Rules of Engagement

by Katrina Liss

  Morag’s blue eyes bore into me like laser beams.

  I’m guessing this is a major issue, the stress she has placed upon it.

  I stare back. “Absolutely.”

  She nods, seeming satisfied I’m a good bet and passes the documents and a gold pen over.

  “Usually I do a thorough background check, which can take up to three days to complete. But Callie has vouched for you; ensured me you are a sweet girl; honest, trustworthy and reliable; and she’s known you since childhood. So I’ll waiver the process in this instance. You can start straight away.”

  “It was nice of her to endorse me.”

  “I trust her opinion. She’s been with me for nine months.”

  “That long, huh?” I do get why she hasn't told me before though. It’s not the kind of job you advertise doing.

  “She's one of my most requested escorts. Clients love her.”

  Morag’s little coffee is delivered by Tom who eyes us curiously before shooting across the cafe to clear some stuff. Morag gestures at the papers. “Read through quickly and we can get it all done now.”

  She sips coffee while I read and complete the paperwork. I’m paid after each assignment. One hundred dollars per hour? That’s a pretty crazy rate of pay. Leave and life insurance are generous too.

  I could jump for joy. Hopefully, my landlord will get his rent in a few days. I won’t have to hide from him for too long. I fill in my personal details, bank account and contact stuff with Morag’s swanky gold pen, then sign and slide the papers back.

  “All done. Here you go.”

  She looks them over quickly.

  “Perfect!” She beams at me. “Welcome aboard.” She sticks out a bony hand for me to shake and seal the deal. “I’ll scan a digital copy to your email. I’m sure it’ll be a pleasure to have you working for us.”

  “I’ll do my very best, I promise you.”

  “I’m sure you will. Currently, we have quite a few clients you will be a good fit for,” she says with a subtle arch of her brows. “What’s the status of your wardrobe, by the way?”

  “Status of my wardrobe?” I echo. If by that she means do I own jeans and a t-shirt, sure, I have a wardrobe. But I don’t think it is. “Pretty much zero.”

  "Thought as much." Morag sighs. “I’ll provide a few suitable outfits, on credit, to get you started. What size are you—bra, dress and shoe?”

  I offer up my sizes and she writes them in a notebook.

  “I’ll have them delivered to your address tomorrow afternoon. Be aware your first booking might be anytime from now. I’ll text you when I allocate assignments so always keep your cell charged and to hand.”

  “Will do. And thank you so much for the opportunity,” I murmur.

  I keep expecting to wake up and find this whole thing a crazy dream, but even after I pinch myself, I remain very much where I was, sitting in front of Morag, my new employer.

  Morag smiles brightly. “Always remember what I told you about being professional. Sometimes it can be a little difficult to keep personal feelings under wraps. But you must keep your distance, and refuse inappropriate behavior politely. Remind clients you’re at work and they should respect that. Your reputation and that of the agency depends upon you. I don’t want any sleaze going on behind my back. Absolutely no extras. Not off the clock. Not for free. None. Understood?”

  I frown in offense. “Of course!” What kind of woman does she think I am?

  She takes my hand and we rise to say goodbye. “I wish you luck, then. Enjoy the ride, it can be jolly good fun, exciting, nowhere near as mundane as this.” She gestures around us with a swirl of her hand. “I expect to hear some good feedback about you. And, oh…I almost forgot, one last thing…” She lifts my hand for inspection. “You need a manicure and some styling tips. I own Sweet Something Beauty on West Avenue, which is where I'm based. I’ll fix you up for free, so get along there, soon as you can.” She winks an eye before sweeping out of the cafe with a parting, “Bye then, thanks for the coffee, my dear.”

  “Thank you too. And you’re welcome,” I call after her and she finger waves over her shoulder as she leaves.

  Now that she’s gone I drop back into the chair in shock. My head’s buzzing like crazy and my heart’s pounding just as bad. It feels like my whole world has tipped upside down in a matter of minutes.

  “Ella!” grunts a familiar voice from behind, bringing me back to reality with a crash. I swing round in the chair to find Patrick scowling at me. “Sitting down on the job again?” he barks.

  “I’m on my break.”

  He leans down, placing his hand on my chair back and snarls in my ear.

  “Not if I say you’re not. Get back to work.”

  “No.”

  I don’t need to put up with his slave-driving or bad attitude anymore. A wave of relief washes over me.

  I'm free of my bad tempered boss and his grotty underpaid job.

  “I said, get your lazy little ass back to work.”

  “I quit.” I say proudly, rising to my feet.

  Patrick ignores my resignation, stalking off, back to his office, barking orders at my good friend Thomas as he goes.

  I collect my purse and jacket, ignoring the staring eyes of everyone watching me.

  “That was brave,” Tom says, coming up behind me. “Wanna tell me about it?”

  “I’ve had enough, that’s all.”

  “Me too. I wanna get out of here as much as you do. But I can’t. Got a pregnant girlfriend and two cats to feed. Who was that woman you were talking to?”

  No one is knowing about my new job. Tom included.

  “A distant relative. Look, I’ll call you, okay?”

