by Evelyn Glass
He liked the idea so much, he told his assistant to arrange the purchase, his pickup, and the trip to her apartment. His assistant, Cathy, was a stunning redhead who was very willing to take care of his physical needs, but definitely lacked whatever it was Nicole offered. Nicole gave him an amazing gift when they first began. She gave him the ability to grieve his wife. He couldn't do it before Nicole.
Max's wife died at eleven in the morning from cancer. Max was on a plane to New York at three that afternoon. He was in Seattle the day of her funeral, Detroit for the following Thanksgiving, back in New York during the Christmas days, and so on -- leaving his sixteen-year-old daughter alone. Basically, his daughter lost both of them that day, mother and father.
He never grieved. It was there, the hole was there, and it was, without a doubt, the most pain he had ever experienced. But he simply couldn't grieve. There was never time and always something that had to be done: a call to make, a trip to make, an email to compose. Something. Always.
He heard about the call girls in Chicago of course, and was recommended to them several times and, one night, he made an appointment. Some actual relaxation would be good. Something more than a quickie with the assistant. A full night with a skilled woman.
When he arrived, she was beautiful, yes, but there was something else about her that drew him in. The eyes, maybe, or the come-hither grin she had. He asked if she would mind if he finished a few things up and she told him to relax, finish his day. She would get him a drink. Scotch? Sure.
Three hours later, he was showered and more relaxed than he could ever remember being. He was free of weights he couldn't recall carrying -- and they hadn't even had sex yet. Then he turned to her as they sat against the headboard together and she pulled back her hair, just like Joyce used to do. It was just the same.
He lost it. The sobs were tectonic. His whole world shattered. Nicole wasn't scared or amused or insulted or embarrassed. She just held him and let him bawl it out, which he did until sunrise.
"Max?" she asked.
He was expecting her to say something like it was time for him to leave, "Yes."
"I have today and tomorrow off, Max. Why don't you stay with me? I think you've been holding this too long, Max, and one night isn't going to clear it. So stay."
"I have a meeting --"
"You have a daughter you love and a wife you lost, Max. Reschedule or cancel. Nothing in that meeting is unique. Nothing you haven't seen before a hundred times. Nothing you are going to miss out on. Stay."
He stayed. Three nights and two days, he stayed with Nicole. She literally brought him back to life. Afterward, when he looked at the deals and decisions he had made since the day his wife died, he couldn't believe that he was the one who made them. Rank armatures made better investments! He could have made more money simply staying at home in bed. Who knew how far he would have spiraled down before something kicked in like self-preservation, but he was already way past the point he felt comfortable with.
For the next few years, he remained a client of Nicole's. She continued to put a little more of his shattered heart back together every night he was with her. She often laid her head on his chest, listening as if she were trying to tune his heartbeat, to adjust the pulse and rhythms, and, hell, maybe she was, because he always felt more complete in the morning.
"Have you thought about after?" he asked her once. Asking her to marry him or come with him was strictly bad form. He knew the rules, but asking about after, that was just pushing the envelope.
"I don't think call girls retire, Max," she smiled. "Eventually I won't be pretty like I am now and then it will just be over."
"Do you enjoy it?" he asked, knowing that he was really toeing the line now.
She studied him for a moment and said, "I'm not proud of what I am and not really proud of what I do, Max, but I am very proud of how I do it. Does that make sense to you?"
He nodded, "A great deal of sense. Yes. And, if I can say this would sounding like a pervert, what you do, you do extremely well."
"From you, Max, that means a lot to me. It really does."
"All right, if I have that kind of respect for you, then let me pay my debt," he offered.
"Debt?" she smiled. "You don't owe me anything."
"Yes, yes I do, and we'll just look at the money value, all right? We won't talk about broken hearts and empty souls or empty lives. Just plain, black and red, hard fact accounting. Will you accept that?"
She studied him again, "And, if I acknowledge this … debt and say, 'yep, you owe me', then how do you intend to repay?"
"I believe that service for service would be acceptable to both of us. You brought me out of a tailspin that I was in since my wife died. The financial losses began that day, in fact, in New York. You did this with skills I can't describe, but I recognize. So I will teach you my skills. I'll show you how to retire and have a good life after."
She sat up and faced him, "You mean like the stock market and that kind of thing? Max, I never finished high school. I'm just a run away from El Cajon, the arm-pit of California."
"No," he told her, "That's what you were. So, do we have a deal?"
She bit her lip and pulled back her hair, just the way Joyce used to, but this time, he only enjoyed the memory. No tears, no pain. "No bullshit, no esoteric crap, right? You show me that this deal lost so much money before me and this deal made so much money because of me, and that's it… just facts."
"Agreed?"
"Yes, all right, agreed."
