PLAYER

by Pamela DuMond

  I roll up the window and focus on erecting an emotional barrier between myself and Dylan. I will not be a weakling. I will not be an idiot. Boundaries are the best way to keep one’s sanity in an insane business.

  I arrive at my crappy apartment, climb the rotting wooden steps two at a time, and slam the door so hard the walls rattle. I lock the cash tip in my safe, and ditch the dress, tossing it onto my bed in a heap. Funny, it doesn’t look like a two thousand dollar dress anymore. I turn on my shower as hard as the piece of crap plumbing can handle and lean under the faucet. The water pours over me, washing away the stress, the dirt, the regret. I just wish it could wash away all the pain.

  I prided myself on burying my empathic ability years ago. Why is my freak flag rearing its ugly head now? Probably escort attachment syndrome. Ugh. Terrific. Predictably, laughably, I’m falling for the hot, charismatic client with the full lips and sizeable dick. I need to shut this shit down. Get my mind and my heart off tonight, off Dylan McAlister, and get back to uneventful, bland, and boring.

  I text back and forth with Ruby. She’s visiting Mom at the Institute tomorrow at noon, wants to know if I want to meet up. I pass. It’s all just a little too much right now. Besides, I’m paying the bills. I’ll see Mom in a bit.

  And, it’s back to the grind. A spur of the moment date with a dentist on Monday. Cocktails with a foreign dignitary at the Brazilian consulate on Tuesday. I get a text from Madam Marchand. Dylan contacted Ma Maison and asked if I was available this Thursday and I practically fall of my chair. He apologizes for the last minute request, didn’t realize he’d be back in Chicagoland so soon. He understands if I’m busy and no, he doesn’t want anyone other than me.

  I text back faster than a game show contestant in a lightning round. “Yes.”

  7

  Midas Touch

  MIDAS TOUCH

  I pick up Dylan’s handwritten instructions the next day at Ma Maison.

  Madame hands me the white linen envelope. “The engagement is in St. Charles on Thursday.”

  “The suburb?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s an hour west of the city. I can train it out there.”

  “I’ll forward him that information.” Madame says. “He likes you. Two dates in one week? Impressive.”

  “Thanks,” I say, slipping the envelope in my purse and practically bolting for the door.

  “Evelyn,” Madame says.

  “Yes?”

  “He comes from big money, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I lie.

  “Big money clients can open doors and provide opportunities that average clients do not.”

  “Got it,” I say, turning the doorknob because I’m itching to get out of here and read his letter.

  “Evelyn?”

  “Yes, Madame?” I pause, grit my teeth and toss my ponytail over my shoulder so hard it thwacks against my back.

  “If opportunities arise for advancement, please seize them.”

  “Will do.” I escape the pretty prison and wait until the elevator door closes between me and Ma Maison before I rip open the envelope.

  “Dress summer country club casual, Lucky Charm. Be your beautiful, funny self. The job will last sixteen to twenty-four hours. You will be compensated for the full twenty-four if the game ends early. Can’t wait to see you again, gorgeous.”

  I don’t know what country club casual is, but I’m not going to make myself nuts picking the perfect dress. The dress isn’t the problem. I’m the problem. I want to help Dylan and my brain spins, thinking about how best to do that. Knowing a little more about poker can’t hurt. I watch a few tournaments on YouTube and study up on terms and vocabulary. It’s like learning French or Italian with Berlitz. “How much does that cost?” but in poker language.

  I need to master the emotions spinning around Dylan, especially those catching me in a tangled, sticky web. Are they his? Mine? Hopefully, I’m not picking up on someone else in the room, like the Fast Food King. Unlike french fries, I’m not on his menu. Ever.

  “How’d the date with Dylan McAlister, go?” Amelia asks that night. We’re sitting around a polished high top table at a sports bar, TVs lining the walls, tipping back a few beers.

  “Good. I’m seeing him again this week.”

