by Cara Dee
I took a bite of my sandwich and glanced down at the tiny cars on the street.
Then I took a little tour of my new home and decided there was no reason for me to return to Brooklyn tonight. There was fresh linen on the bed, shower products and toiletries in the bathroom, and even some water, fruit, and snacks in the kitchen.
Exposed brick walls painted white, state-of-the-art kitchen appliances, the softest towels, tiny spotlights under the four kitchen cupboards… There was no TV, but I spotted an iPad on one of the nightstands. Was this some fucking hotel? No pun intended.
There was a note on the table, so I sat down with my Arby’s bag and pulled out my soda and fries too. No “dear guest” or “esteemed whore” or anything; it went straight to the Wi-Fi password and some instructions.
Before each meeting, all lights had to be turned off, and the blackout curtains—whoa, blackout curtains? I snapped my gaze to the windows, and wouldja look at that. I’d missed those before. Okay, I had to shut them before the mystery man arrived, and I had to put on the sleep mask that was located in the nightstand drawer.
I didn’t know if I was insulted by the instructions on how I should shower before the meetings too. Did the client think I was some filthy pig?
Maybe he was a germophobe.
All communication would go through the iPad, and there was a list of information I was supposed to send him. “No chitchat, please.” Jeez. Throwing some fries into my mouth, I walked over to the tablet and swiped on the screen. A test message had been sent already.
I sent him a couple messages with the details he’d requested. And no chitchat.
No allergies, I prefer oil-based lube or coconut oil, minimal scarring (I was a clumsy kid), no piercings, yes to tattoos—my right shoulder and down my arm.
Five foot ten, green eyes, brown hair, I’m 27, nonsmoker, yes to alcohol every now and then, no mental (or otherwise) disabilities, no trauma in the past, no triggers. I’m not on any medications, and my test results will be ready on Monday.
I cocked my head as the “Read” sign popped up at the bottom. Would he respond? Or was his fiancée handling this too? Would she respond? I returned to the table to finish my food, and I kept staring, kept waiting, until I realized that was it. No chitchat. He would sit on all the information and give nothing in return.
I huffed and took a swig of my soda.
Screw this, I had the right to ask for something too.
After finishing the last of my sandwich, I wiped the grease off my fingers and then typed in a message.
Your turn.
The standard “Delivered” never showed; it went to “Read” immediately, making me wonder if someone still had his messages open.
That someone started typing, and it tightened my stomach a bit.
Is Nick your real name?
Not what I expected. I wanted answers, dammit. I wanted at least a name and maybe…fuck if I knew, some personal info that gave me a clearer image of him. Right now, he was just a blob.
Nick was the name Tina used for my clients. Most sex workers I’d known went by fake names, and technically, I did too, ’cause it was assumed my real name was Nicholas when it was Nicola. But no one called me that.
I fired off a quick response.
It’s a version of my name. Some details about you wouldn’t hurt.
I set down the tablet and threw more fries into my mouth. He was typing, and time would tell if he would give me something or not. Part of me wanted to ask Tina, but that’d be a waste. No matter how little intel a client gave her, she always got enough to figure out who someone was, and she kept it to herself.
Just as I started chewing on the last of my fries, a rather lengthy text popped up.
My name is Gideon. I’m 44 years old, 6’4”, brown eyes, brown hair, and I don’t have any tattoos or piercings. I have Asperger’s and need to stay in control for this arrangement, so please let me set the pace. I will see you on Saturday night. Expect my instructions for the evening one hour before my arrival. That’s enough chitchat. Good night.
I raked my teeth along my bottom lip and read the message a couple more times. I had to admit I was intrigued. At my brother’s music academy, I sometimes came across an autistic student, and their way of thinking fascinated me. They often had a whole other world to show you; you just needed to tap into their language.
Gideon. All right, I was ready.
Chapter 2
“You’re not gonna tell Pop and Nonna about this, are you?” I lifted my T-shirt and wiped my forehead.
