by Britney King
I only go down to the restaurant in the hopes that the prostitute might be there. I’m not hungry, and this day has been a shit show, so if I can find sex easily, it might be possible for some sort of redemption. As it turns out, I am in luck.
“You,” I say when I see her seated at the bar. I don’t think I should be glad to see her, but that doesn’t stop me. It’s refreshing to see someone so much like my Emily only without the resistance. I realized something sitting in that holding cell today. She’s right. Not only do I pay for sex, it’s worse—I’ve paid for love.
Finally, she turns, and for a second I almost think I’m mistaken. She looks different than before. Older. Maybe. I don’t know. I can’t pinpoint what the difference is, only that it’s there. “You.”
I edge in beside her and lean into the bar. “I know your name isn’t Amanda.”
“You’re right,” she answers solemnly. “It isn’t.”
“It’s okay that you’re a liar,” I tell her. “I assume it comes with the territory.”
“More than you know,” she says, and I see what it is now: her face is bruised, and she’s attempted to cover it up with makeup.
“So what is it then, your name?”
“It’s whatever you want it to be.”
I give her a once-over. “Can I have a little time to decide?”
She smiles. “I have an hour.”
Chapter Nineteen
Vanessa
It’s hard to ever really know what the real game plan will be when it comes to reeling someone in, until you come face-to-face. That’s chemistry for you. My first and my second impression of Elliot Parker are different from what I’d gathered from Marcia Louis. But not by much.
My assumption was that he’d be dominating and rough— the type to demand control— at least in the sack… especially in the sack. He was neither, exactly. He was difficult to get a read on is what he was. That’s the best way I know to describe him.
I know my husband and Adam and the Men’s Alliance as a whole. I know I’m going to have to find my angle, and quickly. They will want results.
It’d help if they’d given me something to go on. They don’t like to make things too easy where I’m concerned. Unfortunately, the mark doesn’t have a huge footprint online, and so far, what I’ve gleaned doesn’t amount to much. I know he has a wife, and I know he owns a company. He has an apartment where there are no signs of either.
I get the sense that he doesn’t play well with others, but if the situation suits his needs, he’s willing to act the part. I can see it’s going to be tricky to get this brand of seduction just right. But that’s okay. It’s my favorite kind. Elliot’s type typically doesn’t make for an easy job. When a person hardly likes themselves, it’s hard for them to fall for anyone else. But if and when they do? Watch out.
I have been careful. I was aware he wanted to see me again; he was at least forthcoming about that. It would have been easy to give in…tempting, even. But to go back to the restaurant too soon would have been a mistake in the long run, and that’s always where my focus needs to be: the long run.
I could see he was feeling me out, testing where I might give in. I may charge by the hour, but if I make things too easy for him, it will lose its effect. Letting my appeal and the novelty of the situation wane has to be avoided at all costs, no matter how long the rest takes.
Early indications suggest landing the mark will take several encounters—three to four at minimum, and likely closer to six or so. I haven’t gotten the impression Mr. Parker is a prime candidate for blackmail, nor do I get the sense that he’d be open to joining the church. So exactly what the New Hope leaders want me to extract from him, I haven’t yet figured out. That’s okay. Sometimes it’s better to go in blind. It heightens the senses, immerses you in the discovery. It makes it seem real.
I have come to the restaurant in Elliot Parker’s building on the business of research. It isn’t the worst place I’ve had to set up shop. But it’s not the best, either. It’s dark and noisy, shallow and brimming with people. It’s equally distracting and suffocating and not even for the same reasons.
It’s too bad my mark isn’t more interested in hanging out somewhere quieter. Somewhere like the library. Or in nature. But I digress.
Sipping my wine slowly, I remind myself that seduction is a time-consuming endeavor. The people in charge, the people that set my schedule, understand this the least. They’re like most everyone. They want what they want, and they want it now. Seduction doesn’t work that way. Not if you plan to succeed. If that’s the goal, you can’t be average. You have to be different; you have to be better. You can’t play this game like a novice. Not with the flavor I target. To put it nicely, the church isn’t interested in mediocrity. What they are interested in is recruiting high-profile, high-income members. And of course, all that those things bring.
The assignment tonight is set to work like any initial job: coax Mr. Parker into a precarious position and dig up dirt where I can. Get photographic evidence. The kind he wouldn’t want anyone else to see. Send it to Adam’s assistant.
Once I have obtained something the church deems sufficient, the instructions are clear: extract myself from the situation quickly, unless I am notified otherwise. If ghosting doesn’t do the trick, Plan B is to do the opposite of what I did in the seduction phase. Most often it’s a simple solution of adding to the mark’s sense of responsibility and becoming too easy. It’s not hard to make a person sick of you, if you’re willing to be needy enough.
Humans are predictable. People desire that which comes easily only to the extent that it benefits them. When something becomes more work than its perceived value, that’s when they’re out.