  “Get your cash tip up front. Word is Mr. Midas is losing his touch.” She dips into the plate of wings sitting on the table. “Chasing a nasty losing streak. Doesn’t seem to be able to pull out of it. Was he a weirdo when you went out with him? Did he make you nervous? I know how sensitive you are.”

  I shake my head. “He was lovely. Kind. Funny.”

  “Even funny guys can be weirdos.”

  I nab a wing. “He’s not a weirdo.”

  “Even funny guys can be losers.”

  “He’s not a lose…” But my words take an unexpected hike because Victoria walks through the crowd toward our table. Yes – that Victoria – the escort that Madame Germaine pushed in Dylan’s direction. A scab rip-rip-rips off a wound that I didn’t even know was butterflied on top of my heart.

  Amelia waves. “Victoria!”

  “Hey!” She waves back and makes her way through the crowd toward us. She’s drop dead gorgeous with mocha skin and hazel eyes. Guys stop watching the game, gawking at her like she’s Moses parting the Red Sea.

  “Did you invite her?”

  “Yes,” Amelia says. “You need to get to know her better.”

  “What if I don’t want to?” I wipe my mouth with a napkin, crumple it, and toss it on the table.

  “What if I don’t care that you get everything that you want?” Amelia says. “You’ve gotta find more powerful friends than me. I’m not going to be around Ma Maison forever. I’m going to meet a good guy. Someone kind with money who worships me. In the meantime, Victoria’s head bitch. It won’t hurt to have her on your side.”

  I grumble. Victoria makes her way toward us – all groomed, with perfect tits, posture, and body by Pilates.

  “Be nice,” Amelia says, pinching my arm.

  “I’m always nice.”

  “Girlfriend!” Amelia smiles at Victoria and pulls out a stool. “Glad you could join us. You remember Evie?”

  “Evelyn,” I say, and muster a smile.

  Victoria takes a seat and scooches in closer to the table. “Yes! You’re the kindergarten teacher, right? I’m still amazed you can wrangle all those five-year-olds.”

  “It’s not rocket science. I just tell them when to lie down and take a nap.”

  “No wonder all the clients like you,” she says.

  Amelia laughs. “I told her the same thing.”

  I’m nice to Victoria and in exchange she’s nice to me. The three of us talk about fall fashion, wonder why Madame Germaine is so uptight, and offer increasingly silly explanations until we’re all giggling so hard Victoria pretends to face plant into the platter of wings.

  She rises back up theatrically, rolling her eyes, dark red sauce on her chin. “Maybe Madame Marchand is a vampire, grooming us as bait for undead blood suckers. Maybe Ma Maison is actually a high-end sex club for vampires.”

  “That kind of makes sense,” Amelia says. “Madame’s pretty cold. But except for the old guy who lost his dentures last week when he tried to kiss me, no one’s bitten me yet.”

  “Ew,” Victoria says. “Hey, I’m having a party next week. Both of you should come.”

  I’d planned on hating Victoria but she’s totally charmed me.

  “Tell her the story,” Amelia insists.

  “Which one?” Victoria hands off her credit card to the waiter before he even drops the tab on our table.

  “You know. About how you started working for Ma Maison,” Amelia says. “The one about the creepy stalker.”

  “Yeesh! I’m still getting over that,” Victoria says. “Don’t want to have nightmares. I’ll save that one for another night.”

  “I had a great time.” I extend my hand to her and we shake affection
ately. “You’re hilarious. I’m glad we finally spent time together.”

  “Hello?” Amelia says and rolls her eyes.

  “Ditto, Kindergarten,” Victoria says. “If you ever have any questions, feel free to ask.”

  “Actually, I do,” I say. “What’s country club summer casual?”

  “One of your client wants you to dress country club casual?”

  I nod.

  “Page through Town and Country.”

  Amelia chimes in. “Check Ralph Lauren. Lily Pulitzer.”

  “I can’t afford Ralph Lauren.”

  “You don’t have to buy it,” Victoria says. “Just nail the look.”

