Jumping up, I flip the cab off with both hands as it drives away.
This is why we’ll never leave San Francisco. Not only will we never leave our families but also I need to be in a city with lots of gay men who compliment my shoes, shy techie boys who still stumble over their words when they try to talk to a woman, and organic-obsessed-vegan-hippie types who scold me for my leather skirt and crocodile skin shoes but will still say, “Namaste,” when they storm off. I don’t know how people live here and not lose their minds.
Wait, no, I take that back. People that live here turn into assholes who’d rather push a woman out of the way to steal her cab than walk ten feet to the left and grab the next one in line. Living in New York turns you into a complete and utter asshole.
The only saving grace is that he’ll end up smelling like soured curry all day, and I can go into the hotel and shower and change.
A town car pulls to the curb, and a gaggle of under-nourished model-types decked out in couture step out. One of girls wearing eight inch heels trips on my suitcase. After her friends help her to her feet, she turns around and screams at me in French. I catch a few insults in her rant, but don’t understand the majority of it. Rolling my eyes, I glare back at her. “Go eat a cheeseburger, Chicken Legs.”
Eager to get me off his curb, the doorman picks up my bag and directs me to the lobby. I’m a little early for check in, but the woman at the front desk takes pity on me, or perhaps she just wants me and my Pigpen-esqe cloud of stink to get out of her lobby. Either way, I’m on my way to my room. In a few short hours, I will finally get to see my husband. Nothing else matters.
****
The suite is beautiful—fresh flowers on the table, a spectacular view of Central Park, and the four-poster bed that will be perfect to tie Spencer to. The walk-in stone shower is actually big enough to have enjoyable sex in. I don’t care what anyone says, if you don’t have room to maneuver, shower sex doesn’t live up to the hype. Makes for easy clean up, but that’s about its most stellar attribute.
After ordering a bottle of champagne, I pour in some sensual aromatherapy oils and then fill the Jacuzzi tub. As the water runs, I do some yoga. New York has been bad for my chi. For me to get into full-on, happy hooker mode, I need to let go of all this tension. Plus, spending some time in camel pose and chair pose before sex turns regular orgasms into full-body-what-fuck-just-happened-to-me-and-when-the-feeling-returns-to-my-legs-can-we-do-it-again orgasms.
Once I’m relaxed and in the bath sipping champagne, I take the first step to putting the night into motion. Drying off my hands, I grab my phone and send a text.
Charlie: Play a game with me?
A few minutes go by before he responds.
Spencer: What kind of game?
Charlie: You’ll see. Just play along when it starts.
Spencer: Okay, I’ll play. You have me intrigued …
Charlie: You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, baby. Stay tuned, I’m just getting started.
CHAPTER FIVE
Charlie: Mr. Fairchild?
Spencer: Um… yes Mrs. Fairchild?
Come on, Spence! We went over this already.
Spencer: Oh, I get it now. I’m taking a mulligan.
And the elevator finally reaches the top floor.
Spencer: Yes, this is Mr. Fairchild
Charlie: Your secretary mentioned to me that you’ve been on an extended business trip.
Spencer: She did, did she? And who are you?
I plan everything else down to the minute detail, and I drop the ball now? Think, McFly! Think! I need a hooker name. Bambi? Candy? Honey? Nah, too obvious. Gemma. Too close to Chase’s stupid girlfriend’s name. Um…um…
Charlie: Monique.
Yeah, sure, that’ll work. Sounds kinda exotic and a lot made up.
Spencer: Pretty name. I once dated a girl named Monique. She was in my French class. It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.
Ah, that’s where I got that from. Double brownie points to Spence for remembering. He is so freaking perfect. But he’s coming dangerously close to breaking character, so I need to focus before this all unravels.
Charlie: Your secretary mentioned you’ve been away from home for a long time.
Spencer: A very long time. It’s been months.
