by T. K. Leigh
“Yes,” I breathe.
He brings a hand to my face, cupping my cheek. I fuse into the contact, closing my eyes. “Even though that’s all this will ever be?”
His voice is soft and timid, almost as if he doesn’t want that any more than I do. I wish I understood why he seems to deprive himself of love, of happiness. But now’s not the time for that conversation.
“I don’t care about that,” I insist. “All I care about is this, right now.” I bring my lips back to his, skimming them. I feel him harden against me. “You taught me that, Julian. You taught me it’s okay to live in the moment, to stop planning for every minute of every day. And right now, in this moment, I just want to kiss you.” I swallow hard, grateful he can’t see the truth in my eyes. “Nothing more.”
“Nothing more?”
“Nothing more,” I confirm.
“Nothing more.”
There’s something in his voice as he repeats our promise to each other. Sadness. Remorse. A reminder. I can’t quite pinpoint what it is. Before I can dissect it further, he loops his arm around my waist and flips me onto my back, hovering over me.
I’m breathless from the sudden shift, my heart rate spiking. As our eyes meet, I smile a small smile, a glow washing over me. He rests his elbow by my head, leaning toward me. Then he kisses me, fully, madly, completely, reminding me why I chose this path, why I want to live in the moment.
Because this moment is everything.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Monday morning, I walk into the office with a smile on my face, still in the clouds from my weekend of making out with Julian. After these past few days, I doubt anything can burst my bubble. It was one of the most enjoyable weekends I can remember in recent history. It allowed me a peek into yet another side of Julian Gage…the real Julian Gage.
We got up to watch the sunrise over the ocean. He made me breakfast. We walked along the beach, fingers intertwined. He even took me to some local bars most of the people in his circle would never be caught dead in. We ate fish sandwiches as he shared stories of going there with Christopher during his college days. Throughout the weekend, it felt like we were a real couple, especially when he’d steal a kiss as we cooked dinner together, or lounged by the pool, or sunbathed on his boat.
By the time he dropped me off at Chloe’s apartment, leaving me with a sweet goodbye kiss, I didn’t think anything could dampen the high I’d been on…until I sit down at my desk and open my latest draft of the August Laurent feature and am reminded of how lackluster this story is. Julian’s kisses are magical and make me feel things I never thought possible. But they can’t fix this. Only I can.
So that’s what I attempt to do, spending hours toiling over my notes, looking for anything that could spice up a story that should sell itself, but it still falls flat. It’s nothing more than a piece about how a man went from helping a friend at a wedding to being a highly sought-after escort, empowering women who are going through a difficult breakup or divorce, making them feel beautiful again. Why? Why would a woman believe she has no other option but to hire him? And why does he do this? Why does he sacrifice having a personal life of his own to help women, help strangers?
I’m about to throw in the towel and refocus my attention on writing articles for my column when I hear a ping from my computer, indicating an incoming message. I glance at the alert on my screen, my breath hitching when I see it’s from August Laurent.
Navigating toward my email program, I find the message and click on it, bracing myself for him to back out of the article altogether.
To: Evie Fitzgerald
From: August Laurent
Subject: On Second Thought…
Dear Miss Fitzgerald,
I hope this message finds you well. I’d like to apologize for my somewhat rash behavior as of late. I was quick to shoot down your request to interview some of my past clients without giving it the careful consideration it deserves. I’ve spent the weekend doing just that, and after reading a rough draft of the article you sent with your latest email, I’m in agreement with you. It’s missing something.
Attached is a list of times and locations for four interviews I’ve set up between you and a few of my former clients. I hope speaking with these four women in particular will give you a greater insight into why I do what I do, more so than I’ve been able to provide you.
I look forward to reading a revised draft of your story upon completion of the interviews.
All the best,
A
A renewed hope builds inside me as I click on the attached document. When it pops up, I scan the contents. It’s a simple one-page file, but in that one page is everything I’ve been searching for. I get to work, alerting Viv to this new development so she can have the proper legal documentation drawn up. Before I know it, it’s past two and I’m rushing out of the office to get to my first interview.
When the cab slows to a stop in front of a five-story brownstone in the Upper West Side a few minutes before three, I crane my head, my mind reeling. I have no idea who I’m about to meet, considering the document August sent only contained places and times, no names. Based on this house, whoever I’m here to see has money…and a lot of it.
After I pay the driver, I step out of the cab, double checking the address on the bronze plate beside the door with the one August provided. It matches.
Taking a deep breath, I ascend the steps, doing my best to settle my nerves at the idea of walking into a situation I doubt anyone can properly prepare for. I press the buzzer, then smooth the lines of my dress as I listen for footsteps. After a few seconds, the door opens, revealing an older woman I estimate to be in her sixties. Her hair is short and graying, her face devoid of any heavy makeup.
