by Emily N. Kay
The Unexpected You
By Emily N. Kay
Copyright © 2017 by Emily N. Kay
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 1
“I have to say––you’re very impressive––for a newbie,” the client says as he hands me a 100-dollar bill.
I look at the banknote in front of me. This is what I’m worth to him––an extra hundred dollars. I take the money. I earn this.
“Oh, I wish I could have done more,” I say in what I think is my most seductive voice and flash my best smile at the tall man.
We are standing in the parking lot of a five-star hotel located in the central of Queens, New York City. My leather jacket starts to feel sticky on my bare shoulders in this chilly weather. And that’s when I know I’m starting to sweat.
“Would you?” His eyes glint at the suggestion.
How predictable.
I laugh softly. “I’m just playing with you, George. You know the rules.” I wave him goodbye with a smile. “Have a safe ride.”
George sighs and drops his head, the gray in his hair visible even in the dark. “You got me, Alice.” He smiles, but I can see the disappointment in his dark eyes. “You sure you don’t want me to drop you off somewhere?”
“No, thanks. I’ll manage.” I wave at him for the second time, signaling that it’s time for him to leave.
“All right then.” He gets in his car and takes off.
I wait until the black Ford is out of my sight before I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Another client. My third client. Done.
“And I’m still alive,” I whisper to myself.
I know what I’m doing is fucked up as it is dangerous. But it also gives me such satisfying feeling once it’s over. I clench the bill in my hand as a reassurance that this is worth it.
The elevator door opens. An old couple immediately stops talking once they see me stepping in. I lower my gaze and smile a little. They are watching me––at a girl who can’t be older than twenty-one dressing in a tight black dress with shiny, black high heels. I pretend to not notice their piercing stares, or the sudden halt in their conversation the whole way down.
The moment I step off the elevator, my phone buzzes. And there it is: 450$ has been transferred to your account.
That’s fast. I smile widely at the screen. Three hours spent with that middle-age guy and here it is––my reward.
It’s a simple math. As a newbie, I’m getting forty percent of the total payment, the agency gets another fifty, and Lacey as my manager gets ten.
Lacey, my best friend’s older cousin, is one of the managers for Vixens, the escort agency that I’m under. She had said to me on the phone, “Don’t worry, you’ll earn up to fifty later. If––you do it long enough. And––if the clients like you enough.” Yes. The clients will give me feedback after each performance. Yikes.
When I’m done changing my outfit, I look at myself in the mirror––now in a plain, white t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans. Still looking like a hooker. With that thought, I decide to put my dark locks up into a high ponytail, then I wet a toilet paper to remove the dramatic red lipstick from my lips. Then I kick off my heels and put on my white Converse.
There. Now I’m ready to go home.
Once I’m back in my bedroom, lying on my bed, I reflect on what happened today. The excitement is still humming through me.
George was a 40-something CEO for some real estate company. He’s not as ugly and creepy as I thought he would be, unlike my previous client whose name I won’t even try to remember. That guy was a handful. He tried to get with me after I was done escorting him to dinner at a fancy restaurant. The guy asked me to go back to his place to do “kinky things” when my profile is clearly under the category: companionship only, which obviously means no sex (although other kinds of intimacy, like hand jobs, blow jobs, role-playing––you name it––are allowed). It’s a lot cheaper than the other category: casual. I mean, of course I was worried that people would get confused, and that they won’t know the difference. But Lacey assures me all the time that she’ll make sure they do. Anyway, I could have sued him if I wanted to, but that would mean I’ll be exposing myself too.
Today I had prepared myself for the worst. Because, you know, the appointment was at a damn hotel suite, where I’ve never been with a client before. But it turned out that George just wanted someone to cuddle and binge watch Breaking Bad with. It was freaking weird, not going to lie, but it’s better than the alternatives––whatever they may be.
Lacey had told me to watch out for men with weird fetishes. “They will get you to do some weird ass things like having peanut butter slathered across your boobs to be licked off, or something like animal fetish where you have to dress up like a cat and meow like one,” said Lacey. And just the thought of having to do one of those things makes me want to barf. Please don’t ever let it come to that, I prayed before today’s appointment.
There were some moments, though, where George would gaze at my lips, down to my neck and to my chest with such hunger in his eyes. And I just smiled at him and turned my attention to the screen, silently screaming, no, no, no! Luckily, he got the message. But I could still see from the corner of my eye that he’s rubbing himself under the cover.
Here’s the thing. Escorts are not the same as prostitutes. Escorting is legal, because they are not selling themselves explicitly for sex. Though escorts in the casual category are––in a way––prostitutes. They just don’t label themselves as such. In a private room, an escort and a client become each other’s confidants.
