by Britney King
She’s seated at a table, this time several rows over from mine. I was busy combing through the latest version of a contract, so I didn’t notice when she came in, but I don’t think she’s been there long.
I pick up the contract, stand, and walk over to her table. “I have a question,” I say, sliding into the seat opposite her. “I hope you won’t mind.”
She cocks her head. At first, I don’t think she remembers me. But then I see something falter in her expression, and I’m certain she does. “I’m not sure I have the answer…”
“Are you meeting someone?”
“That’s your question?”
“That’s one of them.”
She leans forward, and then, without warning, she reaches out and touches the corner of my eye. “What happened?”
“I lost a fight.”
“That’s too bad,” she says. I think she’s waiting for me to elaborate, but I don’t.
“He’s good. My second favorite.” I mention with a nod toward the piano. “You play?”
“No.”
“So, that’s it?” She gestures at my face. “You lost a fight.”
I manage a shrug.
“Wait…so…you’ve taken up a seat at my table, and now you’re not even going to bore me with the details?”
“I’m afraid it’s a very long story.”
She glances at the small watch on her wrist. “I’ve got nineteen minutes.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be enough time. Maybe you’d like to join me for a proper dinner? Tomorrow night?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She flashes her ring finger. “I’m married.”
“To the short guy? From the other night?”
“No, not to him,” she offers with a half smile. “That was business.”
“He seemed pretty familiar, for a colleague.”
“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”
“Well, we know it isn’t Greek.”
She laughs. An honest laugh.
“I have to apologize,” I tell her. “I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Amanda, who doesn’t look like an Amanda…remember?”
“Mind if I join you… Amanda? For the next eighteen and a half minutes?”
“I might consider it. But only if you promise me the short version of how you got the shit kicked out of you.”
“Are you a sadist or something? Why are you so interested?”
“I just am,” she says, and then she doesn’t speak for several minutes. Neither do I. If you can’t be silent with a person, you can assume any conversation you have won’t be that good either.
We listen as the pianist plays “Tomorrow’s Song.” Amanda, or whoever she is, is dressed in a fitted cashmere sweater, dark jeans, and boots with a heel. She wears Emily’s slack smile.
“Are you on any of those dating apps, by chance?” I ask when the song concludes.
She seems to understand it’s a leading question. She doesn’t take the bait. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know what else would bring a married woman to a piano bar alone…”
“I told you. I enjoy the atmosphere. The fact that it’s not Christmas music is just an added bonus. Seems like everywhere you go this time of year, you can’t get away from it. It’s not even Thanksgiving yet. ”
I smile because I like that she’s opinionated. Also, I couldn’t agree more. I’m the last person that wants to be reminded the holidays are barreling down upon us, and there’s the very real chance I could be spending them alone. “Yeah,” I say. “I don't know why women do that. Meet strangers on the internet. You never know what you might find. Just seems like such a dangerous thing…”
“I’m not meeting dates online.” She presses her lips together. “Well, not really…”
“What are you doing then?”
“Waiting for my next client.”
I might as well have swallowed a brick. That wasn’t the answer I was hoping for. I was hoping I was right, and that she came back to see me.
“Or rather I was,” she adds. “He canceled. I wanted to finish my drink.”
“Doesn’t sound like a very good client, canceling last minute.”
“It happens.”
“What do you do? For a living?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“It's my job.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’m a scientist.”
She laughs. “A scientist.”
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“Clearly something is.”
“It’s just…you couldn’t sound more pretentious if you tried.”
She can’t stop laughing. My cheeks warm. Little does she know how much I hate being laughed at.
“What kind of scientist?” She recovers. “I mean…what do you research?”
“Chemistry.”
“Interesting.”
“And you? Let me guess… sales.” I study her for a moment, trying to gauge the best way to insult her without going too far. “Wait—No…a litigator.”
She laughs again. “What makes you think that?
“Attorneys are very good at evading questions they don't want to answer.”
“So are prostitutes.”
I choke.
“Funny.” I narrow my eyes. She’s messing with me. And she’s good. “A prostitute?”
“That’s right.”
“You mean people pay you to have sex with them?”
“Look at you,” she says sardonically. “Nailing the job description… I'm impressed.”
I can’t take my eyes off her.
“What?” She scoffs. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”
I lean away from the table. “I’m just shocked is all.”
“You’ve never paid anyone for sex, I take it.”
“Never had to.”
“That’s a lie.”
“I don’t lie.”
“Everybody lies,” she says, fingering the table linen. “And anyway, you pay for sex all the time: Every time you pick up a tab when you take a woman to dinner; every time you pay for a gift or flowers; every time you have a boring conversation you have no interest in. There are millions of ways people pay for sex. It's not always just money exchanging hands— although, if you ask me, that's certainly the easiest and least complicated way to go about it.”