“Hi, I’m Evie—”
“Yes. Yes. I’m Margaret, the housekeeper. Come in. Come in.” She ushers me inside, quickly closing the door behind me and leading me through the foyer. I barely have a chance to take in the ostentatious surroundings of the late nineteenth-century home as I’m led into a small cage elevator. I can just imagine the parties the walls of this house have probably seen during its time.
“I’ve never seen one of these,” I comment, running my finger along the intricate latticework of the screen door. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s the original elevator. The motor and cables have been replaced over the years, but the owner insisted the house retain its original charm. Too many people buy these homes, gut them, then design them in a style in complete contradiction to the history within. If you want sleek lines and modern furnishings, buy an apartment in Central Park West. Don’t buy one of these historic homes and destroy it.”
I love the passion with which she speaks. I surmise this isn’t the first house she’s been in charge of. Hell, just a few months ago, I wouldn’t have known how to act in the presence of a housekeeper or head of household staff. Now I do. I’ve had the pleasure of being waited on hand and foot all summer, thanks to Julian. Although those days are numbered.
“And who exactly is the owner of this home?”
“You’ll see.”
“So much secrecy.”
“It’s for good reason.” Margaret narrows her gaze on me. It’s a look of warning, telling me whatever I’m about to learn will make me rethink everything, open my eyes to what’s truly going on.
The elevator slows to a gradual stop on the top floor and we exit into the hallway, which is bathed in natural light. I follow Margaret toward a sunroom, then step onto a rooftop terrace.
If it weren’t for the woman sitting at an outdoor patio set, I would have taken a moment to soak in the stunning views of New York City, the Hudson to the west and Central Park to the east. But as I slowly walk toward the poised woman sipping her tea, I’m speechless.
I rewind to the information Sadie shared with me at the Red, White, and Blue Gala, thinking her story about Sonia Moreno was just sensationalized gossip. Now I know it’s not.
Not when I’m staring at Sonia herself
.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“So you’re Guinevere Fitzgerald.” It’s a statement, her tone showing her knowledge of me isn’t tied to the article I’m writing about August Laurent, but because of my connection to the world in which she normally resides during the summer months.
“Sonia…,” I breathe, momentarily dumbstruck. Her dark hair falls to her mid-back, barely a strand out of place. She wears a fitted, thigh-length black shift dress, her skin olive-toned and tanned. From what I know of her, she’s around my age, but has a sophistication that makes her seem older, even if she doesn’t look it. “I mean, Ms. Moreno.” I reach my hand toward her and she takes it, her hold delicate. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”
“You, as well.” A hint of her Spanish accent comes through. “Please…” She gestures to the chair across from her, indicating for me to sit down.
“Is there anything else you need, Ms. Moreno?” Margaret asks.
“We’re okay for now.”
“Very well. Call if anything comes up.”
“Certainly.” Sonia offers the woman a smile as she turns from us, then focuses her attention back on me. “Tea?” She raises the teapot.
“That would be lovely.”
Lovely? I don’t even sound like myself. I’ve never called something lovely, apart from a brief period during high school when I became obsessed with all things related to British literature. I refused to speak in anything but a British accent, which I’m sure sounded horrendous when coupled with my subtle Midwestern tone.
Sonia pours a bit of tea into a small cup, then places it on a china saucer with a floral design, handing it to me.
“I have to say,” she begins as she leans back in her chair, bringing her tea to her lips, “I was quite surprised to learn August had agreed to an interview, considering how private he is.”
“I’ve assured him I’ll protect his anonymity, along with everyone else I speak with. This isn’t a sensational story meant to reveal who the mysterious August Laurent is. It’s simply a piece about the man, what makes him tick, why he does what he does…” I hesitate before adding, “Why women feel compelled to use his services.”
“Well, now that I see you and realize who you are, it makes sense.”
Her statement catches me off-guard. “Who I am?”
“Of course.”
I shake my head, placing my cup back onto the table in front of me. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“You are dating Julian Gage, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Normally, I probably would have thought it odd that a complete stranger…a celebrity, no less…would be familiar with my personal life. But there’s been nothing private about that this summer, not with all the photos of Julian and me that have graced the pages of the gossip websites.
She squints, studying me, as if attempting to put a puzzle together. Then her expression brightens. “Well, that must be why August agreed. He probably saw you with him and figured if anyone would understand, it would be someone who’s been thrust into the lifestyle.”
“And why is that important?” I lower my voice. “Are many of his clients from this…lifestyle?”
“You mean famous?”
“Yes.”
“Some are. Some are ordinary housewives.”
“And they can afford his fee?”
“What fee?”
“His fee…” My words lack the conviction I wish they had. I want to kick myself for never asking him about this. I assumed he charged. It never even crossed my mind he didn’t. My curiosity only grows. Why would he do this if he wasn’t getting paid?
“He doesn’t ask for a single dime in return for his services.”
My jaw becomes slack as I swallow hard. “He doesn’t?”
“Not anymore. Yes, August Laurent was, at one time, a bona fide escort, but several years ago, it turned into something more. It’s no longer about the money. It’s about something bigger.”