  I’m anxious to leave before Patrick returns. I march out of the cafe door with a cheery, “See ya,” to all present.

  The trip home, sitting on the dirty subway, even walking down my grotty street, I feel like I'm floating on air.

  Chapter Three

  Vic

  “Victor… are you even listening to me?”

  My mother’s crisp voice barks into my ear from my cell.

  "Of course,” I lie, switching my attention back to her.

  Unfortunately, I’m rather preoccupied with one of my wall monitors where I’m tracking the gold index, also known as the goldie. It’s been pretty volatile today—and now on a down.

  “So? Do you know who they are? The Wenhaston twins?”

  “I guess you mean the senator’s daughters?”

  “You could do well, marrying into politics.”

  I choke down a laugh. Not a pleasant kind of laugh.

  “Could I now?” I can’t help the aggravation in my tone.

  “Victor, darling, don’t you think your playboy act is wearing thin? You’re thirty one now, you ought to be thinking about the future. But all you do is work and play around!”

  I could laugh. Play around my ass! I can't even remember my last date.

  “Leave my life to me. You look after yours.”

  I can just imagine her rolling her eyes.

  She sniffs. “Please don’t get uppity with me. I’m only trying to help.”

  “When are you going to understand, I don’t want your help.”

  “Now listen to me… as your mother it’s my duty to tell you these things. You need to find a wife and start a—”

  I cut her short. "I’ve heard the speech before—too many times. See you tomorrow, mom—6.30.”

  I end the call before she has a chance to say another word.

  "God help me!" Slamming my cell down a little too hard I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling, hands behind head, trying to calm the hell down.

  Although I love her, my mother tries my patience to its limits way too often.

  I’m prepared to show willing, pitch up at her events, support her charity work to the full, but I’m getting sorely pissed off with the matchmaking. Every fucking time I attend some do of hers, she has a line of prospective wives f
or me to talk to.

  She’s not even subtle about it.

  I now have at least two women to pretend to be interested in tomorrow evening.

  Newsflash, Mother… I'm not interested.

  It’s tempting to bail. Not for the first time.

  A light flashes on my intercom, my P.A., Hilary, buzzing from her office next door.

  I press the button and reply a little brusquely. “Yup?”

  “Your accountant has been delayed at least an hour. Traffic accident on the bridge apparently.”

  I suck in a deep breath and exhale, getting my thoughts in order.

  “Okay. Thanks for letting me know. Hils, uhm, if you’d run get me a Neros, I’d be eternally grateful.”

  “No problem,” she replies with her usual chirpy attitude. “I was just gonna pop out anyway, to meet Frank downstairs, he needs to pick up my house keys. Locked his set in the car.”

  “Go take a coffee break with him… on the company card... whatever you both like.”

  "That’s sweet of you, thanks. Was that your mom you were speaking with just now?"

  "Yeah."

  "It sounded heated. Who’s on the hit list this time?” She stands and gives me the sad face through the glass partition. She knows my mother's ways well enough to sympathize.

  “The Wenhaston twins.”

  “No? What’s she like?”

  “Tenacious?”

  “You can say that again. Oh… Frank’s just texted me he's here. Be back in twenty with your coffee, ‘kay.”

  “No rush.”

  Hilary ends the intercom chat and waves as she scoots off, her red pony tail swinging down her back.

  Thank God for my P.A., She keeps me afloat in more ways than just coffee. She’s my most valuable business asset, apart from that which occupies the space between my ears. Nothing is too much trouble, not even listening to her testy boss on a mother rant.

  My eyes flick back to the goldie. I’m closing this one out right now. I feel it’s on the down and out. I grab my mouse and tap the close button on my trader platform. Then I confirm. Not too shabby in the end. Ten grand profit, less brokerage. It’s been a good week in all. One of my best. I'm lucky I've inherited the Midas touch my dad possessed. He made a killing on the stock markets in his time. But a trader is only as good as his last deal. I’m very aware of that. And one bad call could wipe out a whole week, month or year’s profits in one hit. I've heard of other indie traders who've lost the lot and more in a matter of hours. I have the quote hung on my wall in a large framed poster. As a strong reminder. For those moments when I’m inclined to get a bit cocky.

  My mind returns to tomorrow’s event; my mother cooking up her latest plan.

  If only I had a platonic female friend—someone to take to these events—to fob my mother off. Unfortunately I don’t. Never been good with the platonic stuff. Other than Hilary, who’s happily married, I’ve not had a relationship with any woman which hasn’t ended with us being joined at the groin.

  I need someone uninterested, uninvested, with no personal agenda. Someone I don’t know. More importantly, someone my mother doesn’t know.

  I pick up my cell as an idea pops into my head.

  I type premier escort services in google search.

  I scroll down to number four on the list. It's the name which catches my eye.

  Sweet Something.

  This sounds right up my street. A sweet something to charm and fool my mother.

  After checking out the website, getting positive vibes, I give them a call.

  A Scottish accented voice picks up.

  “Good afternoon. Sweet Something, Morag Jenkins speaking, how may I help you?”

  “I’m needing an escort. For tomorrow evening. I know it's kinda late notice, but can you help?”