Charlie: I bet it gets SO lonely, sleeping in those big, cold beds all by yourself. I’m sure you were just dying for someone to come and warm you up.
Spencer: You have no idea …
Charlie: I can only imagine. Going all those weeks without the feeling of soft skin against yours. Months without the glorious pleasure of another’s touch? So many days without a real release. We both know it’s not quite the same when you do it yourself, is it?
Spencer: No, ma’am, it’s not.
Charlie: You poor, poor man. I don’t know how you’ve survived.
Spencer: It’s been hard … so very hard.
Charlie: How hard?
Oh crap! That’s a Babbette, the phone sex operator question. Monique, the hooker doesn’t care how hard he is, only if his money is green.
Fanning myself to try to cool down my overactive libido, I take long sip of champagne and force myself back into character.
Charlie: Don’t answer that. I think I have the solution to all your problems, but I need to do my own assessment of the situation.
Spencer: Oh yeah? How thorough is this assessment?
Charlie: Meet me at the hotel bar at nine o’clock and find out.
Spencer: I’ll be there.
Charlie: Good. Bring cash and don’t be late.
Setting the phone down, I can’t help but to feel giddy. This is going to be a “Dear Penthouse,” kind of night. I can’t wait!
****
Nine o’clock: show time. I know I told him to meet me at nine, but it’s always good to make him wait just a little. I can picture him at the bar, full of anticipation. Soon enough I’ll put all that desire to good use.
Before heading out, I take one last look in the mirror. My makeup’s a bit heavier than normal. My hair is more dramatic than I would typically wear it. The dress is slightly shorter than I remember it. That’s what I get for not actually trying it on before packing it. I’m covered—barely. If I had time to run down to Madison Avenue and hit up Agent Provocateur, I would. But I don’t, so I’ll just have to remember to keep my legs closed and to bend at the knees until we get back to the room.
Turning around in the mirror, I crane my neck to get a view of my ass in the mirror. Yeah, I can pass for a hooker.
Reaching for my clutch, I pause. Do prostitutes carry a handbag? Since we’re coming back to my room, I really don’t need it. I slide my room key into the built-in bra of my dress and then head to the elevator.
On the ride down to the lobby, I find myself bouncing on the balls of my feet. I can’t remember the last time I was so excited. Yes, the sex is going to be amazing, but I’m so excited just to see him.
I enter through the back of the bar, allowing me to spot him without him seeing me. My breath hitches when I catch sight of him. My God, he looks amazing. I have yet to see a man alive who can work a suit as well as my husband. Granted, I might be a bit biased, but I don’t care. The way the midnight-blue suit shows off his broad shoulders. From the way the suit is cut, it’s obvious he’s in good shape, but there is still mystery as to what lies underneath. I love peeling it off him—like unwrapping a Christmas present.
The bartender says something to him that makes him laugh. He turns his head, giving me a better look at his face. I could get lost in those blue eyes all the way across the room. His thick brown hair is a little longer than normal than his typical clean-cut look. He’s probably been working too many hours to find the time to get it cut. It’s different, but I like it—something for me to pull on later.
Part of me wants to throw this plan by the wayside and curl up on his lap and revel in the feeling of being nex
t to him again. Like an addict needing a fix, I just want to breathe him in and savor the feeling for as long as I can. But there’s always time for that. Who knows when I’ll get another occasion to be his dirty working girl again. I can’t let the opportunity pass me by. On that note, it’s time to get this show on the road.
Crossing the room, I take the stool next to him at the bar. “Mr. Fairchild?”
His eyes hungrily scan my body, as though he’s taking in every detail and committing it to memory. The ravenous expression on his face sends shivers up my spine. “Monique?”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He takes my hand and brings it to his lips. “The pleasure is all mine.”
I give him a sexy smirk. “Not yet, but it will be.” I make eye contact with the bartender. “Champagne please.”
“Are we celebrating?” He tries to keep his attention on my face, but I keep catching his eyes glance at my legs.