“Tell ’em what, that you’re leaving Brooklyn or that you’re turning tricks?”
I shot my brother a bitchy look, to which he laughed.
“Fuck no, I’m not telling them about a temporary move,” he chuckled.
Good. Whenever something major was happening, we told our family as little as possible. Nonna was a drama queen, and Pop hated change. Their entire world existed across the East River in the same neighborhood where they’d always lived. I remembered when Anthony moved ten minutes away and Nonna thought he was gonna forget about her.
We’d figured out the best way to keep her calm was to continue traditions from our childhoods. For instance, I still met up with Nonna once a week at Sahadi’s, not really for the shopping but for the company and so she could see that I was alive and well.
She had two gay grandsons and still believed we faced dangers on every street corner, even though Anthony had been out since he was like thirteen, approximately…many years ago… Fuck, I had to do math here. He was forty-two. He’d been out a long time, and yet Nonna never stopped worrying.
She was also a violent, scrappy little lady. She could wrap her fingers around a wooden spoon and go, “If you ever get bullied for the gay thing, I’ll mess a fucker right up.” Then she’d do the Sign of the Cross and send a quick apology to God for cursing.
The gay thing.
Never mind that my brother was six-two and had trained in kickboxing since he was ten; our five-foot-nothing little grandmother was gonna take care of any bullies. With a wooden spoon.
“Let’s order pizza.” There wasn’t much else to do. I’d set up my keyboard in the bedroom window, my clothes were stowed away in the closet, my guitar was under the bed, and I’d left some personal items in the nightstand drawer, in the bathroom, and on the kitchen counter. Because I wasn’t moving to Manhattan without my sundae glassware and collection of sauces and maraschino cherries.
“Do they have that here?” Anthony asked with a straight face.
I snorted and sat down at the table with my phone. “Ray’s delivers. Does that work for your highness?”
My family hated Manhattan, including Anthony, which made no sense. We were the Italian-Irish Americans who’d grown up in a Latin neighborhood in Williamsburg, the part that hadn’t been taken over by rich hipsters and artists. In short, we’d lived and breathed old-school culture and Catholicism our entire lives, and Anthony’s first words as a toddler had been, “I’m gonna leave this place one day.” Probably in Spanish. At least, according to Pop, and grumpy old men never exaggerated. But apparently, my brother’s idea of leaving was to move ten minutes south to Park Slope. Granted, Park Slope had a better LGBTQ community, not to mention house prices that made any queen gasp dramatically.
Anthony was dating one of those.
While I ordered us a large pie to share, he grabbed two beers from the fridge.
Speaking of Anthony’s queen… “Don’t tell Shawn I’m working for Tina again,” I said.
I wouldn’t trust that guy to keep it to himself.
“Give me some credit,” Anthony replied and cocked a brow. “Don’t mistake my silence for approval, though.”
I wasn’t. I knew he didn’t like it.
“I can handle your reluctant support a lot better than his catty digs,” I said. “Speaking of, when are you breaking up with him?”
He sighed heavily and patted his pockets, presumably for his smokes, b
ut he knew he couldn’t smoke here. “I thought we could skip that topic today.”
Fine, but I’d keep bringing it up. He and Shawn didn’t make sense. My brother was a mellow, rough-around-the-edges, sweet, jeans-and-T-shirt type of guy with a passion for music, woodworking, Sunday dinners with our family, and working with kids. Shawn was an egotistical diva who took advantage of the fact that Anthony was lonely.
My brother deserved better.
“I’ll try again soon,” I assured. “Maybe at dinner on Sunday.”
“Can’t wait.” He yawned and checked his phone. “Damn, it’s past ten already.”
Shit, really?
“You could take your slices to go,” I suggested, knowing he had work early. On Saturdays, he was in his workshop at the ass-crack of dawn to repair and sometimes build instruments. It was his side gig.
“I probably should.” He scrubbed a hand along his jaw and glanced over his shoulder. “It’s one hell of a view you got, though.”