I don’t ask what will become of my marks when the assignment is complete. Sometimes they are the actual target, and sometimes they’re the means to an end. I don’t know which Elliot Parker is. Either way, my job is the same.
He isn’t sure whether I’ll be at the bar and that’s why I am. When he finally spots me, I’m thankful that he wastes no time getting down to business because, as usual, my mind is on getting home. I’m aware that if I turn up empty-handed it will only prolong the situation, and quite frankly, I need for this to work. I have to keep Sean happy, to the extent that such a thing is possible, if only to buy me time to figure out my next move. Of course, this means I’ll have to come up with a stellar excuse about why I didn’t go away with the mark as instructed. But there’s time for that.
I’ve intentionally left the bag my husband packed with my driver. My husband may be stronger than I am, and he may have more resources, but that does not make him smarter. If I’d shown up with a suitcase, Elliot Parker would have been put off and/or put on notice. Too much, too soon, as they say. With any seduction, it’s important that even the planned—especially the planned—seem spontaneous.
This is why I tell him I only have an hour. It keeps his expectations low, and it keeps him on edge. He doesn’t realize I’m lying because I’ve been truthful each time I’ve said it before. What I’m working here is a simple formula—a dance. Two steps backward, one step forward. If you’re not conscientious about varying the rhythm—if you let your partner become too proficient—they’ll soon grow bored and want to learn a new dance.
So far, so good. Tonight he’s quick to invite me up, and I’m quick to follow. “I want to teach you to have an orgasm,” he says as he closes the door to his apartment, and I realize my job could be a whole lot worse. It doesn’t hurt that I’m attracted to him. It’s a smoother ride when I don’t have to fake that.
“Any objections?”
I shake my head, and then I smile because I can tell he’s spent some time thinking it over. It’s good news; not only has he thought about me and about what he would say, he’s made plans, and his plans come neatly packaged with a clue about who he is and what he desires. Elliot Parker has a deep-seated need for approval. It doesn’t tell me why, exactly, but desire is a funny bea
st this way. He may not even know himself. It doesn’t matter, truthfully. He has a need, and I can fill it.
“This isn’t about me…” I say, baiting him.
“You’re right,” he offers. “But there’s no reason you shouldn’t benefit.”
“You’re different,” I reply, because everyone, man or woman, wants to hear this. As I set my handbag in his foyer, I scan the apartment. The sofa is gone. Apparently he is a man of his word. I don’t mention this, and I don’t ask questions. I know my place, and I’m not here to step outside of it.
I kick off my heels and walk over to where he’s standing. He runs his hands down the length of my arms. I wait for instruction. Rarely is it verbal.
He studies my face. The bruise is minimal, but it makes me self-conscious nonetheless. If he asks questions, I’ll have to offer a seed of truth. There’s a time for lies, and this isn’t it. Finally he takes my hand and leads me to a bedroom, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
He releases my hand just shy of the bed and peels me out of my clothes. There are no personal effects, so I doubt it’s where he sleeps. But you never know. When he’s finished undressing me, he steps back, giving me the once-over before crossing his arms. For a moment, I think he’s not sure what he wants, or maybe he’s going to call the whole thing off. Then he gets that look in his eyes—it’s one I know well. I can see the decision has been made; the plan is set. There’s no hesitation in his voice when he asks me to lie down, so I do. The watch on my wrist reads 6:28 p.m.
He doesn’t ask me what I like; he doesn’t have to. This is not good news, not for Elliot, and not for me. I may have been inexperienced coming in, but I’ve learned a lot in my time as a Siren for New Hope.
I’ve learned that desire comes in all degrees of intensity, and I’ve seen enough to know this is too much. The distance that separates pleasure from ecstasy, enjoying from craving, determines whether desire leads toward satisfaction or self-destruction. There is no in between, no margin for error. There can only be one person doing the latter here, and that person cannot be me.
At 7:12, he stops exploring and asks for another hour.
“I can’t,” I say, propping myself up on my elbows. He doesn’t seem surprised, and if he’s disappointed, he doesn’t show it.
“Do you have a preference?” he asks, hovering. “Any particular position?”
“No,” I reply, and maybe it’s the endorphins or maybe I’m getting sloppy, but the rest of it just slips out. “But I have to ask why you care?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “If I pay for something, I expect it to be good.”
“Show me,” I say, and he does.
At the door, Elliot stops me. “Is it that you avoid letting go on purpose or is it that you just can’t?”
“A little of both.”
He narrows his eyes. “Is that how it works?”
“How what works?”
“Is that how you get by?”
“Maybe,” I answer honestly. “It’s business, for me. All of it. Nothing more, nothing less.”
He looks away and then back. “If you could kill someone, how would you do it?”
I laugh, even though it isn’t funny. I’m not expecting the question, and it seems very out of context—but also like a warning. Truth is, I’ve been thinking about this myself. “I’d make it look like an accident, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
“I just want to see how you think.”
“You’re not paying me to think.”
“I could be.”
