Masters for Hire

by Ginger Voight

  “No, it’s perfect! You get some elite escort, wearing the finest designer clothes, something exciting and dangerous, and Oliver gets to gnash his teeth over letting you get away. Order one with a tattoo. That’ll piss off your dad and my mom. Two birds, one stone.”

  “You’re out of your mind, Lucy. It’s official. Your wedding has officially driven you insane.”

  “Well, duh,” she repeated. “But it’s an idea that definitely has merit. You get what you want right down to the letter, and send a message to all the stuffed shirts who try to control your life in the process. Talk about independence.”

  She almost looked envious as she said it. It was then I realized it was a fantasy for the both of us. Despite blowing off steam at this bar, both Lucy and I were resigned to our lives, restrictive though they might be. I’d never show up with a gigolo on one arm at one of Father’s events, and she wasn’t about to sabotage her wedding just to stick it to her overbearing mother.

  These were the things we did, in silly, noncommittal ways, to push back against the powers that be, to test our wings and try out our independence.

  But we’d never do these things. Not for real. That was crazy.

  It was fun to talk about, though. It was even fun to research when we got back to the house, where Lucy and I scrolled through a couple of escort service sites, ‘window-shopping’ for just the right stud for a fundraising benefit if I could ever muster the balls to do it.

  “This one is well-traveled,” she said as she pointed at a half-naked man with an eight-pack stomach, a dozen tattoos and a promising bulge in his skin tight pants. “He’s probably a good conversationalist.”

  “He doesn’t need to speak,” I said, unable to wrench my eyes away from his rock hard body. This was a guy who fucked for a living. My guess was that he could do it very well.

  And I could really use someone who could do it very well.

  There were older men and younger men, tattooed men and clean-shaven men. The boys you might find next door and those who clearly walked the line between bad boy and cuddle bunny. They were clearly adaptable to any client and any situation.

  But still… it was a ridiculous idea. Me, hire an escort?

  Ch’yeah right.

  #FamousLastWords.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I went back to work the next day, but I avoided both Oliver and Father, who had both come in for the day, as if strengthening their position through the sheer power of numbers.

  Actually it was Father going into the office that guilted me into cutting my pity party short a day. I could have easily missed Tuesday, and maybe even Wednesday. We were hosting a big benefit that weekend, turning our home into Party Central, so there were plenty of things I could do around the estate. We had several areas used to entertain, and all of them required someone to oversee the decorating/planning process.

  I decided to use this excuse whenever Father or Oliver tried to talk to me, so I could sidestep them with minimal conversation.

  Obviously contrite, Oliver sent me flowers as a peace offering. I gave them to my assistant instead. Simon was thrilled. Tulips had always been his favorite.

  Thanks to Lucy, I could always use the ol’ maid of honor excuse for a quick getaway. She had hoped that Sylvia would be preoccupied with the benefit and stay off of her back about the wedding that crazy week, but Lucy realized too late that she had underestimated her formidable mother. Sylvia Lyon could juggle jackhammers and never muss her hair.

  Lucy and I leaned on each other hard the days leading up to the benefit. There was more than one sleepover, and nights we reached for something a little stronger than alcohol. It felt good to smoke a little pot and just watch brainless stoner movies like we did when we were kids. It was like a vacation for our brains.

  And we needed it. By the time Thursday rolled around, it was a bit like facing the gallows. We had done everything we could to avoid our families all week, but there was no getting around the spectacle of a highly publicized social event like Sylvia’s benefit.

  I finally compromised on the outfit. I would wear the sparkly mother of the bride pantsuit, but underneath I was Tempestuous all the way.

  I noticed how the right sized underwear actually made me look better in the matronly outfit. It did its best to hide my curves, but now that they had proper support, my curves wouldn’t be denied. It gave me a little more confidence, even though I essentially decided to go stag to the party.

