Boyfriend for Hire: A Stand-Alone Contemporary Romance (Escort Files Book 1)

by Nina Strych

  Boyfriend for Hire

  The Escort Files – Book One

  by Nina Strych

  Copyright © 2016 by Nina Strych

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, nor may it be stored in a database or private retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author, with the exception of brief quotations included in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses as permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, and events appearing or described in this work are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events, is purely coincidental.

  Books by Nina Strych

  The Escort Files Series

  Boyfriend for Hire

  Fiancé for Hire (coming April 2016)

  Hunk for Hire (coming May 2016)

  One

  “So, that’s it?” Amy asked, setting the pen down on the conference table with more care than was required. It felt like more than a few signatures—okay, maybe a few dozen signatures—should be required to sell off her life’s work.

  And her employees. And her building. And…and…and…

  One of the investors’ lawyers, the cute one with hair that wasn’t cut like a lawyer’s should be, shuffled up the thick folder of papers and said, “That’s it. And congratulations. This is a big deal.”

  Big deal. What an understatement. Selling off her little pharmaceutical company on the strength of one almost accidental discovery for this kind of money was more than a big deal. It was life-changing. With one side effect, Amy had gone from constantly looking for capital to keep the doors open to picking and choosing her offers. And the check—even after it was shared out to all those who had invested and the employees—was huge.

  Huge, huge.

  “Are you alright?” he asked, glancing over at the team of lawyers on the other side of the table. Most of them were already on their phones, reporting back or whatever it was that teams of mega-corporation lawyers did.

  Amy tried to remember his name, but it was lost in a sea of other lawyer names. Bob? Jim? No, it was no use. She leaned in a little and said, “I’m just in shock, I think.”

  Her lawyer, Sam, touched her arm on the other side and said, “Amy, your father would be proud. Try not to take it all in at once. Give yourself a little time.”

  Time. That’s another thing Amy also had a surplus of now that the sale was over. When was the last time that happened? Not since before grad school.

  There were handshakes, an obligatory shared toast of champagne, and too many big smiles. Eventually, Amy managed to make her escape in stages, waiting for each little conversation to shift and then stepping away. She’d already walked through the building that housed her small company for the last time, picking up those final personal effects and saying her farewells to the employees.

  Now, all that was left was for her to leave. A flutter of panic made the champagne churn uncomfortably in her otherwise empty stomach.

  The workers had been friendly, but ready to move on. The bonuses they were getting for the sale combined with the financial security of a bigger company made them eager. Every single person that worked for her had weathered the financial storms that came with being part of a start-up made of big ideas and no significant discoveries.

  Now, it was over. Amy didn’t even have keys anymore.

  Leaving the papers with Sam, Amy was unburdened by anything more than her lucky purse, a sadly overused Dooney and Burke from the days when such things were only ever received as gifts. Now she could afford Louis or Prada, but that was for another day. For now, her scuffed D&B was her security blanket and she gripped the strap in a tight fist as she made her way out into the sunshine of another bright Raleigh day.

  Driving over for lunch, everything crashed in on her like a ton of bricks. The panic of before had been nothing compared to the gut-clenching sensation that bent her over the wheel and forced hard sobs out of her mouth. Amy had to pull into a fast food parking lot or risk a crash, which would not be the best way to celebrate the sale of her company.

  The lot was busy and the looks she got from people carrying their bags and drink trays worked almost as well as sympathy in stopping her tears. Some gave her tentative smiles as if commiserating over the familiarity of overwhelming emotion. Others looked into the backseat, perhaps expecting to see an axe-wielding kidnapper. Either way, the attention worked to get her under control. Looking up in the rear view, she scared herself with the quantity of mascara that had pooled under her eyes.

  “Oh, this is ridiculous,” she said to herself, wiping the black smears away with more force than was needed. “You should be happy. Smile.”

  The forced smile she gave herself was even worse than the mascara, and she sighed as she shifted back into drive. Luckily, her lunch was arranged for a favorite restaurant where they always got a table in the back. Shoving a pair of oversized aviators onto her face, Amy thought she might be able to sneak past without everyone being able to see that she’d been crying.

  Of course, the place was packed. The mirrored shades just made more people look at her as she wound her way through the tables. Marion, her best friend since high school, scowled when she saw the sunglasses then shook her head, clearly realizing exactly why Amy was wearing them.

  As she slid into the booth, Marion said, “Really? Didn’t we talk about this? This is happy time, not boo-hoo time.”

  Slipping off the glasses, Amy smiled when Marion flinched. “That bad?”

  “Good grief. You look like a raccoon! You need a drink. A big one.” She held up her hand and smiled over at the server. They were regulars and when she made the tippy motion with her hand, their server knew exactly what to bring. Martinis. Dirty ones. Three olives.

  “I have to drive home,” Amy said, giving Marion a look.