I want to crack open her interesting skull and dissect her interesting brain. I want to study her in the lab. I want to study her wherever.
She sips her water and adds, “Or so I’ve found.”
“So that guy the other night? The short one.”
“You're asking if he was a client?”
“Is that what they're called?”
“Pretty much.”
I don’t know what to say.
“I would never divulge that kind of information. Just so you know. Discretion is at the heart of everything I do.”
She says it in a way that makes it sound dirty. Illicit.
“But, no, he wasn't a client. He’s a friend from church.”
“Church. Of course. I should have guessed.” She could've said anything, and I would've expected it more than that. “And your husband?”
“You’re asking if he knows?”
I shrug because I don’t know what I was asking. I only know that he’s a fool. “Sure.”
“What makes you think I could hide something that big?”
“I think women can hide a lot of things.”
“Interesting,” she says, looking away toward the bar.
“So how do you determine the price? Is there like a fee schedule?”
“A fee schedule. That’s cute.”
“Is it?
“What makes you so interested in price?”
“I just want to know what you think you’re worth.”
She doesn’t answer but I can see I’ve struck a nerve.
I try another angle. “
Do you charge by the hour? By the service?”
“By the hour.”
“How much for the whole night?
“Well,” she says, tapping her phone, bringing it to life. “It’s 8:00 p.m. right now…which leaves four hours to midnight. At $300 an hour, that's $1,200.”
“Wow. Not even a break for the whole night?”
“A break?” she laughs. “You’re suggesting I take less of a cut?”
“Suggesting feels like a strong word.”
“Fine. Are you asking for a discount?”
I shrug again. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
“Why would I do that when I can just book extra clients? This isn’t science,” she says. “This is business. ”
“So consistency means nothing to you.”
“Oh, I'm very consistent, I assure you.”
“Tell you what… if you stay till six I'll pay you $1,500.”
“I’m afraid I can't do that.”
“Why not?”
“I don't cut deals.”
“You won’t make $1,500 otherwise. You just said your client canceled.”
She traces the rim of her glass. “Sorry.”
She isn’t sorry. “It’s not personal,” she continues. “Cutting deals just isn’t my jam. I find it only leads to more concessions in the future.”
“Ah,” I reply. “Well, let's hope you're as good in bed as you are at negotiation.”
“If you have any doubt,” she says matter of factly, “You definitely shouldn’t hire me.”
“I have an open mind.”
“I don't think we should work together, Mr. Parker.”
I smile because she remembered my name. “And why is that?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”
“Prove me wrong.”
Chapter Fifteen
Vanessa
It’s hard to really know when the transition takes place from being in the rejuvenation center to being back in my real life. I can’t say when the decision is made one way or the other about my release, only that my stay shifts from one of deprivation and punishment to one of replenishment and actual rejuvenation. If that’s what you want to call it. It starts out with the soup. At first, it’s brothy, but at each meal it becomes a little more substantial until finally I’m offered vegetables and chicken. Who knew something so plain could taste so good?
Over the next few days, I am taken to the spa, where I have a blow out, an airbrush tan, and intensive laser treatments to tighten my sagging skin. Starvation is not kind to the body. In addition, I’m treated to a full body massage, mani-pedi, and facial. My hair and makeup are done, and my clothing is carefully selected each morning and delivered via an aide. Just so I don’t get the wrong idea about why I’m here, I sit through circle time with fellow Sirens, where we are given refreshers on the art of manipulation, seduction, and sexual technique.
Finally, one evening, just when I think this primping might go on forever, I am retrieved from my room and informed that my rejuvenation is complete, and I am free to serve the Lord’s mission. Free being subjective, of course.
A driver takes me straight to my mark’s building, straight to the restaurant on the first floor, where I suspect he’ll be. The church has had eyes on him, and my driver feels pretty confident he’ll show tonight. Whatever the case, I intend to get a good meal out of it and enjoy the atmosphere. But all I can really think about is getting home to my son.
My driver was right. My mark is dining tonight, and not only that, he makes my job easy when he engages nearly right away. I can only assume this means I made a good impression the first time. More likely, the church has done a good job at making me over. It helps that they’ve studied him. They know his preferences. Unfortunately for me, they’ve hardly shared them, and I’m not sure quite what to make of that.
I guess it’s fine, because he pays for my drink, which I leave untouched on the table. He invites me upstairs. He doesn’t ask for me to wait and then follow him up, not like some of my clients. He doesn’t seem to particularly care one way or the other if we’re seen together.
In his apartment, he surprises me by trying to make small talk. It feels out of character, and I’m wondering if he’s having second thoughts. “Did you pick this out?” I ask, perching on the edge of his sofa. He plops down beside me.
“No, why?”
“Just a hunch.”