  It was an error my Father sought to correct Wednesday evening, when he called me into his home office. He appeared pleased that I showed up in yet another boring outfit from Cabot’s. “You look lovely, my dear,” he assured as leaned upwards for a kiss.

  I indulged the kiss but said nothing.

  “It’s important that we always support our clothing lines whenever possible,” he reminded, yet again.

  “Yes, Father,” I said, biting inside of my cheek hard so I wouldn’t start yet another fight. I was too sober for such a confrontation, and it was clear that fink Oliver ratted me out about buying clothing from a competitor.

  “I realize that you and Oliver have had a tiff, but I hope you can set it aside for the weekend. There’s going to be lots of press for this event. We don’t need to detract away from the important work Sylvia and Margot are doing with petty drama.”

  I sighed. Apparently avoiding conflict wasn’t to be. “We didn’t have a tiff, Father. I kicked him out of my house for being a complete and total douchebag.”

  “Coralie,” he corrected sharply. His use of my given name reinforced the reprimand.

  “Look, Dad,” I said, setting aside our usual formality for a moment. “I know you want me to marry Oliver and have black-haired, blue-eyed, French-speaking babies, but the truth is… I haven’t decided yet. Oliver may be your dream guy, but I’m not convinced he’s mine.”

  Father wheeled himself around his desk with a frustrated grumble. “What are you talking about? He’s a fine man. Harvard-educated, comes from an affluent, well-connected family back east. Fine manners. Excellent mind for business. What more do you want?”

  “I want someone who makes my pulse race,” I stated bluntly, and he lowered his eyes. “You told me that the minute your eyes locked with Mama’s, your pulse started to race. Blood thundered in your ears and you couldn’t speak, you couldn’t even think. I want that too. I want the butterflies in the stomach, the yearning to be with someone so bad you actually ache. I want to be wanted.”

  “Oh, you’re just being petulant. Of course Oliver wants you.”

  “Oliver wants to please you,” I corrected. “The idea of me is much more enticing on paper than the flesh-and-blood human being who has thoughts and opinions of her own. I’m a prop, Dad. You know it. I know it. And Oliver knows it. After all, what better job security is there than marrying the boss’s daughter?”

  “You’re much too cynical,” Father glowered. “Oliver has his own money. What we’re talking about here is a shared vision.”

  “Your shared vision,” I corrected again. “But what if it’s not mine?”

  That gave Father pause. “What are you saying? That you don’t want to be a part of this company?”

  “Of course I want to be a part of this company. I’m going to run it one day.” I noticed how Father’s gaze fell. “Right?”

  “CC, please,” he sidestepped. “We don’t have to solve all our problems tonight.”

  I held up my hand. “I have no problem unless you’re telling me that I will no longer inherit the company. Is that what you’re saying?”

  He heaved a deep sigh. “Truthfully, Coralie, I’m not sure that you understand the business well enough to run it right now. Your recent behavior shows a disturbing lack of maturity.”

  My mouth fell open. “Are you kidding? I missed one day of work in an entire year, and suddenly I’m some slacker? For the past ten years I’ve done nothing but show maturity, from hiring staff to throwing parties to taking care of you, Margot and Aubrey. I’v
e run this household when you couldn’t.”

  “A household is not a business.”

  “Says someone who has never run both,” I snapped.

  “That’s quite enough, Coralie,” he barked with a darkening expression. “I need to know that I can depend on you. Playing hooky because of some wounded ego is childish and irresponsible. Men don’t get the luxury of calling off work to nurse their wounds. We show up and we get things done. We make the hard decisions. We keep the ship afloat.”

  “And you don’t think I can do that?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Yes, I played hooky on Monday. Yes, I was pissed off because Oliver was a complete asshole to me. And I was pissed off at you for refusing to hear my ideas, to expand our clothing line with extended sizes and new designers.”

  “Not this again,” he moaned.

  “See? You won’t even consider it. How do you think that makes me feel?”

