PLAYER

by Pamela DuMond

  I slow down as I pass sailboats dotting the harbor, sleek condos, the constellation of wealth gathered like members of a private club hovering around a mahogany bar at Lake Michigan’s edge. It’s the same route I took a few months ago, but wow, has my vantage point changed.

  I’ve been to these private clubs, sat at the bars. I’ve visited the sleek condos and been touched by wealth in ways both good and bad. Rosemary McAlister welcomed me into her home and treated me like family. Patrick oozed entitlement and threatened me. Glenn’s desperate need for one upmanship made my skin crawl. Scratch the surface of the elegance and you might unearth some dirty bits, find some filthy secrets.

  Time passes. A week, then two. No more letters from my fan. Also no word from Dylan. No emails. No texts. No handwritten letters. I Google him, but juicy new gossip doesn’t float around the Internet when a big player falls off the grid. It’s like he’s vanished without a trace. Maybe he was just a dream.

  September marches in and I’m back to teaching Kindergarten during the day, taking Ma Maison dates at night and on weekends. Mom calls from the Institute. She’s non-manic excited because she’s taking a pottery class and is going to be part of a fall arts and crafts festival. Her doctor floats the possibility of her becoming an outpatient in the next couple of months. I think this translates into ‘I’ll be paying medical expenses and footing the bill for an apartment somewhere within easy ride share distance from the Institute.’

  I thought my empathic hits would die down after Dylan and I ended, but they’re clocking in more frequently. The rusty gates inside me that creaked open have apparently stayed open. Clients’ feelings are popping up inside me more frequently, throwing elbows and shoulders like hockey players fighting for control of the puck. I’m exhausted trying to push them away and so I finally stop resisting. Now, when they jockey about I follow Hope’s protocol: identify the sensation, determine if it’s mine. If it’s not, I follow up by asking the client a few questions.

  Most of the guys are thrilled to talk about what’s bugging them. They seem relieved to spill their burden. Carrying an old wound is exhausting. Covering it up is even more work. I’m not a priest, definitely not a therapist, but for some reason a girl in my line of work is a safe haven for confidences shared, secrets revealed.

  In a weird twist, my tips increase. They’re up fifty percent. I’m still not having full blown sex with these men and I’m making more money. Will I spread my legs for a client in the future? That barrier was already crossed with Dylan and I’m open to consensual sex with the right person. Now that I know I actually can come with a man, I’m also open to dating someone in real life. The guy from the gym asked me out again, but I wasn’t interested before, and now, after Dylan, even less so.

  I throw my energy into my day job. I’m helping five-year-olds finger paint pictures of pumpkins and goblins when I get a text from Madame.

  Madame: When can you come into the office?

  Evie: Tomorrow?

  Madame: Confirming tomorrow noon.

  I don’t bother getting dressed up or applying full makeup. Surely Madame knows what I look like without the prep work. I stand across from her in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, my hair tied back in a ponytail.

  “Based on a referral, a new client contacted Ma Maison and wishes to engage your services.”

  “Oh?” Most clients keep what happens between us private. Guys are territorial creatures; don’t like to share. I hope this referral isn’t someone hoping for a threesome because that’s not on my dance card yet.

  “He seems like a nice enough man. Never been a Ma Maison client before,” she says. “But this engagement is a little different than what you normally do.”

  Oh, crap, it is a request for a threesome. “My boundaries haven’t changed.”

  Her lips purse so hard I fear they’ll snap off her face. I redirect her attention. “Tell me what’s different about this guy, Madame. What’s different about this date?”

  “It’s not specifically what he wants.” She slides her turquoise cat-eye glasses back on her face. “It’s the time he’s requesting.”

  “A morning engagement? I’m not into mornings but I’ll make an exception.”

  “Not morning,” she says. “He wants to book you for a week.”

  “A week?” I cough, and cover my mouth. “Like every night for seven days?” That’ll make for some sucky early mornings shepherding five-year-olds.