  She waved that off and said, “I do too. We’ll have a nice long lunch and only drink one. It’s not like we can’t call a cab if we need to.”

  Amy, the ever-cautious one, tapped her phone and set the timer for two hours. She wouldn’t dare drive until the ding told her time was up. Marion only snorted at her.

  After their drinks arrived and Amy took a fortifying sip—okay, maybe a swallow—and nipped that first olive off the stick, she felt better. Why humans felt better after getting a drink in their bellies was a mystery, but even before the alcohol had a chance to do its work, she felt calmer.

  Marion gave a sigh after her sip and said, “So, you are now officially the richest person I know. How does it feel?”

  “Unreal,” Amy replied.

  “Because of fingernails. How about that?”

  Amy chuckled a little, because it was pretty funny. After her father’s horrible fight against cancer, she’d wanted to research it like everyone else. Once she got into college, he’d been more open with her about his long struggle. It was like he’d decided that she was finally old enough to stop being shielded from things by smiles and assurances that everything was fine. Looking back, Amy realized it was his way of getting her ready for the day he would be gone. A day that had come far too quickly.

  He’d told her that cancer was one thing to deal with, the concepts of diagnosis and odds and all the rest a difficult thing to take in. But those had been words. The real battle was in fighting the cancer. The
knowledge that each new thing would bring a different kind of pain, a different hope, a different set of side effects had made it hard for him to even contemplate starting each new treatment offered.

  That had made her think. It was true. The drugs were almost more painful than the disease, the side effects myriad and the lingering consequences sometimes horrible. And that was where she wanted to make a difference.

  So she’d gone into research, then branched off when an opportunity to fund it came through. Her research wasn’t on cancer, but rather the side effects of treatment. It turned out she was far better at running a team and working the business side than actual research. And while researching a drug that would stop hair from falling out during chemo, they’d discovered their formula made nails grow faster and stronger, though it had only moderate impacts on hair. That was also a side effect of many cancer treatments, so they’d gone with it.

  It wasn’t the kind of drug that made men virile again, but it was one that would be in high demand all the same. The offers came hard and fast. Fingernails apparently equaled money.

  Amy inspected her short, all too functional nails and said, “Well, I probably need to take that pill when it finally comes out. I wonder if I can get it for free.”

  Marion laughed and said, “You should have put it in the contract. Freebies for all my friends.”

  They ordered, and for once Amy didn’t scrimp on the calories. While they ate their pre-meal shrimp dip, Marion got that sly look on her face and Amy knew what was going to come out of her mouth.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  “So, what about that doctor visit? That’s today right?”

  Amy nodded, feeling a flush crawl up her neck that had nothing to do with the martini. “It is. I probably shouldn’t be eating like this. I should go home and take a shower or four before I go.”

  Marion snorted again and said, “That’s your problem right there. You need to relax some. I told you I would look and see.” She leaned across the table and lowered her voice enough that the next table wouldn’t hear her. “I’ve seen enough porn-pussy to know what’s normal and what’s not.”

  Amy choked on her martini and put the glass down hard enough to make noise, her hand cupping her face in case booze flew out of her nose. “Oh my god. You’re disgusting!”

  Marion laughed and handed her another napkin. “Not gross. Liberated. There’s a difference. You’re wound way too tight.”

  Amy knew that Marion was serious about the offer and she was also probably right about having seen as many female private parts as she claimed. She wasn’t a lesbian, but she watched porn. She called it “lady porn” which was apparently different than regular porn, more geared toward women’s tastes than the less sensitive male-oriented versions.

  “Thank you, Marion, but no. I don’t think our relationship would ever be the same if you did that.”

  “You can look at mine so we’re even.”

  “Ah, no. But thanks.”

  They stopped talking while their meals were served. Once the server left the table, Marion inspected Amy’s plate with a frown. As usual, she made it very clear she felt intense meal-regret until Amy offered her a bite. It was just how things went when they were together. It had been that way for the fifteen-plus years they’d known each other and would probably always be that way.

  After proclaiming Amy’s food better than hers, Marion leaned close again and asked, “And you’re really going to do it? See a sex therapist? For real?”

  Amy rolled her eyes and put down her fork, her meal still untasted. “Do we need to discuss this here? And it was only a suggestion, a potential avenue to explore. It’s not like I’ve agreed to it.”

  “Duh, we do need to discuss it,” Marion said, then licked the back of her fork, because manners were also not her style.

  Looking down at her food, which no longer looked quite so tempting, Amy said, “I’ll think about it depending on the results. My appointment with the therapist—my regular one—is tomorrow.”

  Marion nodded, then grinned and said, “You know, when you said you were getting counseling before the sale, I really thought that meant business stuff. I had no idea it was so…umm…full service.”

