by Shayne Ford
I look back at him.
“What are the odds of me finding you?” I ask.
Really. What are they?
“Call it luck,” he says as he peers over his shoulder and backs the car away.
Smoothly, he steers his ride toward the exit before we roll out of the parking lot.
“Why a sports car?” I ask, taking inventory of the elegant interior of his ride.
“It’s a matter of preference. I always take personal taste over convenience.”
“Oh, I see...” I murmur, smiling secretly.
He shoots me a side glance.
“Am I a matter of personal taste as well?” I ask.
He lowers his eyelids and slants his gaze down, taking me in with hooded eyes.
A seductive smile crawls on his lips.
“It’s an interesting way of putting it,” he says, studying my face for a moment.
Slowly, the car rolls onto the snowy road. The traffic is light, the scenery beautiful.
I shift my gaze to the window.
“I never thought that I’d like New York in the winter,” I murmur as I let my gaze sweep the buildings and the streetlights.
“When did you move here?”
I shift my eyes to him.
“A few years back. I moved here for college.”
He doesn’t say a word or looks at me, suddenly sunk in thought.
“I was born in Colorado,” I say.
“No way.”
This time he glances at me. Surprise reads in his eyes.
“Uh-huh.”
“What part of Colorado?” he asks.
“Not far from Aspen.”
“That’s a beautiful area.”
“Yes, it is. Have you been there?”
He clicks his tongue, his eyes set on the road.
“Nope.”
I stare at him for a few good moments, but he no longer shifts his gaze to me. It takes mere minutes before he pulls the car in front of a boutique hotel.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” he says as he slides the door open.
The valet rushes to the car.
Christian steps out. I follow his example.
The royally lit hotel brings back a memory, and for a moment, I stare at the entrance and the stairs.
And then I remember.
This is the place where I ran into Rain by accident a few years back–– the same spot where she used to meet her clients.
That day I was waiting for a friend. We were supposed to study together. Rain was climbing these very stairs. She was dressed like a movie star.
My thoughts turn quiet as I hear the valet greeting Christian.
“Good evening, Sir,” the man says before he rushes to take a seat behind the wheel.
My musings fall to the side for good when Christian takes my hand and walks me up to the stairs.
His manners are impeccable, his touch so easy to get addicted to.
Moments later, we enter the hotel, shed our coats, and hand them to the coat girl.
The lobby is washed with light, the large mirrors reflecting it over the furniture and luscious plants, and also the salt and pepper pattern tiles.
The concierge clerk greets us from behind his desk.
My ears perk up when I hear him addressing Christian as if he knows him.
“Are you staying here?” I ask, baffled.
“Yes.”
He smiles as he delivers his swift answer, but things make even less sense in my mind right now.
Something about this story doesn’t quite jibe.
He lives large, and yet it’s an impermanent living.
He lives like someone who is in transit. Someone who can pick up and leave at a moment’s notice.
I find it strange.
The bar we enter is prettier than I imagined. Reminiscent of the old world, it fashions a stocked bar with mirrors, barstools, round cherrywood tables and matching chairs, small lamps, and fragrant candles.
A piano sits in the corner, the piano player–– a man who seems completely disconnected from his surroundings, playing a mellow tune.
A few people occupy seats at the tables while a few more sit at the bar. Something tells me that most of them are guests of the hotel. They all speak softly, here and there a chuckle vibrating in the air.
“It’s a nice place,” I say as he shows me to a table in the corner.
Outside the wall of windows, I spot an open terrace.
My eyes linger on the snow-covered benches, flurries dancing in the cones of light.
He pulls my chair out for me and waits for me to lower myself in my seat before he sits across from me.
A waitress nears the table.
“What would you like to drink?” Christian asks me.
I check the long list of cocktails on the menu.
“What would you recommend?”
“What kind of girl you are?” he asks.
I lift my gaze.
“What do you mean?”
“Fruity? Chocolaty? More alcohol? Less?”
“I like sweets. And I’m not good with alcohol.”
He shifts his gaze to the waitress and orders a Rumchata Hot Cocoa for me, and a spiced mulled wine for him.
The woman retreats while I take in the interior.
The space is dimly lit and intimate, the combination of wooden furniture and plush upholstery giving it a warm cozy feeling.
“I like this place,” I mutter. “It has a lot of personality.”
“Like you,” he says, the compliment sounding sincere, although it’s textbook flattery.
But I’ll take it. It feels good.
“Tell me more,” I murmur. “About my personality,” I add, tossing him a flirty smile.
He looks down briefly, a fiery smile curving his sensual lips.
He reminds me of James so much.
“How do you know about my personality?” I tease him, hoping to make him talk.
“You’ve never done this before, have you?”