  “No. Twenty-four hours a day for a week.”

  I plunk down hard in the nearest chair, and pinch my arm, trying to contemplate what this means. It means money. A lot of money. “Holy crap.”

  “Holy crap indeed,” Madame says. “By the way, Ma Maison just raised your rates.”

  “I’m assuming some of that gets passed along to me?”

  “Yes. The client lives in St. Petersburg, Florida, co-owns a minor league baseball team, and a string of car dealerships. According to him, you came highly recommended. The person who referred you said you helped him heal. Said you were a miracle worker.”

  “I am?” My heart twists because I’ve heard that phrase before. Those words fell out of someone’s delectable mouth. “Who referred him?”

  “Confidential. I can’t reveal that,” she says, clack-clacking papers on her desk into neat, perfectly aligned stacks. “The person told him that what you did helped him live again. What you did helped him heal.”

  I know who that guy is. It’s the guy I can’t stop thinking about. Blue eyes, a smattering of freckles across high sun-kissed cheekbones. Dylan Fucking McAlister.

  “Is there something you need to tell me, Evelyn?” Madame asks, staring at me like I’m a bug crawling across the floor. “Something important you need to share?”

  “Nope,” I say, technically not lying through my teeth because Madame Marchand will be the last person I share anything, let alone this, with.

  “I trust you’ll tell me if healing turns into a ‘thing’? Specifics make for a better, more detailed client experience at Ma Maison. Specifics bring in more money. Specifics can launch a breakout career.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say. “When is the new client coming in town?”

  “He’s not. His credentials passed with flying colors. You’re going to him.”

  “Aha. St. Pete?”

  “Yes. And anywhere in the continental U.S. he wants to travel for the week he employs you.”

  “Okay,” I say, overwhelmed and confused on how the hell I’m going to prep for this date, what I should pack, let alone how I’ll manage to take off work from school.

  “You’re getting a seven hundred dollar stipend for the date’s duration.” Madame practically reads my mind, reaching in her desk drawer, sliding a debit card across the desk in my direction. “This should cover beauty and grooming necessities. Emergencies.”

  Hope swift kicks me. No one’s going to give you anything unless you ask for it.

  I clear my throat. “What about wardrobe?”

  “What about it?” Madame shuffles paperwork around on her desk, making everything immaculate as always.

  I just got a new client, a fat gig, and was bumped up a pay grade. You can bet your life Madame’s going to want me to be as high end and perfect as those stupid stacks of crisply aligned papers on her fancy desk. “I need better clothes,” I say, my voice low at first, growing stronger as I grow my courage. “Ma Maison gives Victoria and Amelia a wardrobe stipend. You want your top tier girls to look money. You want Ma Maison to be the most exclusive agency in Chicago, right?”

  She sizes me up with a look that for once isn’t dismissive. “Three thousand for this engagement and this engagement only. We’ll re-evaluate for the future.”

  ‘Yes!’ Hope high fives me.

  “Yes,” I say under my breath, clenching a fist at my side.

  “What?” Madame asks.

  “Thank you.”

  19

  St. Petersburg

  ST. PETERSBURG />
  I travel to St. Petersburg where Andrew Courtland’s driver picks me up at the airport and chauffeurs me to his vintage 1940s Spanish-style mansion on Snell Island. The place is a rambling, two-story stucco with red tiles. Orange and blush bougainvillea trail over the arched doorways. There’s a tennis court in the back yard, tucked behind a swimming pool. The house has gorgeous views of the waterfront, and a shiny motorboat is parked at the dock. The scent of salt wafts through the air.

  Andrew seems like a decent guy. He’s forty and good-looking in that retired ball player kind of way. A year ago he sold the majority share of his ball club to a corporation. Until recently he was amicably divorced and shared custody of his teenage daughter, Hailey. But lately he’s been dropping the ball: canceling visitations at the last minute, screwing up father-daughter plans. He’s been pissing off his ex-wife, alienating Hailey, and now there’s friction.