  I get home around eleven. I lie in bed Googling Ralph Lauren when suddenly I don’t care about fashion. I switch subjects and do a deep Google dive on what’s going on with Dylan. The gossip is he’s lost his ability to read a table. He dropped a couple hundred thousand last month and has plummeted from being a player to chum. The sharks smell blood and circle.

  Glenn’s probably sharpening his knives getting ready to mince him into bits, stuff him into hot dog casings, and sell him to unsuspecting customers. I doubt the department store heiress gives a rat’s ass how much money Dylan has. She’ll seduce him if he’s loaded or down to his last chip and totally give me a run for my money. Oh wait – after I pay for mom’s medicals, Ruby’s college, and my own bills – I won’t have any.

  I stare up at the ceiling and wonder what Dylan’s doing right now. Is he still in Tulsa? Back in Chicago? Hitting a club or a bar? I hope he’s not out with another girl, but hey, I’ve got no control over that and it would be silly for me to obsess about it.

  Instead I obsess about our second date. Will our time together in St. Charles be any different? Will he kiss me? Will he touch me?

  I slide one hand inside my cotton top and skim it across my breast. My nipple pebbles under my touch. I slip my other hand inside my briefs, glide it down to the soft skin of my abdomen, and trail my fingers through my groomed curls until I touch my sex.

  I close my eyes and think of the look on Dylan’s face when he gave me the diamond necklace and I circle my fingers across my folds. His lips were so full. His eyes, excited like a kid on Christmas morning. Chills zipped down my spine when he secured the necklace around me, his hands brushing the wisps of hair on the back of my neck.

  Now, I clasp the diamond pendant with one hand, part my legs a little and let my fingers toy with my clit. I’m already wet, the hard nub sensitive to my touch, waves of pleasure building.

  Like any teenage girl, I learned how to take care of my own needs but always hoped for fireworks with the right guy. I never orgasmed with Drew, the loser who punched my V card. His idea of sex was cock-centered. The ‘non-vagina’ part of the V between my legs was dutifully serviced for forty seconds immediately before he was ready to come. Now the combination of my fingers moving faster, memories of Dylan McAlister flooding my brain, the anticipation of seeing him in a few days, tips me over the edge and I climax in hard, abrupt spasms. Shivers travel down my spine and the backs of my arms.

  I lie in the dark room, tired, content, almost happy. I’m going to see Dylan in less than forty-eight hours. I have a good feeling that this time things will be different.

  The next morning, I shovel down eggs, drink coffee, and Google Town and Country and Ralph Lauren. Country club casual is classic fashion. I can totally do this look, just not on my paycheck.

  I hit the ground running and visit my favorite thrift stores. Goodwill has a hundred gray dresses lined up on one rack that look like they belong in The Handmaid’s Tale. Salvation Army is having a run on shoulder pads and all things eighties. I finally score at the Orphans of Foreign Wars when I stumble upon a vintage cotton dress for twenty bucks. It’s tea length, has a modest neckline, and a skirt that flares below the knee. I take it home, hand wash it, tumble it on low, and iron it. I zip it up, put on the diamond necklace Dylan gave me, check out my reflection in the mirror, and smile. “Hello, Mrs. Ralph Lauren.”

  It takes me two hours to beautify and dress for our second date. I go back and forth on the earrings, finally settling on simple, petite white gold hoops. How should I do my nearly waist length hair? I curl it, fashion it into a loose updo with simple, pretty, rhinestone clips. Mom gave me one of Grandma’s vintage cardigans in a light blue that pairs perfectly with this outfit. I check the clock. Just enough time to meditate for ten minutes and follow that up with a quick prayer chaser before I blow out of my hovel in time to make the 4 pm train departing Union Station.

  Dear God. Dylan McAlister’s a good man. A kind man. Please help me give my all for this job. Thanks for guidance. And this I ask for in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

  I cross myself.