That’s all it takes for me to become enthralled with this story, my mind spinning from this small piece of information, something I could have learned if I’d known to ask.
“Do you mind if I record this?” I swiftly remove my phone from my purse. “Your identity will never be revealed and the recordings never published. I just don’t want to miss anything or get something wrong.”
“August mentioned I’d get approval before publication?”
“Absolutely.” I retrieve a document the legal team gave me and push it across the table toward her. “Everything’s stated in there. Essentially, I’ll never disclose anything to anyone without your approval. Anything published in the article will be done in a way to ensure no one can connect you to this story. And you’ll get approval rights. If we publish anything you disagree with, you can sue the magazine for everything it’s worth.”
She scans the papers, her eyes glossing over the legalese before she returns her attention to me. “Okay. You can record this.”
“Thank you.” I open the voice recorder app on my phone and place it on the table. I pull out my notepad to take notes of our conversation, as well. I scratch the date on the top of a fresh piece of paper, then look up at Sonia. “How did you meet August Laurent?”
She smiles, contemplating. “I think a better question might be how I met my husband.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes. Had I never met Ethan Price…or, as the world knows him, Ethan Ludlow…I never would have needed August Laurent.”
“Okay.” A chill trickles down my spine. “How did you meet your husband?”
“It’s your typical Hollywood romance. I was an actress trying to catch my big break. And Ethan was a big shot producer who could make those dreams happen. We met at a cliché party in the Hollywood Hills. The guest list included a mixture of nobodies dying to be somebodies, and somebodies who wanted to take advantage of those nobodies. I just didn’t realize that then.”
“Is that what happened? Did Ethan take advantage of you?”
“Not at first, no.” She looks into the distance, as if recalling happier times. “He was sweet, exactly as I thought he’d be from the characters he played on the sitcom when he was a young boy. Back then, he had a reputation in Hollywood as being down-to-earth and compassionate, someone who would bend over backwards to help those he cared about. And he cared about me, a girl who left a small town in Texas to chase her dreams in Hollywood. He made those dreams come true.
“Those first few years, I was so wrapped up in everything that I missed the little signs. I made excuses, saying he was just under stress, or I shouldn’t have been so friendly to one of his associates, or I should’ve worn a less revealing dress. I was only twenty-one when we met. He was forty-five. I figured the tension could have just been due to the age difference. Regardless, with his name attached to mine, I started getting calls for auditions. And not just crap, two-bit parts like before. These were real roles, ones that eventually made me a household name.”
Instead of smiling, as one would think when telling the story of how she finally achieved everything she could have imagined, her expression falls, her lips forming a tight line as her chin trembles.
“What happened?”
“About five years ago, I was in romantic comedy where I played opposite Matthew McConaughey. It was one of the biggest hits of the year. Made millions. Before then, I was known as Ethan Ludlow’s girlfriend. After that, I was simply Sonia Moreno. Worse…” Her voice becomes strained through the obvious lump in her throat. “He became known as Sonia Moreno’s boyfriend.”
“I take it he didn’t like the blow to his ego.”
She laughs slightly, crossing her legs in a practiced way that makes it appear smooth and swanlike. “He certainly did not. How would you feel if you were a child star desperately trying to stay relevant as a producer and director and your newbie girlfriend was now more popular than you ever were?” She brings her tea back to her mouth, taking a sip. I do the same, allowing her a moment to collect her though
ts.
“He increasingly grew more and more controlling, possessive, angry. I couldn’t even give an interview without him having a meltdown over something I said, regardless of how meaningless it was. He found something wrong in everything, something to make him think I was being unfaithful, that I was going to leave him. I insisted I’d never leave him, that I owed him everything, that I loved him. Because I honestly thought I was to blame for his insecurity, I did what I thought I had to in order to fix it and assure him he was the only man I wanted.
“So the next week, we boarded a plane to Bora Bora and got married in front of our other celebrity friends. It was so different from the wedding I imagined when I was a little girl.”
“Why was that?”
Her eyes light up at my question. All women love talking of their childhood fantasies. It brings us back to that time in our lives when we believed the world was our oyster.
“I’d always envisioned marrying the man of my dreams in the church in Mexico where my parents said their vows, then have a reception at this gorgeous restored farm near my grandparents’ house there. Instead, our guests were Hollywood types there just to say they were. I remember having second thoughts, thinking I could just fly away and start over again, but it seemed impossible. I was too recognizable. I couldn’t disappear. It was the first time I felt trapped. And that only increased over the years.
“Don’t get me wrong. Ethan and I had some wonderful times, times when I did love him. There were moments he was so full of life and excitement. But as I learned, for every up, there would eventually be an even bigger down. And when that happened, it was near impossible to reason with him. He’d find something lacking with me, something that made him lose his mind. In those moments of mania, I believed that to be the case, believed I was at fault.”
I lick my lips as I prepare to ask my next question. “Did he hurt you?”
She lowers her eyes, nodding slightly.