  The first night I arrived, he confessed over dinner that he used to be a cocky piece of work when he was the majority share owner. He sold because he wanted the influx of cash to spruce up the stadium and attract young athletes with better potential to cross to the big leagues. Ten months later, his job as team manager is no longer a given. He’s not the golden child in the new owners’ minds. They hired a hot shot out of Cleveland to be his boss and Andrew’s not all that happy about it.

  He’s having trouble sleeping. He’s drinking more than usual and having anxiety attacks, which hasn’t happened since he was a teenager. And for the first time he’s being an asshole to his players. “Evie,” he says one night at the end of a game that stretches into overtime as we’re sitting behind the dugout alongside the players. “What was I thinking selling the majority share? I gave up too much control. Maybe I’m no longer qualified to manage the team. Maybe I should hire someone to do the grunt work while I sit in the clubhouse instead of the dugout, drink too much beer, and entertain corporate big shots. Is anyone really going to miss me?”

  I look around the field and take in all he has done. The renovated stadium. The athletes scouted from all over the world. A devoted mid-sized fan base cheering from the bleachers. My stomach sinks, uncertainty crawling about in my gut. It’s so beautiful here and yet somehow it’s not perfect. And I realize these feelings aren’t mine: they’re Andrew’s. There is no room in him for anything less than perfection. I gaze up at his ruggedly handsome face and it dawns on me the answer isn’t going to be found on the field. It’s going to be found within Andrew Courtland. Over-achiever. Perfectionist. Second-guesser.

  Suddenly I’m dying to know if I can crack open the wound that broke him, the same way I cracked open Dylan’s. I sleep with him that night. The first time we have sex is nice. When I close my eyes I can almost imagine Dylan. Andrew’s a considerate lover, well aware that a girl has needs. The second time we have sex is about helping him relax, getting him to let down his guard. But the third time I do what I did with Dylan. I tell him when and how he can touch me.

  I call the shots during these healing sessions. There’s no kissing or touching without my consent. I ask the questions and he answers. I compare his responses to the feelings that rise up in me. His sadness weighs on my shoulders. His heaviness carves my heart. And I feel his bitter belief within me. Spot the dirty thread at the bottom of his lovely, second-guessing soul. No matter what he does, no matter how hard he works at anything he does, Andrew doesn’t believe he is good enough.

  “You can kiss me, Andrew. Now.”

  He does.

  “Touch my breasts, Andrew.”

  He fondles my tits like he’s a teenager and they’re the first breasts he’s ever felt. “That feels good. See how my nipple pebbles under your touch? You’re so hot. I have a question for you. Tell me how why you’re not good enough.”

  “I shouldn’t have sold the company. I must have fallen short or corporate wouldn’t have hired the ringer from Cleveland. Let me fuck you, Evelyn.”

  “Not yet.” I run a hand through his short blonde hair. With my other hand I trace my fingers down his abdomen and brush back and forth just inches away from his erection.

  He moans. “Why not?”

  “Because we’ve got a ways to go.” I place my hand over his heart because this feels like the source of the poison. I need to touch him here. I visualize tugging on that toxic thread, coaxing it out from where it’s hiding deep inside him. I pull it to me inch by inch. “Tell me more about falling short. Where else have you fallen short in life?”

  “Do we have to talk about this, Evie?”

  “Yes.”

  Days pass. He takes me out on his boat. We go to a party at the yacht club. We hit more ballgames and I meet the players. We end up back in bed and I question him. Each twinge of pain he’s carrying rolls through me. He’s desperate to do all the right things.

  I place my hand on his heart and feel the bitter belief, the wound within him. The thread turns into a cord. I think it’s all going to come out so easily. Like excising an encapsulated tumor. But the tumor isn’t encapsulated. Its roots are terrified with angry tendrils that fire up when they realize their existence is threatened. Andrew’s fear isn’t going to leave easily. It fights back.