  “Like anyone else who has ever proposed something to their boss and had it shot down. You think you’re the only one, Coralie? You think every new idea you have is going to reinvent the wheel. But I’ve been running this company for forty years. I know what works. I’ve studied it, I’ve researched it. I’ve done the trial and error. You have ideas, great. But I have experience. And I find your dismissal of that equally offensive.”

  “It’s not a dismissal, Dad. It’s a discussion.”

  His steely blue eyes met mine. “There is nothing to discuss, Coralie.”

  “That’s a dismissal,” I pointed out, and he said nothing in return. We stood staring each other down for a long, awkward minute before I tipped my chin and steeled my spine. It was clear now that the reason he pushed Oliver on me wasn’t just so that I could have a husband. It was that he could have a man at the helm, a son by marriage if nothing else, one who agreed with him and obeyed him dutifully, in a way he didn’t think I could, just because I had my own thoughts and opinions and experiences. “Very well,” I stated simply before I spun on my heel and stalked towards the door.

  “This isn’t over, Coralie.”

  I didn’t stop walking. I didn’t even look back.

  “Coralie!”

  My hand trembled as it clasped the doorknob. Again, another damnable tear tried to squeeze itself from my eye but I silently cursed it and willed it back as I slammed the door behind me.

  “CC!”

  My phone was in hand before I reached the French doors leading from the kitchen, across the patio and down the stairs to the sloping green hill that would take me right towards Petit Paradis. I had stayed there all week, and after the conversation I had with Father, it was even more welcoming. Just as I pulled up Lucy’s number to call her, my phone rang.

  It was Lucy, though I could barely understand her through her hiccupping breaths.

  “They changed… the event… outdoors!”

  “What?”

  “It’s outdoors! Outdoors!”

  Within a few minutes I reached the walkway towards the entrance of my house, where I spotted Lucy leaning against the front door, holding her hand to her chest as she tried her best not to hyperventilate. I pocketed my phone and ushered her inside. I pushed her down on the plush suede sofa in my living room before I rounded the corner and retrieved a big bottle of wine.

  I didn’t even bother with glasses as I joined her on the sofa. She guzzled straight from the bottle before handing it back to me so that I could do the same.

  “The organizers at the cathedral called today, to schedule a run-through at the new venue. I had no idea there was a new venue. I asked them what the fuck was going on, and they said that because we had too many guests for the cathedral itself, we’d have to move the whole shebang outside.” She snorted a bit in humorless laughter. “And it’s not that it’s an outdoor wedding. I wanted an outdoor wedding. Something nice and simple, maybe an afternoon summertime affair at the club, or a night wedding on the beach or something. But no. She wanted it in a cathedral. She wanted black tie. I never wanted a church wedding in the first place. She had to sell it to me. We could work with the lights, she said, everyone could sit at their own tables, she said. Finally I agreed. Finally. And now she’s changing this too, all so she can have her stupid, bloated guest list.” She glugged some more wine. “Every day in every way, I realize that it’s not my wedding anymore. From the dress I never wanted, to the flowers I can’t have because Great Aunt Vesta is allergic to hydrangeas, everything–everything–I wanted has been updated, amended, changed or overruled.”

  “Except maybe the groom,” I grinned, hoping good humor would pull my poor bestie back from the edge.

  “Give her time,” she replied ruefully.

  “So what do you want to do, Lucy?” I asked at last. “You’ve been utterly miserable for months trying to make it all work for her. I’m afraid at this rate, you’ll be held up in some book depository, holstering a machine gun and wearing Cabot’s fine hosiery on your head.”

  “Don’t encourage me,” she said as she reached for more wine.

  “Seriously, though. Is this really the way you want to get married?”

  She heaved a deep sigh and shook her head. “This is supposed to be the happiest time of my life. This is supposed to be my day. And it’s not like I wanted a lot, you know?” A tear rolled down her face. “All I really wanted was Gus. And you. And maybe them,” she said, referring to her family. “I’m the only daughter they have. I’m their baby. I thought maybe if I let her get involved, it wouldn’t be so rough for her. Little did I know, right? Now she’s steamrolling me at every opportunity and I’m supposed to be grateful. Grateful,” she repeated with a sneer.