My smile breaks into smithereens.
He lifts his gaze, his chin still tilted down, his eyes shooting questions at me.
“Hiring a man for sex,” he says, finally straightening his back and tipping his face up, looking down his nose at me.
A sly smile grows on his lips, his eyes glinting, shadowed by his lashes when an alarm goes off in my head,
He. Is. So. Much. Out. Of. My. League.
A blush spreads across my cheeks, tickling my skin.
“There was someone else before you. I told you already.”
He weighs me with his eyes for a few seconds.
“You haven’t been with anyone, hired or not hired in a while.”
That leaves me breathless.
“It’s not that I wasn’t with anyone,” I protest.
“You tried to, but it didn’t work out.”
“How do you know?”
A secret smile lines his lips.
Oh... Of course, he does.
“Women don’t hire escorts purely for sex. So it’s not so hard to figure it out.”
“That’s what you learned from your clients.”
He laughs.
“That’s what my experience taught me,” he says, keen to rephrase what I just said.
“So why do they hire men when they should have access to them without paying for it?”
He slides his elbows onto the table, leaning slightly forward, closer to me.
“I don’t know their exact reasons but I have a good idea about yours.”
I study him, half embarrassed, and half curious.
Tilting my head to the side, I offer him a smile.
“Do you care to share?” I ask.
“What about... I’ll show it to you when the time is right,” he says, adding to the mystery.
I part my lips ready to ask another question when the waitress nears our table, bringing our order.
She sets the Rumchata Hot Cocoa and the
spiced mulled wine on the table.
Next to them, she places a plate of cookies.
“This is on the house,” she says, smiling. “Enjoy,” she adds before she pulls away.
15
EVE
The aroma of sweet wine blends with the smell of chocolate, cinnamon, and vanilla, the enticing scent drifting over the table.
I lift my mug to my lips.
First, I get a taste of the caramel and then the smooth, silky melted chocolate–– a mix of cream, sugar, milk, cocoa, and Rumchata liqueur.
My lip sinks into the whipped cream sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon.
Oh, this is delicious.
He observes me from above the rim of his cup.
“How is it?”
“Mmmm... It’s so good,” I say before I take another sip.
I set my cup down and pick a cookie from the plate.
Dipped in chocolate, the dessert has bits of cranberries and walnuts in it.
“Mmmm... This is good too,” I say, chewing slowly. “Now I know why you said that you take personal taste over convenience. This is a nice place to live in.”
“Yeah...” he says softly, setting his drink down.
“How come you live in a hotel?”
His eyes turn darker for a moment.
“Circumstances,” he says laconically.
I finish eating my cookie before I brush the crumbs off my hands.
“How long have you been doing this?’
I realize that he is sunk in thought only when he lifts a blank stare at me.
“What?”
For a moment, he looks at me, confused.
“What are you talking about?” he continues.
“The escort thing. How long have you been doing it?”
“Not for long,” he says, gauging my reaction.
“Was it hard to get started in this business?”
A more relaxed expression slides onto his face.
“Not harder than anything else.”
“But why?”
A mysterious smile creases his lips.
“It’s a fun way to make money.”
I hold his eyes for a few moments before I tip my chin down, my cheeks flushed.
“What about you? What tipped the scale and made you opt for paid sex?”
I raise my eyes and lift my finger.
“Paid sex that I haven’t had yet,” I say, grinning amused.
His eyes blaze sheer heat as he observes me.
“It was a longtime dream of mine,” I confess.
I pause for a second while he studies me intrigued.
It takes a brief moment before we break into laughter.
“No, no... It was,” I say jokingly.
“How come?”
“I had a friend who used to be an escort.”
His lips purse, his eyebrows flicking up.
“Hmm.”
“Yeah.”
“How did he get into this business?”
“It’s a she.”
His lips part in genuine surprise.
“Interesting,” he says, bringing his drink to his lips.
I search his eyes for a moment.
“She didn’t plan on going into this business, but the man she was in love with broke her heart, and it was, um... Well, it was a complicated story. She lost her family support and needed to make some extra money to survive. ”
“Is she the writer?”
“Yes. She is my best friend. Anyway, I’ve always admired her for being bold enough to push through and survive without losing her heart. Looking back, I realize that I romanticized her life, but only because I was affected by her story. My life wasn’t as tumultuous as hers. While I was making safer choices, I didn’t get much in return. Eventually, the man she was in love with won her back, but not before she crushed his heart.”
“What happened to him?”
I smile.
“They’re still together. They've been married for a few years, still in love with each other. I’ve never seen a happier couple.”
I spend another second studying his face, tempted to tell him how much he looks like the man in question.
I know it’s a bad idea, so I swing my gaze down and pick another cookie from the plate.