“No.”
“No, what? I haven’t even asked a question.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Have dinner with me.”
I check the time, even though it’s pointless. “Downstairs?”
“Is there somewhere else you’d rather go?”
“Anywhere else, in fact.”
He chuckles at that, and I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him laugh. “I think something new sounds perfect.”
“Good. I know a place…”
“Oh, but before I forget,” he says, holding out his phone. His eyes meet mine. “I never make the same mistake twice. I need your number.”
“Why?”
“Why else? To call you. What we have is not a very efficient method.”
“I’d say it was very efficient.”
He shoves the phone closer until I can’t not take it from him. “Just add it in. For scheduling purposes.”
I type in my number. I leave the name blank on purpose. He notices.
“I wasn’t a big fan of Amanda.”
“I could tell.”
“I was just wondering,” he says, glancing down at the phone and then back at me, “if I could call you Emily.”
I can’t tell whether or not he’s serious, but there’s something in his expression that I find off-putting. “My name is Vanessa.”
“Sure it is.”
He doesn’t believe me, which is smart. Vanessa wasn’t my given name; my parents were far too religious for that. It was the name I was assigned in Siren school, so I could become someone else, and not just in theory. This seems like more than he needs to know, so I raise my brow and finally offer a shrug. “I suppose Emily is as good as the next thing.”
He smiles. “You have no idea.”
“Where is this place?” he asks again. We’ve been driving for half an hour.
“East,” I say.
“You said that forty-five minutes ago.”
“Your math is a little off, but whatever. If you’re that hungry, take the next exit.”
“What is this place?” he asks, pulling off in the dirt.
“What does it look like? Read the sign. The Taco Shack. Best joint in town, if you ask me.”
“It looks like a trailer. “
“Yeah,” I say. “They make tacos. In a trailer.”
“I don’t eat in trailers.”
“Well, lucky for you, we’re not eating in the trailer. We’re eating over there.” I point at a picnic table.
“Two Crossroads and two t’s please,” I say to the lady at the counter.
“I’m not eating here.”
I laugh because he’s so adamant.
“Fine, suit yourself. Good thing I’m starving.”
“Starving is a bit of a stretch. I’ve seen real starvation. You’re overshooting it a bit, don’t you think?”
“When have you seen starvation?”
“In the lab.”
“Oh.”
He hands the lady a twenty. “What’s a T?”
“You’ll see.”
It takes twenty minutes for our order to arrive. We wait, mostly silently, on a picnic table under the stars. “It’s chilly out,” Elliot says eventually. He pulls off his coat and offers it to me, but I don’t take it. I don’t feel the cold.
Finally, the server arrives with a tray, and places two tacos and two shots of tequila in front of us. I pick one of them up and then nod at Elliot to lift the second for a toast. When he doesn’t, I shrug and toss mine back anyway. It feels smooth going down, too smooth. It warms me from the inside, spreading like vines until I feel like nothing and everything matters.
“I don’t drink.”
“Me either,” I say. “But I’ve never had anything like this.”
He stares at me intently, like he’s lost and is trying to place himself.
“Sometimes,” I say. “You just need to feel something.”
I watch as he fingers the glass, picks it up, and shoots it down.
“I think you’re right,” he tells me with a grimace. Then proceeds to eat one of the tacos and half of mine, too.
When we’re finished, he leans closer. “Stay with me tonight.”
“I—”
“I can pay you. It’s just…I don’t want to be alone.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t make the best decisions when left to my own devices.”
“Clearly,” I say,
gesturing at our empty trays.
He cocks his head. “Have you ever felt like folding?”
“Folding what?”
“You know, laying down your cards and packing it in.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
“No,” I tell him. “I don’t feel like packing it in. I don’t like losing.”
“Touché,” he says. “What do you say we go somewhere for the weekend and forget who we’re supposed to be?”
I couldn’t have said it better myself, but I don’t tell Elliot Parker this. Instead, I say, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Well for one, you’re married.”
“So?”
“So, I don’t do weekend jobs.”
“Not even if the price is right?”
“Not even then.”
“I can’t talk to my wife,” he says. “It’s a long story. And discretion is key.”
I’d really like to hear that story. “We can just as easily talk here.”
“Listen, Vanessa—I’d like to level with you.”
It’s not a good sign that he’s referring to me that way when he asked to call me something else. It means he’s dropped the illusion. “I’m listening.”
“I need to get away. I have a decision to make, and I want you to come with me. And I think if you really didn’t want to, you would have said no. But you haven’t said that exactly, have you?”
“What makes you think running is the answer?”
“I’m not running,” he sighs. “Just considering a change of scenery to alter my perspective. It’s a business decision, actually. And you seem to know a thing or two about that.”
He’s wrong on so many levels, but I don’t say this.
“Fine,” he says. “Also, I need to make my wife jealous. She left me.”
“Okay,” I say, because it seems like the first honest thing he’s said.
Chapter Twenty