and bees more than once. Encouraged me to date when I turned sixteen. Being a little awkward and shy, it wasn’t easy to talk to cute boys in school. When you were one of several hundred and boys had other options like cheerleaders, majorettes, and tons of gorgeous girls, the quiet girl didn’t get noticed. My nose constantly buried in schoolbooks or romance novels, I became the wallflower and blended into non-existence. Then Gram got sick, and boys didn’t seem so important.
Our lives a whirlwind for as long as I could remember, we were either volunteering or working. When I turned thirteen, the Millers, who lived in our neighborhood, hired me as their nanny one day a week. At sixteen, Gram taught me how to manage her bookkeeping business. She kept up with it, until she couldn’t anymore. Most of the larger clients left for more experienced providers when I took over. At eighteen, Gram insisted I continue with my college plans, even though we weren’t sure how her illness would progress. I enrolled in an accounting program and took classes until junior year. One day, I’d get that degree.
What should I do, Gram? Give me a sign. Something, anything.
My eyes closed, and I tried to concentrate. To listen.
After some time passed, the quiet became deafening. The sky darkened and millions of stars twinkled overhead. I followed a moonlit path to my car. An imminent decision weighed heavy on my heart, making each step more dismal than the last.
The driver’s door open and one foot inside, I looked up the hill. Streams of moonlight beamed down on her headstone like a spotlight, shielding the others in complete darkness. The unusual occurrence sent shivers through me. My hand clenched my anxious stomach while the other pressed on my rapid heartbeat. I made a wish, hoping it reached the great beyond and brought me a resolution.
On the way home, my thoughts flashed from one childhood memory to another. Thankful for Gram’s positive outlook, because it took over and provided a temporary reprieve from my uncertain future.
I got out of my old Toyota and looked around. Noon in Crestfallen and there wasn’t one person outside. As I crossed the parking lot, I smoothed my hands along my dress and examined the brick structure that resembled any other apartment building. Five or six stories high, the balconies and large windows at each level would let in tons of natural light. Port Chester Bay flowed behind it, making the sight quite picturesque. Separated by a bridge, the neighborhood encompassed a five-block radius with a handful of small stores and older residences. Most young couples preferred the fast-paced city lifestyle, leaving this area isolated and populated by senior citizens desiring a quieter environment.
About forty minutes nor
th of New York City, it had to be the perfect place for a covert business. No one would ever suspect an escort operation in this tiny town. I grew up not far from here, and it certainly surprised me.
At the front of the building, I pressed the up button on the elevator. My distorted reflection on the metal doors as I shifted from one foot to another reminded me of a fun-house mirror, making me look hideous.
Ugh. Maybe I should’ve worn a different dress?
The white crochet pattern had a skin-tone shell underneath that matched mine and made it look see-through. But who wore crochet anymore? The mid-thigh length wasn’t bad and showcased my bare legs. Under normal circumstances it would be an outfit I’d like very much, but seeing my misshapen image had my stomach twisting into knots. Okay, don’t stress. Think positive. A self-conscious attitude would not fare well in this interview.
What did I have that could get me the job?
My green eyes, and favorite feature since they were like Gram’s, might be appealing. Coppery, pin-straight hair that came down to my hips could be a plus. Men liked long hair, right?
At five foot eleven, the six-inch red stilettos made my legs look amazing. But the extra height made me an Amazon, and ranked as my least favorite feature. Normally, I wouldn’t choose shoes this high, but I figured women in this profession wore them. At least the erotic books I read claimed so.
If you placed me next to Mylaynee, her exotic beauty with cocoa cream complexion and curvaceous figure would win a man’s attention every time, hands down. Last week at the fundraiser, the hunk that accompanied her with blond, spiked-hair in an Armani suit would be just the type to seek her out. No way I’d end up with a gorgeous man like him. With my luck, I’d get stuck with eighty, paunchy, and bald.
The elevator doors slid open to reveal a mirrored interior. Once again all my physical imperfections were on display, combined with gigantic insecurities, and played on my already twisted mind. Before I could move, a panic attack hit me. Not now.