  It was true that this was an unexpected turn, but Sam had been her touchstone as she grew her business and made her way in the world. When he’d recommended she get some counseling while considering this sale, she’d done it. He told her that many people made serious mistakes or felt very adrift after such a profound change in circumstances. Amy had known this sale would be hard and she trusted Sam. As it turned out, Amy didn’t think she’d have been able to go through the sale at all without Barbara, her counselor.

  That they’d branched out into other aspects of her life had been a surprise, but probably a much needed one. Marion was right about one thing; Amy was wound tight and she knew it. She found it impossible to relax and that had spread to her relationships.

  And sex. Seriously into sex.

  Which meant no sex, because it wasn’t fun and frankly, it wasn’t worth the bother or the mess. Amy wasn’t big on one sided equations. Except for a few accidental orgasms that couldn’t be replicated, she was usually the one watching while the boyfriend of the month was basking in the afterglow, rather than doing any basking herself. She could do the job better and quicker herself.

  Marion wedged a piece of her chicken onto a fork full of potatoes and said, “You have no comment there, I’m guessing.”

  Amy shook her head and finally tasted her meal. It was divine. The capers popped on her tongue and the sauce simply made the entire dish a delight. She let out a little moan and said, “Oh, who needs sex when you can eat like this.”

  Marion let out a guffaw of laughter so loud that a few heads turned, then said, “I could twist that in so many ways.”

  “Whatever,” Amy said, intent on her super-high calorie plate of food. “Fuck you, my love. Just eat.”

  Two

  Amy’s foot bounced on the thick carpet of the waiting room. Her nerves were almost as shot as they had been the day before. Why did she schedule her doctor’s appointment on the same day as the sale? What had she been thinking? Maybe that it was best to get everything over with all at once. That sounded like her. Her face kept flushing with heat when she thought about her ob/gyn appointment the day before.

  If anything was more awkward than asking your doctor to make sure your lady parts were formed normally, Amy couldn’t think of it. And the fluorescent lights just added to the torture.

  Right as Amy lowered her forehead into her hands in remembered embarrassment, the door to Barbara’s inner office opened and she said, “Hello, Amy. Why don’t you come on in?”

  Amy scooted in like someone might read her situation on her face, even though the outer office was entirely empty. As she’d passed through the shared reception area for the therapists and counselors in the building, Amy had barely been able to speak her name.

  Why was she so embarrassed? Intellectually, she knew no one could possibly know what she was here for, but that didn’t change the fact that it felt like someone had written it across her forehead. In bright red marker. Permanent, bright red marker.

  “Amy, you look uncomfortable. Are you?” Barbara began, handing Amy a bottle of water and settling into a chair. She waited patiently while Amy sat, then fidgeted.

  Taking a swallow of water as a delaying tactic was really obvious, but she did it anyway. “Yes,” she finally said, twisting and untwisting the cap. “Ridiculously uncomfortable.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  Here we go, Amy thought.

  She answered and as the questions came and she verbalized her answers, she realized she felt better. Whatever tactic Barbara used, it was effective. Amy felt more at home answering questions that were concrete, things she could answer without delving into the deeper parts of herself. Lying with her legs spread under harsh lighting was a fact. It was something she’d experienced that was humiliating. It
was easier to talk about that than it was to talk about what might have caused such embarrassment. The truth was, she had no clue why things bothered her so much.

  She could tell when they were about to shift topics, and her fingers clenched a little tighter on the arms of her chair.

  “Did you bring the homework I asked you to bring?” Barbara asked, her tone entirely neutral, as if she wouldn’t judge Amy harshly if she didn’t…or couldn’t…complete the assignment.

  Slipping the small sheaf of stiff paper from her purse, Amy handed it over and waited while Barbara flipped through them, turning them this way and that to get the various pictures right side up.

  She held up a photo of Amy from her college days, her younger smiling face beaming out behind sun-darkened freckles on a beach during spring break, her bikini clad body a thing long in the past. “Is this the picture you think is the best one of you?”

  Amy nodded, admiring those firm thighs she hadn’t seen in ten years. That effortlessly pushed up pair of breasts. She sighed.

  “And yet, you’ve said you had the same trouble with achieving orgasm even during the time this photograph was taken. Recently, you told me that you felt it was your looks that made you self-conscious, unable to fully engage in sex. Can you tell me why you would have felt that way during this time?”

  Barbara had her there. How could she explain it? That feeling of needing to be perfect, to be exactly what the man in her bed expected and most wanted her to be. How could she really put into words what that constant hyper-awareness was like? When she was in bed with a man, Amy paid attention to what every move she made would look like from his perspective. Before she could answer, Barbara handed her the picture back.

  All Amy could do was shrug and say, “Just what I told you before. I’m too nervous.”

  Barbara had heard all this before and she didn’t push. Going through the other pictures, she turned them this way and that . “And these are all the men you’ve dated you found most attractive? Your ideal type, as it were?”