  I make my way down the sagging stairs and notice my mailbox is stuffed with grocery store fliers poking out the slats. I barely bother checking the box anymore. Almost everything is done online. But I don’t want thieves thinking I’m gone for any length of time. I unlock the box, grab the stash, and walk toward the recycling bin, when I see an envelope addressed to me in a typed font with no return address. I slide it in my purse and make tracks for the station.

  The hour-long train ride slides by. Only ten minutes remain before we pull into St. Charles. Best not to get too excited. I’m here on business. Traveling for him, not me or my fantasies. I pull a compact from my purse, check my reflection, and swipe on a layer of lipstick. When I return it to my purse I see the letter and open it.

  Dear Ms. Berlinger,

  * * *

  May I call you Evelyn, or do you prefer Evie?

  It’s up to you. I’m good with either. You can let me know which you prefer if our paths ever cross in real life.

  First, let me apologize for this message that most likely feels like it finds its way to you out of the blue. You’re probably wondering, ‘Who is this strange person contacting me via old fashioned paper correspondence?’

  As much as I’d love to tell you my full name. As much as I imagine it rolling around in your brain, tripping off your full lips, I’ve been advised to sit on that for a while. I can always share it with you later.

  I just wanted to let you know that catching a glimpse of you on social media always brings a smile to my face.

  Thanks for being a spot of sunshine!

  That’s all, really.

  * * *

  Best,

  A Fan

  8

  St. Charles

  ST. CHARLES

  The train screeches as it blasts toward St. Charles. My stomach churns like I just ate something dicey from one of those sidewalk food carts. I text Amelia.

  Evie: Have you ever gotten a weird letter from “a fan?”

  Amelia: Yes. Dick pics. Did someone send you dick pics?

  Evie: No.

  Amelia: What?

  Evie: Just a letter.

  Amelia: What did it say?

  I skim it. Reading it the second time I’m not sure it says all that much.

  Evie: Not that much. Maybe I’m over-reacting.

  Evie: I’ll show it to you when I get back.

  Amelia: Forward it to me.

  Evie: Not now. My train’s getting in. Besides, it’s snail mail.

  Amelia: That’s even weirder.

  Evie: I know. Talk later.

  “St. Charles. The next stop will be St. Charles,” the conductor announces. The train’s slowing down and I make my way to the front of the car. I step off into a late afternoon summer, the sinking sun practically blinding me. I shade my eyes and glance around at the stretch of parking lot chock full of sedans and SUVs.

  A wolf whistle pierces the air and I swivel. Dylan’s leaning back against a Jeep convertible. “Lucky Charm,” he calls out, moving two fingers away from his mouth.

  “Hey.” I go hot, then cold, then hot again, my knees practically knocking about under the twenty dollar country club casual dress, because I want his
mouth on me and for that matter, his fingers too.

  “Looking awfully pretty on this summer day. Need a ride?”

  He’s wearing black khakis and a fitted V-neck T-shirt showing a dusk of groomed chest hair and, oh holy hell, how did I miss the definition in those arms the last time I was with him?

  “Yes, please.”

  “What? No overnight bag?”

  “I assumed we’d be working,” I say, my throat going dry. “Besides you didn’t include that in your instructions.”

  “You actually read my instructions?” He leans in, kisses me on the cheek, and I could swear he lingers a second. His scent is subtle. Cologne? Soap? Does he smell this great naturally?

  My cleavage flushes. It’s hotter out here in the suburbs. Maybe the heat’s rising off the asphalt or the train grinding away from the station. Maybe it’s just shooting off Dylan McAlister like firecrackers leaving puffs of smoke trailing across a hazy summer sky.

  “Of course, I read your instructions.” I take a step back and execute a slow twirl. “Country club casual.”

  “Holy hotness, Doris Day.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you.” He opens the Jeep’s passenger door and I climb in. Our arms brush and my pulse quickens, my mouth going dry. Like somehow this is fate. I’m supposed to be his lucky charm. Why do I get this weird premonition he’s going to be mine?