“New relationships are always cause for celebration, don’t you think?” Slowly, I cross my legs, giving him the slightest peek of what he has waiting for him.
He swallows hard. “Most definitely.”
The bartender pops the cork then fills two glasses. I hold my glass up in toast. “To new adventures.”
Tapping his glass to mine, he takes a sip before leaning forward. “So, how does this work? I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Ohh, a novice. How fun!”
“Will you go gentle on me?” he asks playfully.
“Absolutely not,” I reply with an airy chuckle. “In fact, in honor of your first time, I think I’ll be extra rough.”
Spencer’s face looks completely calm and collected, but the blush I see on his neck tells me he’s getting turned on. He shifts slightly in his seat. I imagine those pants are getting snug. “Sounds like I am in for one hell of a night.”
I take a long sip of champagne and then set my glass on the bar. “It’s a thousand dollars for the night for straight sex. Two thousand if you want extra.” I lean forward and whisper in his ear, “Trust me, you want the extra.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Two thousand, huh? That’s pretty steep.”
I run my finger along his strong jawbone. “I’m worth every penny.”
“I bet you are.” He drains his glass. “Shall we go to my room? I’ll have another bottle brought up.”
I put my hand on his arm. “Wait just a second, how do I know you’re good for it? I can’t just take you upstairs without any assurances I’m going to get paid. Let me see the money.”
Spencer pulls out his money clip and sets the bank roll on the bar. “Money won’t be an issue. If it makes you more comfortable, I’ll pay you half now, half later. There’s a bonus in it for you if you really impress me.”
“Oh, honey, you don’t even know the definition of impressed until you spend a night with me.”
I watch as he pulls off the clip, separates a few bills, and then places them in front of me on the bar. “Do we have a deal?”
“We sure do,” says a voice from behind us.
We turn to see a man and a woman standing behind us. Do they think we’re swingers or something? This could get really weird.
A heavy hand presses down on my shoulder as the woman grabs my arm. “You’re under arrest for prostitution.” She slaps a handcuff on my wrist before grabbing my other arm and pulling it behind my back.
“What the hell?” I spit as she latches the other cuff.
“Wait a second,” Spencer says. “This is a mistake.”
“Oh, you’ve definitely made a mistake, pal. A big one,” the guy says. He grabs Spencer’s wrist. “You’re under arrest for patronizing a prostitute. You have the right to remain silent.”
As the cop reads us our rights, it starts to sink in that this is really happening. I should be freaking out right now, but it’s just too damn funny. My eyes meet Spencer’s, and we both crack up.
“You two think this is funny do you?” the female cop says. “We’ll see if you’re still laughing in the morning: when you’re arraigned. You’re looking at one year in jail and a thousand dollar fine.”
“Wait, officers,” Spencer says as they pull us away from the bar. “She is not a prostitute. She’s my wife.”
The male officer snorts. “If I had a nickel for every time some John said that, I wouldn’t have to take out student loans to pay for my kid’s tuition.”
Our smiles fade as the officers forcefully guide us down the hall toward the back exit of the hotel. They clearly are not interested in listening to a word we have to say, but they have no problem making a scene. Judgmental eyes from the other hotel guests follow us as we’re manhandled down the hall. I’m tempted to shout out, “I hope you enjoyed the show, be sure to tip your waitress,” but I can’t imagine that will help our situation. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice one of Spencer’s co-workers. Closing my eyes, I pray they keep their mouths shut. Spencer doesn’t need to deal with the rumor mill on top of everything else.
“He’s telling you the truth,” I chime in. “We’re married. This was all just a game. I swear!”
“Tell it to the judge,” the female cop says in a blasé tone, which suggests she’s bored even though the way she’s shoving me suggests differently.
Spencer’s trying to talk to the guy cop, but he just talks over Spencer. “Rikers is filled with people who’ve got a story to tell. You’ll fit right in.”