His phone begins to hum as I start to munch on the sweet treat. He takes the call and starts talking.
Guarded, he glances at me from time to time.
I can’t tell if the other person is a man or a woman, but it sounds like they discuss a business matter.
My eyes move away from him for a few moments, my gaze hovering over the bar.
Two men sit on the barstools at the counter.
One of them roots his eyes to Christian while he mutters something to his friend. The second man swivels his head in our direction too before they both study my companion.
“Yeah, sure... Mmm-hmm,” Christian mutters on the phone, looking at me. “I’ll be there.”
He hangs up and slides his phone onto the table.
“Do you want anything else?” he asks.
“No, I’m good.”
He signals to the waitress and asks for the check.
She spins around and makes a beeline for the counter when the two males snag my gaze again.
Christian doesn’t seem to be paying attention to them, or so I think.
Just as I move my eyes to his face, I catch him flicking his gaze from the bar to the table as well as if he just noticed the two men.
He pushes the chair back.
“You know what? I’ll pay at the bar,” he mutters as he pushes to his feet.
“Sure,” I say, swinging my eyes up, and taking him in as he swaggers to the counter.
The men’s faces light up with recognition as he nears the bar.
One of them slides off the barstool while the other shifts in his seat.
“I can’t believe it, man. The Thunder himself,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. “I’ve heard rumors that you are in New York. I’m Josh. This is my friend, Martin,” he adds, stretching his hand out. “We were talking about you, man.”
I read sheer admiration in the man’s eyes as Christian shakes hands with them.
Christian broad shoulders block my view when he starts talking to them. He speaks in a low voice, his words not making it across the room.
I start to fidget in my seat.
One of the men tilts his head to the side and sneaks a glance at me while Christian still chats with them.
The man perked up on the barstool retrieves a pen from his pocket and a piece of paper that looks like a business card.
He hands them both to Christian who scribbles something on the piece of paper.
A few seconds later, Christian leaves cash on the counter, shakes hands with them one last time and heads back to me.
“Ready?” he asks as he stops next to the table.
“Um... Yes.”
Suddenly, I sense him in a rush.
He offers me his hand, helps me out of my seat, and walks me out of the bar. The men‘s eyes stay on us until we exit the room.
“What was that?” I ask a few moments later as we climb into his car.
I fasten my seat belt.
He turns the engine on.
“What?” he mutters as he looks at his left and steers the car away.
I shift in my seat, my gaze rooted to him.
He avoids my eyes.
I think he knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“Were you signing an autograph or something?”
He glances at me and smiles.
“What makes you say that?” he asks before he trains his eyes on the road.
“Who is The Thunder?”
A smile climbs on his lips.
“My nickname. What are we doing?” he asks, moving his eyes to my phone.
“I’m running a search on it.”
He laughs.
“No fucking search,” he says as he jokingly snatches my phone and sli
ps it into his pocket.
Frozen, I look at him.
He shoots me another glance.
“No searches,” he says with a softer voice.
“Okay. But only for now,” I say.
Smiling, he flicks his eyes back to the road.
“Where do you live?” he asks, shying away from the topic.
I give him the directions to my place.
“You’re not living far from me,” he says, still trying to change the conversation.
“A nickname for what?” I ask, ignoring his maneuver.
Grinning, he bites the inside of his cheek.
“The stuff that I do on the side.”
“What stuff?”
“I have a lot of passions,” he says humorously, throwing a charming smile in my direction.
“Aside from women?”
“Aside from what I do for a living.”
“Women,” I insist.
“Keeping company to women,” he corrects me.
“What passions?”
“Writing, drawing...”
He pauses for a moment and tosses me another glance.
“Is that what the nickname is for?”
His eyes narrow with a smile.
“Mmm-hmm.”
He’s not telling me the truth, but I stop digging any further.
If he wants to keep it private, he must have his reasons.
We travel in silence for the rest of our trip.
Once my building enters my line of sight, I pick up my coat and my bag.
“You can stop over there,” I say, pointing at the entrance.
I sound cold and pissed.
He ignores my comment, finds a parking spot, turns the engine off, and slips out of the car as soon as I open the door.
He rounds his ride, and offers me his hand, helping me out.
A small smile sits on his lips.
“Don’t be mad at me.”
“I am not mad at you. You have no idea how I am when I am mad at someone.”
“I can imagine,” he says, taking my hand.
My fingers warm up in the bed of his palm.
My heart warms up too.
The little things that he does soften me every time.
He walks me to the building, pushes the door open, and invites me in.
“What floor?” he asks, heading to the elevator with me in tow.
Is he really coming to my place? He didn’t even ask me.
“Um...”
“Floor,” he says, his gaze spending a moment on my parted lips.