  I touched her hand. “You know she loves you, right?”

  “Seriously?” she shot back. “You’re seriously going to defend her to me right now?”

  I shook my head as I threw back more expensive wine like it was watered down beer. “I’m in no mood to defend parental units who treat their grown-ass kids like infants, believe me.”

  She picked up on that at once. “What happened?”

  “Nothing much,” I quipped. “Father just informed me that I’m too immature to run Cabot’s, possibly ever.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I want to sell clothes that make me feel good. How dare I?”

  Lucy touched my hand. “I’m sorry, Ceece.”

  “All the stuff I do, all the sacrifices I’ve made, the good grades, the diplomas, the successful campaigns I’ve spearheaded… it all comes a distant second to his ‘vision,’ which apparently keeps Cabot’s mired in post WWII America’s Glory Days. And in Father’s version of this, fat girls like me don’t fit.”

  “Come on. You’re not fat.”

  I sent her a side-eye glare. “Lucy, please. I know what I am. And I’m okay with what I am. Fat isn’t a fatal flaw to me. So I’m a little more padded, who cares? Aside from, you know, my own father and the man who I’m probably going to have to marry someday.”

  “You do not have to marry him,” Lucy said at once. “Never marry anyone who can’t see your whole value.”

  I nodded. “I know you’re right. But you also know that things are a little different for us. Face it. If you had fallen in love with one of the many bad boys you dated, do you really think that you’d be getting married at all?”

  She laughed. “That is an intriguing thought, though.” I watched her mouth curve up in a devious little smile as her ears practically smoked with an idea. “It’s too late for me, but it’s not too late for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe your dad needs a little perspective. He thinks he can bully you into some relationship with Oliver because there are no other potential suitors. Show him that it’s your choice to make, and show him you’re not afraid to make a choice that would piss him the fuck off. Bring a bad boy to the benefit on Saturday. Make your stand.”

  “I thought we tried this already. I don’t want to go back to being mauled at some c
lub by a Neanderthal.”

  “Fuck the club dwellers. We’re going to order you someone from the A-list.”

  She dragged me from the sofa towards my bedroom, where we plopped on the bed in front of my open laptop. Every time I tried to talk some reason to her, she’d shush me immediately. Finally, out of desperation, I said, “How is this any different than what Father is doing?”

  “Easy. At least with the guy I pick, you have a good chance of getting sexed up good and proper by the time the date is done. And then you can kick him to the curb neatly and sweetly.”

  “Lucy…,” I tried again, but she was on a mission. She was going to control something, goddammit. She scrolled down the list of photos we had perused in the past. Finally she landed on a name, almost as if she went looking specifically for him.

  “This guy,” she said as she pulled up his profile. I read over her shoulder.

  “Devlin Masters. Twenty-seven. World traveler. Hopeless romantic. Loves fine dining and titillating conversation. A real goal-setter who believes in hard work, honor and integrity. Having grown up first on the mean streets of Belfast, and then on the even meaner streets of New York, Devlin has fought for every crumb, transforming his life from humble beginnings as a displaced street kid to a successful business entrepreneur. His discipline in fitness has given him focus and drive to make his dreams come true. Now he’s ready to make a few of your dreams come true. Request an interview today.”

  Lucy finished reading the stats. “He’s six-foot-two, one-hundred and eighty-five pounds of what looks to be solid muscle, with dark brown hair and hazel eyes.” We both glanced at his photo. He wore his thick, lustrous hair longish, around his collar. His eyes were dazzling, striking a balance somewhere between deep green and the tawny color of straw. There was slight stubble around his jaw, framing a charming, mischievous smirk, both of which hinted virility. His body was fit and strong; with arms so defined I immediately realized he could pick up even the likes of me and carry me anywhere.