  “Possibly, yes.”

  “Cool.”

  “Can I start with your name, sir?”

  “Victor Walker.”

  “Your age?’

  “Thirty one.”

  “Good, good. And now your address, email and cellphone number please?”

  I supply the requested.

  “I’ll do an expedited background check, get you sorted and on the assignment list asap.”

  “Appreciated.”

  She takes some final deets for her checks.

  “Super... and your height?”

  “Why d’you need that?”

  “We have tall and short escorts. I need to match stature, roughly.”

  “Course,” I chuckle. “Six three.”

  “D’you have any physical preferences for your escort? I can’t promise to match exactly. But I’ll try.”

  “Blonde. Blue eyed. Pretty on the eye… legs for days… curves where they matter.”

  “Nothing particular then?” Morag titters a laugh.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No, not at all. That’s what I’m here for. To provide you with the escort of your dreams.”

  By the time we end the call I have a gut feeling this is gonna work like a charm.

  Mother dearest, you’re off my back.

  I know it’s not a long term strategy, but it’ll do for now.

  It might even be a little bit of fun.

  Fuck knows, I need it. My life has been lacking in fun for a long time.

  I swing round in my chair and look across the street to the shiny glass building opposite. It’s a view I know far too well. Right down to the last detail. I know there are sixty two windows on that facade. I spend way too much time in this office.

  I spin back and pull up a spreadsheet on my Mac, to record a few prices regarding a market I’m interested in getting into. The crypto’s. Cyber currencies.

  My eye flicks up and down to the Reuters and Bloomberg monitors as I enter the highs and lows. I’ve been getting a feel for this the last few weeks... charting progress. My gaze drifts to the books on my desk, which I’ve been reading on these new currencies.

  They've served a purpose but I might need some more hands-on knowledge and intel. Maybe consult with someone who knows these markets.

  I don’t have much of a life but this.

  Markets. Trades. Profits. Losses.

  Work’s the only thing that gives me a buzz.

  My mother’s dead right when she says all I do is work. I’m pretty much married to my fucking trading platform. For some strange reason, considering there are hefty risks involved, I feel safe in the world I’ve created for myself.

  I can deal with transactions. I know where I stand.

  Sometimes the markets screw me over. But I always get one up. And I thrive on it.

  It’s just me and the system. No one else involved.

  I’ve found relationships, specifically those with women, to be far more complex than anything I deal with on a daily basis in the confines of this office.

  Those women I’ve dealt with on a personal basis, I’ve always pulled out of the relationship, at a loss, and on a steep downward trend. Maybe it’s the women I’ve chosen. Or maybe it’s just me… not being great relationship material.

  My problem may stem from not having a great relationship with my own mother. She’s smothered me all my life. Always there, interfering, micro managing, manipulating, trying to control. The fact I rebelled against her when I was seventeen, didn’t seem to make any difference.

  Now, I’m always looking for those signs in other women… I do not want to be controlled.

  With a long sigh, I open up a new position, short term. I’m going long in silver. It’s my usual overnight punt. Sometimes I make, sometimes I don’t. But overall this little book I’m running is way up this year. It’s my little baby.

  I stand and stretch, shifting my shoulder muscles where a knot of tension has formed.

  Resting my arm on the window above my head, I stare down into the street below watching the people rushing around joining the mad rat race that’s New York.

  Same view, every day.

  Once
I’ve dealt with my accountant, I’m gonna blow off some steam.

  It’s been a few days since I hit the gym.

  Chapter Four

  Ella

  By the time the next evening arrives, the exhilaration I was initially experiencing has escalated to a state of nervousness, so acute and nauseating, I can’t even think straight.

  I'm calling Callie. She's the only one I can talk to.

  She already knows I’ve taken the job, as I called her yesterday afternoon. But I need to speak to her now to explain how terrified I am of messing up.

  I tap her name in my contacts and she picks up straight away.

  “Whassup hun?”

  “I need some reassurance—and maybe some pointers.”

  “Okay, but can’t talk for long. Gotta get ready for my dinner date with Baz.”

  “Who’s Baz?”

  “My new, totally sexy, boyfriend. My God, he’s so dreamy, Els… his ass is to die for… and boy, he knows how to kiss. I have a thing about that. A guy’s gotta be able to kiss right or else I’m gone. And as for the horizontals… Jee-sus!” She whistles down the line. "I'm one lucky lady."

  She’s so full of him I feel a bit jealous. Actually... a lot jealous. My experience with guys is very limited. I’ve been very sheltered, protected, guarded even. Apart from a high school party, where I’d first kissed a guy, and a few casual dates after that, I’ve never hooked up, let alone gone fully horizontal. All of which is probably why I’m feeling so nervous about the escorting. I expect it's similar to dating, in a sense. And I have no life experience to draw on. Unlike my friend who obviously has plenty.

  “Yeah, lucky old you. Does he know what you do for a living?”

  “No! Are you effing crazy? We've only been together a few weeks. Gotta work that one out. Later.”

  “I guess you do.”

  “Anyways, what pointers d’you need, babe? I’m trying to paint my toenails here.”

  “What kind of questions do you ask your clients?”