I followed his gaze and looked out the window. “Yeah, it’s somethin’.” And tomorrow I’d block it out before Gideon arrived. Which reminded me… “Don’t you have a teenage student who’s autistic?”
I taught children of all ages at Anthony’s place, and it was always with the goal of them learning to play instruments. If they had a diagnosis, they were on the high-functioning sides of whatever spectrum.
Whereas Anthony had actually gone to college and used his degree in psychology to combine music with therapy. Or rather, music was a type of therapy, especially for children and teenagers with autism who found rhythm soothing.
“I have a few.” He lifted his brows a bit, maybe confused by the random topic change.
I went with the truth. “The client I’m seeing tomorrow is autistic, so I was wondering if you had any general advice.”
He shook his head slowly and rested his forearms on the table. “Nothing beyond what you already know. Ask before assuming, pay attention to his body language, and don’t initiate touch until he says it’s okay.”
A little bit of a problem there, considering I’d be blindfolded.
“How old is he?” Anthony asked.
“Forty-four,” I replied. “He said he’s got Asperger’s, but I thought you told me they stopped diagnosing that one.”
“It’s probably an older diagnosis, then.” He shrugged a little. “As long as you communicate properly, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
And what if what I called communicating, Gideon called chitchat?
Oh, whatever. Time would tell. It wasn’t my first rodeo, and I was good at reading people. Once upon a time, I’d been one of Tina’s most popular escorts. I was quick on my feet, and that helped.
By eight thirty the following evening, I was clean as a whistle and sitting on the edge of the bed, eating Chinese food naked. Asshole waxed, area around my cock trimmed, balls and face shaved. I was as cute as I was hot. Though, I doubted Gideon would take full advantage tonight since we weren’t getting the test results until Monday. But he was free to feel me up and explore good and proper.
I felt a sense of melancholy that I didn’t understand, but it could be the song playing on my laptop on the kitchen table. Anthony had sent me the live recording from our last gig, and the cover we’d played, “Cages,” was special to me. It wasn’t so much the lyrics as it was the two of us playing together. Up onstage was where I loved working with my brother the most.
I stuck some noodles into my mouth and caught sight of my reflection in the window as Anthony’s voice filled the air. He sang as if he’d been through all the circles of hell and come back to tell the world about it. It was both strong and raspy. A voice with a force to be reckoned with. Mine was gentler and lower, and I couldn’t hit the highest notes that he did with ease.
My reflection blended in with the city lights and the silhouettes of the skyscrapers, and I cocked my head and drew my hand through my hair. I was due for a cut soon, but I usually waited until Anthony pointed it out. Because he’d share some story of how I’d inherited our mother’s hair. It was wavier. Anthony would weave his fingers through it sometimes and smile a little in a way that told me he was thinking of her.
Then he’d say, “Time for a cut, bambino.”
These two months couldn’t go by fast enough. As much as I was loving living in my own apartment in Manhattan, my dream was to go into business with Anthony. With $20,000, we could expand. We could build the recording studio we had the equipment but no space for, we could hire another teacher and start more classes…
Still no rock in the pit of my stomach.
I was sure it had to do with my finally having a fucking plan.
The iPad lit up next to me, and I swallowed the food in my mouth and opened the message from Gideon.
Arriving at ten. This is a reminder to close the curtains and put on the sleep mask. Instructions for the evening: lie on your back on the bed, without any clothes or covers, and don’t make a sound or movement unless I ask you a direct question or something is wrong. Please confirm.
The melancholy took a hike and was replaced by a familiar thrill I hadn’t felt since I first began working for Tina.
There was a possibility I would actually find this exciting.
I responded after sticking half an egg roll into my mouth.
Understood. Curtains closed, mask on, no covers, no sound, no movement.
Here we go.