Max had smiled and thought, Gotcha. After all, in order for her to read the spreadsheets, she had to learn how to use them and accounting, and investment principles, and negotiations, and all of the rest.
She did too. She dove into it with a tenaciousness he never expected. He had tutors come to her apartment during the day and he spoke with her on Skype. A year later, she opened her own portfolio and began investing in stocks.
"So, $5,483,609.00 is what I owe you, right?" he asked, fourteen months later.
She looked over the figures and nodded her head, "Got it. Wow, that's kind of cool how you did that, though. It's still more or less and estimate, though, right?"
"Well, when you get right down to it, these kinds of things always are, but I would accept that from my accountant as being as accurate as possible," he told her.
She studied the spreadsheet some more and then told him, "Well, you are definitely paying it back. I got in on that start-up we talked about and just sold it today for a nice profit, putting that back into my stable growth stocks. Those are still doing fine. So I now have more than one hundred thousand dollars. I did a spreadsheet on that, with the things you showed me here, and it looks like I'll be well past five million in about eight years, give or take, which is still long before I will be forced to retire… I hope. I guess my ass will be the factor there," she smiled. "And no, you will not do a spreadsheet on the estimated growth factors of my ass. No."
She amazed him that day when she showed him the sheet she prepared. It was doubtful that his own broker could have done better. She could discuss nearly any topic in finance or investing after that. She had sound insights and a healthy skepticism.
His limo pulled up to her apartment and he took his gift box up to her door and knocked. After a few minutes a nice looking blonde, but not Nicole, answered the door, "Hey, what's up?"
"I'm looking for Nicole," he said, knowing instantly that she didn't live there any longer. The model ships were gone and so were the oils.
"Sorry, she's not here anymore. My place now. She's at Gabriel's house, poor thing. She's house pussy now."
Ice dripped down his spine. He didn't need to ask what house pussy might be to know that it was something that Nicole should never be. Ever. "Well, thanks," he told her.
"I can help you, though, since she's out of it now, if you would like. My name is Rachel," she offered.
"I'll keep that in mind, Rachel. Thanks again."
Back in his lim
o, he caught the eye of his assistant. "I need the address of a pimp named Gabriel. I want the next full week cleared of everything. Nothing matters except this project, termed Nicole. Understand?"
His assistant didn't blink, just started typing on her laptop with razor-sharp nails that made scalpels seem dull, carving through his schedule and informing people that their deal had to wait, "Anything else, Max?"
He didn't like to think about it, but he wasn't a virgin, "Yes, I want the best rehab available in Chicago and the names of at least two psychologists specializing in PTSD and addiction."
"Right. I have the address."
"Give it to Bill and let's get going." Max drummed his fingers through the whole drive.
Such a derogatory term, house pussy, felt like it meant all-comers. Any visitor, any guard, driver, housekeeper. House pussy. There was no way that Nicole would suffer that kind of humiliation without a fight, a fight she apparently lost. It was fairly well known – at least he knew it, through movies, novels, and plays – that drugs were often used to keep women in line.
Maybe she tried to leave.
His last look at her portfolio -- she gave him the passwords so he could check up and give her advice periodically -- showed her close to one million. Her first one million. Taking up his own laptop, he checked her portfolio now. She was just over that million, but the she took out a huge sum and had it waiting for a bank transfer. Opening up the details for the withdraw from her stocks, he found a note, "Gabriel, buy out."
"Buy out?" he asked himself.
Gabriel was the pimp. The only thing that made sense, with that amount of money, was that she was trying to buy herself out. Nodding, he looked at the date and noted the transfer was created yesterday, at close to eleven, but the funds were never sent. "She made the offer, then he accepted. She got the transfer ready, then he backstabbed her." He murmured, letting his mind drift over the loose and incomplete information, a skill he honed for over thirty years making several billion in the process. "He doesn't want her to go, but she won't stay. So he jacks her up and makes her house pussy. A punishment for trying to leave."
He looked up to his assistant, "Ask Bill to go a little faster. I'm not liking the figures I'm getting here. Time could be an issue. In fact, I'm sure it is."
"Sure, Max," she nodded and spoke to the driver. After she gave instructions and the limo noticeably increased speed, he asked, "What is the drug of choice for pimps to use on their girls?"
"Heroin," she said without hesitation. "Breaks down the will to fight, allows multiple rape training."
"Multiple rape training?" Max pressed.
"The mind can only take so much, Max, and after a while, being raped simply becomes acceptable. She breaks and, from that point, is willing. On heroin, she will realize what is happening, suffer the emotional and psychological damage, and respond to the effects, but she will be unable to fight back because of the drug’s effects."
"Brainwashing at its worst," he spat bitterly.