Lacey has been with Vixens since the beginning. She started out as being an escort herself, and it’s not until last year that she decided to switch it up and became a manager. She said that Vixens started out as a normal escorting company with only one category––my category––where there’s no dirty sex involved. But there were a lot of problems with girls consenting to having sex with clients. Worse, some of them were coerced to, which created legal complications for the company. So, as a result, clear distinctions were drawn between the two categories.
You might wonder: how the hell did I get into this business? Well, it was primarily for my bestie Zoe Larson. She was the one who
suggested we do something fun and adult-ish for her 18th birthday. She just broke up with Leo, her ex-boyfriend at the time (now they’re back together and are more in love than ever), which was why she’s extremely emotional and desperately needed a distraction.
Initially, the plan was to go on a double date with cute strangers on Tinder, but Lacey got involved somehow and she had a better idea. One of her long-time clients needed more girls for his group of friends who were coming to visit from out of town. “The agency screens the clients before handing them over to the girls,” she’d convinced us. “It’s totally safe. And the guys are not ugly, I promise. I’ve seen their pictures.” She also promised that sex was out of the question.
And maybe it was because we wanted to do something before the end of summer break, or maybe we were just bored out of our minds, or maybe we were going mad from the summer heat. But we agreed to it, without knowing much about what we’re getting ourselves into.
I mean, my life has not been very exciting. I tend to shy away from any kinds of social engagement. So, to partake in this escorting business is new territory for me. But it was my best friend’s birthday after all, and if she wanted to do it, then of course I’d do it with her.
I wasn’t even eighteen back then, but Lacey said she would handle it. I didn’t give much thought to it because I was already turning eighteen in two months. Anyway, how Lacey was able to hide this information from Vixens was beyond me. I guess it’s just one of her perks of being the girlfriend of one of Vixen’s co-founders. Maybe.
And whatever we did that day––at the fancy penthouse owned by Lacey’s client––we impressed them. They wrote rave reviews about us. It’s funny. Because we didn’t even do anything. We just laughed at their jokes, let them watch us when we got in the hot tub wearing bikinis and pretended to play like we’re having so much fun (it kind of was), and a little bit of kissing and cuddling (because true to Lacey’s words––they’re not bad looking at all).
I could never forget the moment when we received our paycheck. I thought Zoe’s brown eyes would pop out of her sockets. “Six-hundred fucking dollars for… whatever we did back there?” she exclaimed.
“I know right!” I laughed and hugged her with joy. I couldn’t believe the number I was seeing. Never in my entire life have I made this much money. My mom never really encourages me to get a job or do anything for money. Because we have enough. More than enough. That’s when I realized how easy my life had been.
Although Zoe did enjoy it, it was a one-time thing for her. She was filled with guilt, toward Leo, but mostly to herself. Zoe got back with Leo not long after, confessing everything to him. He was outraged at first, but he’s able to get past it, because he loves her.
Me, on the other hand, I contacted Lacey for an application as soon as I turned eighteen.
Chapter 2
“Alice! You’re going to be late on your first day,” my mom shouts from the kitchen.
“Coming!” I shout back. “Are you making me breakfast?” I quickly put on my crystal earrings and grab my purse before I come out.
“Already done.” Mom hands me a bowl of oatmeal with almond butter, honey, and mixed berries on top. My favorite breakfast.
I beam and kiss her cheek. “You’re the best.”
Mom is wearing her favorite silky robe with a matching belt tightened around her slim waist. Her long dark hair is tied up in a messy bun.
We’re often told that we look so much alike, with our dark hair and milky skin. And we can’t forget about my full eyebrows that I clearly inherited from her. I used to hate them so much as a kid because it made me look different, and some mean kids at school would call me the hairy girl. But it all changed when I entered high school. Everyone wants my eyebrows, and I always get complimented on them. Zoe even told me that my brows are what make me “super pretty”.
I don’t think my mom and I look alike. I’m a head taller and my eyes are a lighter shade of gray. Mom used to tell me that “You have your father’s eyes, Alice, but you’re much more pleasant to look at.” News flash: she hates my dad.
“How was movie last night?” she asks.
“Movie?” I cock my head. Oh. Last night. “It was great.” I didn’t lie to her. Not exactly. Breaking Bad can pass as a movie… right?
“When did you get home anyway? I didn’t hear you come in.”
I gulp down my breakfast. “Pretty late. I took a cab home.”
My mom nods and goes back to sipping her own cup of coffee.