He kicks off his shoes. I notice he’s taller than I thought, as men this type tend to be. Heroes and villains alike. “It’s probably a good time to tell you that I’m married…”
“You don’t have to tell me anything. I didn’t come here to talk.”
“So it doesn’t bother you?”
“No, I prefer it that way, actually.”
I don’t think he believes me. I show him by undoing his belt. He doesn’t help. “Here?”
“Is there somewhere else you prefer?”
He shakes his head. “Gives me a good reason to get rid of this couch.”
I don’t say anything to that. I’m too busy shedding my clothes. I bend over and remove his pants. He handles the shirt.
He doesn’t make a move, so I simply mount him and wait to see if he switches it up. He doesn’t, not at first. But he doesn’t throw his head back, and he doesn’t close his eyes either. He watches me carefully as I move up and down. I start slow and sensual, pivoting my hips, moving up and down, before he decides to take over. His hands are everywhere, and not just in the usual spots. I almost wish they weren’t. I wish he’d stop looking at me like that, because he takes me right to the edge, right to the point I’m afraid I might let go.
But I never do. I just pretend.
He doesn’t.
When he finishes, he points to the restroom in case I want to wash up. When I return, he’s pulled on his boxers but hasn’t moved from the couch. He’s solid; his body type is lean and muscular. It’s not that I hadn’t noticed before, I just hadn’t allowed myself to enjoy it the way one might when one has no choice, no forewarning, when it hits unexpectedly. I start gathering my clothes. “So you aren’t staying?”
“I can’t.”
His eyes trail the length of my body. “I’ll pay you the full amount.”
“I really can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
“That’s too bad,” he says. “I was hoping to teach you how to have a proper orgasm. That way you don’t have to pretend.”
I laugh, which causes me to fasten my bra on the wrong hook. He stands. “Here, let me.”
I turn to face him. “It’s not that I can’t come. It’s just…I avoid oxytocin like the plague.”
He raises his brow at that. “Well, can I find out what happens when you let go?”
“No,” I say, glancing at my watch. It’s time for my vitamins, but I don’t want to ask for a glass of water. I can’t stay, and even that would be lingering too long.
“Fine. But can I see you again?”
“We’ll see.”
I’m halfway to the door. “Wait,” he calls. I watch as he pulls a few Benjamins from his wallet. “I assume you don’t take credit.”
I can’t get home fast enough. When I arrive, I make a beeline for Matthew’s room. The only thing I can think of— the only thing I’ve been about since they drove me straight from the rejuvenation center to Elliot Parker’s high rise—is crawling into Matthew’s bed and wrapping my arms around him. I want to bury my head in his hair. I want to show him the package of new cars I had the driver stop to pick up on the way.
Unfortunately, Sean intercepts me in the hall. “Long time, no see.”
“That wasn’t my fault.”
“Wasn’t it?”
I thought he might be on my side this time. I should have known better.
I cross the living room. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To see my son.”
&nb
sp; He holds his hand up to stop me. “You’ve been God-knows-where. Take a shower, for Christ’s sake. Then we’ll need to pray. Afterward, I’ll want to lie with you. But then you’re used to that, aren’t you?”
I imagine myself taking a kitchen knife and stabbing him. I imagine pouring antifreeze into his soup. I imagine running him over with the car. At present, the options are endless.
“Let me see Matthew first,” I say. “Please.”
He waves his hand in the air. “What’s it matter? It’s not like he’ll know the difference.”
I’m too tired to fight. I climb the stairs, strip out of my clothes and flip on the shower. I’m hoping he won’t follow, but I’m never that lucky. “So, tell me all about it.” My husband likes hearing about the rejuvenation center.
I offer up the story about the pool, about nearly drowning, and I tell him about the sleep deprivation. I don’t know what I’m expecting. Maybe a little rest?
He leans against the vanity. “That must have been horrible for you.” He goes on to quote the Bible. “For the wrongdoer will be paid back for the wrong he has done, and there is no partiality.”
The average age of death for a male in the United States is 78.4. My husband is sixty-seven. Right now, eleven years seems like an eternity. I’d almost rather take the prison time. I think of Matthew without parents, in an attempt to get my head back in the game.
“Clean yourself good,” he says, stroking himself. “And how was the job?”
“Fine. The usual.”
He leans in and turns the temperature cold. “You can do better than that.”
I step out of the spray. “Just standard stuff. Missionary. Didn’t take long.”
Finally, he turns the water dial back toward warm. “Did he want you to talk dirty to him?”
“No.”
“Did he talk dirty to you? Call you a whore?”
“No.”
“What a shame.”
My husband is very angry. He doesn’t like it when I end up in the rejuvenation center. It reflects poorly on him. He’s determined to reach the top. “Get on your knees,” he orders. He sits on the edge of the bed, same as always.