She nodded, "Unfortunately the victim loses a great deal of her mental capacity from the process, as well, so she would never be a high-dollar call girl after that, just a street walker, or perhaps in a red-light house."
"So why would you do this to an incredibly high-dollar call girl?"
His assistant thought about that and then said, "Because you are insane, vindictive, and wish to keep the others in line -- though that last one is iffy."
"Why iffy?"
"Call girls, like Nicole, are often highly intelligent. They see something like this and they are going to run, not be too scared to leave. Self-preservation will kick."
"So, Gabriel is not only losing money by doing this, he is also risking all the rest."
"Right. As I said, insane."
"Noted, thank you."
"My pleasure, Max. I hope we get to her before serious damage happens. I feel like I owe her."
Max looked up, "Yes?"
"You weren't yourself, Max. She put you back together. We all saw it. I couldn't help you. I tried. Others did, as well, but you were an unresponsive patient. Two days with her and you were walking like a man again."
"You never mentioned this," he noted.
"Never seemed appropriate until now," she told him.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
When the limo pulled up to the gate, two guards, with rifles clearly visible, came up to his car. He rolled down the window, "My name is Max Rozzi. I'm a long time client. I would like to go up to the house. Is there a problem?"
"Afternoon, Mr. Rozzi. I'm very aware of who you are and it is an honor to meet you. Your position in this city is well known. There was trouble, but not any longer. It is completely safe. Please continue up to the house and I'll call ahead to ensure you are allowed inside."
"Thank you," he said, noting that the man was wearing a very nice suit for a guard carrying an assault rifle.
As they passed through the gates, he asked his assistant, "Cathy, that suit?"
"Five, easy," she told him.
"Thoughts?"
"Lou?"
"Hmmm, interesting." Max murmured. "He did say he knew what my position was, didn't he?"
"Very few would; you aren't that popular to the masses. He would have to have a reason for knowing your name, or to recognize you on sight like that."
"Yes, agreed. You stay here. I don't think I'll actually get anywhere, so I don't think this will take long," Max told her.
The door was opened by another guard, but no rifles there. All handguns and shoulder holsters, "Afternoon, Mr. Rozzi. It is a pleasure to have you here."
"You're one of Lou's men?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. Temporary detail. One month only," he said.
"And the trouble?"
"Has been taken care of," the guard assured him.
Instinct made him ask, "When?"
The guard fumbled, but then seemed to find no reason for secrecy with that, "Yesterday, about noon."
"Thank you," Max said and walked directly toward the front door like owned the place. Coincidence? Her transfer and abduction, and the end of trouble, which previously required this much firepower? Max didn't believe in coincidences of that nature.
The house was a three-story mansion and when Max came through the front doors, the lobby of the house had a greeting desk with a man sitting behind it, making the place feel like an office, with receptionist.
Who to ask for. Gabriel, or Nicole? He walked to the receptionist and introduced himself.
"Yes, sir. I'm well aware of your standing with our service. How can I help you? Gabriel will not be back until at least six this evening."
"That's fine. Actually I am here to visit with Nicole. I was told she would be in this location now."
"Nicole?" he said and Max could see a great deal of surprise in the young man's face. "I'm afraid that she is not really available. She's had some…problems."
"Ah, well, I would still like to see her; you may charge my normal rate. Thank you."
"No," he smiled and almost laughed, "I can't charge you that much, Mr. Rozzi. After you see her, you would have my hide. And she's --"
"House pussy. Yes, I know," he said matter-of-factly. "I've been over this," he continued, pulling out his money clip and handing over five hundred. "One hour, probably much less. I am on a schedule, so please, let's not banter any longer."
The young man took the money and his eyes shifted toward the guards, then back to Max, "All right, but --"
"You warned me, yes, yes, lead the way," Max pressed, walking around the desk and forcing the man into action.
"Right this way, Mr. Rossi," he said, hurrying into a leading position.
Well, that wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be, he said to himself.
She was Nicole, or at least the shell of Nicole. Her beauty was still intact, but everything he loved about her was gone. Her eyes were dark marbles and no one was home. He got to the bed and sat down, "Nicole? It's Max. I'm back. Nicole?"
<
br /> "Max?" she asked, searchingly.
"Yes, I'm here."
"Max. Cole. Please. Cole."
"Coal? What do you need coal for?"
"Cole, Max. Please. Horsemen. Please. Help. I'm hurt, Max. I'm hurt."
"I know. I'm going to help you," he said.
"Find Cole Max. Find Cole."
"All right. Where can I find coal?"
"Horsemen. Horsemen. Help. Hurry."
Max spent a half hour with her, but that's all he got that made any sense and that much didn't make any sense at all. Horsemen? He eased her back down on the bed from his lap, "I'm going to get coal for you. I'll be back soon."