That’s what I love about her. She gives me the freedom to do anything I want. Sometimes it feels more like I’m living with a best friend rather than a mother. My mom does date around, but she never settles with anyone. So it’s always been just us two.
Mom was pregnant with me when she was in college. My dad was an heir to a major law firm in the City. That’s why he wasn’t ready to become a father, not when he was about to inherit the company, and not when he was at the start of his career, at the peak of his youth. He left her once he’d learned that she’s pregnant. Mom said that my dad was a coward, for not having the balls to tell his parents, and most devious of all, he wasn’t there for us.
Dad came back to Mom not long after I was born. He said he was sorry and that he was now ready to take care of us. He was ready to marry her and build a family. But it’s too late. Mom could not bring herself to forgive him.
After a while, when I was about ten, Dad got married with Gracie, his secretary. Although Mom did not say anything, I could tell she was resentful. And I guess that resentfulness rubs off on me too. I can’t look at my dad without thinking of Mom––of what he made her go through.
Dad still takes good care of us though. Out of guilt, no doubt. He got us this nice apartment in the heart of Manhattan, and he takes care of all our expenses. Once a week, he would call to check up on me. The conversations usually revolve around the same topics––school, the weekend, and whether I have enough pocket money. He sends us money every month. A huge amount of money. So much that my mom doesn’t have to do anything and we can still book a trip to Europe without breaking a sweat. Mom works as a freelance photographer. But these days, she doesn’t seem to have much to do, other than roaming the city and go brunching and shopping with her SoulCycle friends.
But I hate that we have to rely on Dad. I think that’s the main reason why I want to work as an escort––so I won’t have to take his money. I won’t even have to ask him for my college tuition if I’ve saved up enough.
I used to ask my mom why she would accept Dad’s money. I mean, shouldn’t we have some dignity and refuse his money? But she had said to me then, “What he did to me––to us––all the golds and silvers in the world can’t make up for that. He owes it to us, Alice. He always will.” My mom is the least bitter person ever, always easy going and chill about everything. So when I heard the anger in her voice, I never bring it up again.
I get to see Dad once in a while. That is, when he’s not busy with work or when he’s not travelling. Which is not that often.
He just finished building a new beach house in Santa Monica, and he basically lives there with Gracie. I was asked to visit many times, but I always find excuses not to go. I don’t necessarily want to spend my days seeing my dad being all lovey-dovey with his wife. It weirds me out.
Gracie had tried to reach out. Last year, she’d invited me out to shop for a Christmas tree with her. Which I politely declined. I didn’t want to get to know her. I want us to stay strangers for as long as we can. Besides, my mom would go berserk if I’d choose to do Christmassy stuff with Gracie and not her. Christmas is a very big deal to her.
Gracie is not a horrible person. I mean, I don’t know that for sure, but at least she is trying. But I’m not ready to let her in. And even if I want to, I feel like now it’s too late to start over. So I kind of let things stay awkward between us.
“Slow down! You’re going to choke.” Mom clicks her tongue.
“You sa
id I’m going to be late,” I say with my mouth full. “I would rather choke to death than be late on my first day of school.”
My mom rolls her eyes. “So dramatic, my daughter.” She walks to the counter to pour some coffee in my favorite to-go cup. I smile. She knows I can’t start a day without coffee.
I quickly finish my oatmeal, hug my mom goodbye, and run out to school.
Chapter 3
My school is a couple of blocks away from my apartment. It’s amazing how I get to live in an apartment so close to school while most people need to take subway or busses or cabs to get there.
This area is almost always crowded. But once I get through the gate of my school, past the green garden and to the actual brick building, it’s like I have crossed into another dimension. No more raging drivers yelling on the road. No more people rushing through.
The outside of the main building looks like a museum or a courthouse than a high school. Even so, the inside is incredibly stuffy. The hallway is always dim, and the air smells of old papers and coffee.
I walk past some familiar faces, smiling and nodding to them as a friendly gesture. I have established myself as a reasonably likeable person. I mean, I’m pretty good with making small talks, but that’s about it.
Already in my senior year and I still don’t have that many close friends at this school. Maybe it’s because I don’t really participate in school activities or join in any clubs. The only social thing I remember doing was being in the choir back in freshman year. And that’s just because I wanted to have something on my college application. But that lasted for only a short time, after I’d realized that I can’t sing. And don’t mention sports. The only sports I know are shopping and eating like a champ.
Another thing about me. I hate drama. I steer clear of it. I never talk bad behind anyone’s back. I’m always careful when I hear some girls talking shit about someone. I never jump in. Because I know that’s when my words can be used against me.