He hadn’t mentioned anything about the light, so I left the one on the nightstand on, because I didn’t think Gideon would arrive with night-vision goggles. Then I folded down the duvet on the bed and took my spot in the middle. The sleep mask sat snugly and didn’t allow for any peeking; I couldn’t even see anything along the edges.
Deep breaths.
I relaxed against the mattress and tried to push away those invasive, obsessive thoughts that tended to creep in before I met a new client. The panicky ones that yelled that Gideon could be a serial killer or kidnapper. That kind of shit.
Deep breaths.
I adjusted my pillows and suppressed a shiver. It wasn’t warm enough in the apartment to walk around naked forever.
Any minute now.
Deep breaths.
The sound of a key turning in the lock sent my pulse through the roof. This was it. He was here. The door opened and closed, and the lock was twisted again. Madonn’, it was difficult to lie still, knowing he was probably watching me.
At the same time, it was thrilling. I wasn’t bad to look at.
He walked closer. The sound was familiar; he wore dress shoes, not sneakers or anything like it. Dress shoes against wooden floors. Then he stopped, and a chair was pulled out. There was some fabric rustling. It was insane how heightened my senses became when I couldn’t use my eyes.
I had to remind myself to breathe calmly.
Another few steps closer brought him to the alcove, and I didn’t know what to expect, but I tensed up for a second when the bed dipped and he sat down on the edge next to me. The anticipation was going to fucking kill me. Was he a rough kind of man? Was he gentle? Cautious? Nervous? I could barely remember my own exploring of guys. Since Anthony was fifteen years older than me, he’d been out for as long as I’d been alive, and it’d been normalized in our home. I just knew one day that I was into men, and there’d been no stigma. It hadn’t felt weird to explore, no more than what most went through. Teenage nerves, but never fear. I’d been lucky.
If Gideon was using a sex worker at the age of forty-four to explore, something told me he didn’t have the easy background that I did, sexuality-wise.
He lowered his hand carefully onto my thigh, and as soon as I felt his fingers trembling, my own nerves took a hike.
If I concentrated hard, I could hear his unsteady breathing.
Instinct told me to help him, to reassure him, to guide him, but that would go against the rules, and I had no idea how he’d react. Two months was quite a while; it was probably better to be patient and win
his trust.
He stroked my thigh slowly, down to my knee, then up until his fingertips teased my hip. “You’re incredibly beautiful.”
Fuck me, so was his voice. He’d spoken too quietly, but there was no mistaking a solid, warm, masculine voice.
I exhaled as he slid his hand across my abs.
I wasn’t sure anyone had ever called me beautiful. Hot, sexy, handsome, attractive, cute—never beautiful. The word felt different. It didn’t settle within me like most compliments did.
The scent of his cologne reached me when his hand shifted up to my chest, and it was as mouthwatering as the best kind of porn. It matched his voice, however that was possible.
Not giving a fuck about how shallow it made me, I hoped he didn’t tell me to lose the mask, because there was no way his appearance would live up to the sound of him and his scent.
He took his time touching me, and I had to admit it felt hella amazing. Foreplay and sensuality were lost arts. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d been with someone who wasn’t impatient in bed.
He drew in a breath and cautiously dipped his hand between my legs.
I felt my jaw tick with tension, because I had to struggle to remain still. The fucker was getting to me. It was hot. And I hadn’t gotten laid in ages.
For each minute that went by, he became more at ease with touching me. I hoped he read my body and knew he was turning me on. There was no hiding the goose bumps or the shivers. Or the fact that my cock was getting harder.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get more difficult to keep still and quiet, two sounds proved me wrong. Gideon was unbuckling his belt using only one hand, and that was followed by a zipper being pulled down.
Did he not want me to please him? He was the one paying me. I could be on my knees with his cock down my throat right now.
He withdrew his hand and rose from the bed. The rustling of fabric was enough to let me know he was shedding his clothes, and I wondered if he was gonna speak again anytime soon. Did he even have a plan? If I wasn’t mistaken, autistic people liked planning ahead.