“If we could just go upstairs,” I say as we pass the elevators to the guest rooms. “I can show you my ID, and we’ll clear all this up. It’ll just take a second.”
Completely ignoring me, the female cop pulls a small walkie-talkie from her pocket. “We’re taking these two down to lock-up.”
“Hurry it up, Christianson,” a crackly voice on the other end of the radio says. “The next target just walked into the lobby. If you’re spotted it will blow the whole sting.”
We reach the back exit, and the male cop opens the door and then pushes Spencer through. Waiting at the bottom of a set of stairs is a gray Ford sedan that is so non-descript it screams “I’m an unmarked police car.” They’re really arresting us. I am going to jail. And I didn’t even do anything! No one will be surprised that I did something stupid and landed in jail for the night. It’s kind of shocking it hasn’t happened yet. But I have always assumed if I did get thrown in the clink, it’d be over something awesome. This is not awesome!
“Officer Christianson, is it?” I ask. “I know you guys have a job to do, but honestly, it’s not what it looked like. This is all just a big misunderstanding.”
“Well, we have a video of you offering sex in exchange for money and then your ‘husband’ here slipping you a wad of cash. You can try all you want to talk your way out of this, but this is exactly what it looks like.” Christianson opens the back door of the police car.
The male cop leads Spencer to the other side of the patrol car. “Charlie, just let it go, babe. They’re not going to listen. We’ll sort it all out when we get to the station and they run our prints. It’ll be resolved before you know it.”
Christianson pushes down on my head. “Watch your head.”
As she forces me into the car, I feel something gross cross the back of my thigh. “Oh fuck.”
“What?” Spence asks.
Leaning forward, I look between my legs. “Oh triple fuck.”
The amused look on his face disappears and is quickly replaced with one of concern. “What? What’s wrong? Did they hurt you? This is going to go from a humorous mishap to full-blown shitstorm if you’re hurt. Heads will roll.”
“I just sat in gum.” I’m about to ask what kind of person spits gum on a car seat, but then I remember where I am. I’m sure it was a little parting gift from the last person who was lucky enough to ride back here.
The worry on his face melts as he lets out a sigh of relief. “I think gum on your dress is the least
of our concerns right now. I’ll buy you a new one.”
“I don’t give a shit about the dress, I’m not wearing any underwear!” I say through gritted teeth.
He stares at me blankly, clearly not connecting the dots.
“This dress, if you failed to notice, just barely covers my ass. When I sit, my bare honeypot is exposed to the seat. And now, someone’s ABC gum is stuck in my pubic hair!”
His face cringes with disgust. “Oh!”
“Yeah, ohh! I’m going to have to cut it out, but I can’t imagine they just willingly hand out scissors when you get booked in the big house. I won’t be able to get it out until after we make bail!” I glower at him. I know none of this is his fault, but right now, I’m thoroughly repulsed and I need to take this out on someone. “If my husband found a full Brazilian wax sexy like every other man on the planet, I wouldn’t be in this mess. But no, my husband vetoes the wax, and now I’ve got gum stuck in my coochie cap.”
Spencer chuckles, laughing at the absurdity of this gigantic clusterfuck. He’s always so calm and rational. Nothing ever gets to him, which makes him the perfect yin to my yang. Sometimes I love it and it’s a turn on, but other times it makes me want to claw his eyes out. “Pardon me for not being turned on by a wife looking like a pre-pubescent girl. Full waxing is not for me, and I’m not going to apologize for it.”
“Well, you’d better get used to it pal, because it’s all got to go!” I gasp. “Can I get sick from this? What if it’s Herpelicious? Or DoubleHep? Double the flavor, double the hepatitis? Can STDs be transmitted this way? There’s never a syringe of penicillin when you need one”—I lean forward—“Will the prison doc be in when we get there, because I think I’m going to need some antibiotics or anti-virals or something.”
The male cop yells at us over his shoulder. “Keep it down back there, would you? The Mets are going into extra innings.”
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