  “Why are we playing this game, Evie?” Andrew asks. “I didn’t fly you down to Florida to play a stupid game.”

  “If you wanted regular sex you could have a hired a local girl to suck your cock for a fraction of what Ma Maison charged you,” I say, and run a finger over his lips. “Listen to me. Do this my way, please.”

  “Fine,” he grumbles.

  Andrew doesn’t want to let go of the old, doesn’t want to release what has worked for him up until recently. But my resolve is firm. We play a game of tug of war and I refuse to let go when that wound slides through my hands. I don’t let go when it burns and tries to suck itself back into the abyss and disappear. I hold tight until we get down to the nitty-gritty. Until we circle closer and closer to the messed up belief that is his undoing. “Do you want to keep working for these people?” I ask. “Is managing this team that important to you?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Part of me wants to quit this job. Part of me wanted to quit it before I even sold the company.”

  Interesting. “What do you want to do instead?” I run my hands up and down his body, lightly running my palm over his hard dick.

  “You’re killing me, Evie.”

  “What do you want to do instead?”

  “I want to spend time with family,” he says and moans. My parents are getting older. My daughter’s growing up so fast.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “I’ve been doing this for fifteen years. I’m a hard worker. I’m not a quitter.”

  “You always will be a hard worker, whatever you do.”

  “Not true. When things get tough I quit. I quit visiting my grandmother when she went into a home. I quit my marriage. What if at the end of the day I’m just a guy who quits when the going gets tough?”

  Bingo. That’s it. Paydirt.

  He’s scared of being a quitter. He’s scared that if he’s a quitter, he’s a shitty, worthless person. “Your guilt about your grandmother is different than this job. Whatever’s going on with your ex-wife is different than this job. You’re letting it all spill into the same stew. It’s bubbling up within you. It’s shutting you down. It’s acting out in anger and anxiety.”

  “Damn,” he says. “You might be right.”

  “Don’t look at leaving this job as quitting. Reframe it as graduating. Moving from high school to college. Do that right now with me, Andrew. Do whatever you want with me.”

  He kisses me, touches me, sinks his cock inside me and a few minutes later he comes. The bitter belief is revealed for what it truly is: a hoax. And once the hoax is called out and confronted, like any bully it loses its power. He drops me at the airport the next morning and we hug. “I can’t believe I’m letting you leave a day early,” he says. “But Hailey wants to hang out. I’m going to ta
ke her to the mall. Shopping. Then we’ll go to a movie. Dinner wherever she wants. Probably pizza.”

  I smile at him. He’s sweet. “You should hang out with Hailey the whole weekend.”

  “I already talked to my ex about that.”

  “What will you do when Hailey leaves?”

  “Work on my resignation letter. Thank you, Evie.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “This might sound weird. Feel free to say ‘no.’ You really helped me. Do you mind if I refer a friend to you?”

  “No. As long as he’s as honest and hard working as you.” I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you for being sweet. Gotta go.”

  “Go,” he says.

  The flight home is uneventful. Madame summons me to her office the next day. “You did a great job, Evelyn,” she says. “Mr. Courtland is pleased.”

  “Good.” I practically topple off my chair because I’m not used to her praising me. “You called me into the office to tell me that?”

  “Amongst other things. One. We’re raising your rate. I thought you should know.”

  “Great.” Did someone secretly replace Madame with a person who cares?

  “Second, we have a new client for you.”

  “Excellent. FYI, I’m back to working weekends and nights. I’ve taken enough time off work.”

  “About that. Ma Maison pulled your financials.” She clicks her tablet, swivels it toward me, and voila, there’s my credit report. The score is low, the debt is high, and I break out in a sweat.

  “You can’t, that’s not right, I, I…”

  “Hear me out, Evelyn. I have a proposition for you. Ma Maison can help you wipe out all this debt quickly,” she says. “How quickly is up to you. Will teaching kindergarten do that?”