PLAYER (21st Century Courtesan)

by Pamela DuMond

  Evie: Didn’t think I’d be home in time for Halloween. Don’t have a costume.

  Amelia: I’ve got something from last year. Just come over.

  We hit a Halloween party at a club west of the Loop. The place is popping. The DJ spins Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller.’ Victoria and Amelia are dressed as super heroes. They’re smoking hot in their spandex and bustiers. Guys are practically salivating as we elbow our way through the crowd. I, on the other hand, am a Tootsie Roll. “I look like an idiot.”

  “You look adorable,” Victoria says as we move past the dance floor toward the back of the place.

  A vampire guy squeezes past me and flashes his fangs. “I’d take a bite out of you.”

  “Be gone with you, Boris,” I say.

  We edge up to the bar. Amelia flags down the bartender, thrusting her recently enhanced Wonder Woman cleavage in his direction. “Three Black Magic Cocktails, please.”

  “Coming right up, Diana,” he says.

  “What do you think?” I ask. “It sounds kind of crazy, right?

  “It sounds smart,” Victoria says. “Get everything in writing. A contract. I’ve got an attorney you can run it by.”

  “But… ” She was supposed to agree with me. She was supposed to say this was a ridiculous, terrible, crazy idea. “I’d miss teaching. What if quitting St. Matthew’s Elementary and working at Ma Maison is a horrible mistake?”

  “Then you go back to teaching,” Amelia says, lifting the cocktails off the bar and passing one to each of us. “I put in my resignation last week. I’ll be working full time at Ma Maison too. I second Victoria’s lawyer referral.”

  I spend all weekend thinking about going to work at Ma Maison full time. Quitting the day job sounds so weird. I meditate on it a few times. I hit the gym and ask God for clarity before I start working out. You’d be surprised how many answers come to me after I clear my mind. In the middle of running my third mile on the treadmill I realize it’s okay to shift gears. It’s okay to let go of the familiar path.

  I quit my job as a teacher on Monday and feel some of the same ‘quitter’ feelings that had ping-ponged inside Andrew Courtland. I won’t tell Ruby or Mom I quit until it comes up in conversation. Besides, I don’t know what to say I’ve replaced my job with.

  “Corporate consulting,” Victoria says a few nights later when we hit a movie. “I told my family I took a job as a consultant for Fortune 500 companies. That explains my wardrobe and why I’m always busy in the evenings.”

  “A part of me is freaking out that I might be able to earn enough money to sleep at night,” I say. “Enough money to reach for the check when we go out for a beer and burgers. It all feels oddly uncomfortable.”

  “You might get used to it,” Victoria says. “You ever go to therapy?”

  “A long time ago.” I think of all the therapists I saw after the car crash but I don’t really want to talk about that.

  “You’d love my shrink,” Victoria says, and messages me his contact information. “He’s non-judgmental, insightful, a safe harbor in a storm.”

  I would love a safe harbor. I start therapy with Victoria’s therapist just in time for more Ma Maison referrals to come in. And with my new empathic ‘specialty’ comes money. Big money. Crazy money. Debt-erasing money.

  At times the work is glamorous. I wear beautiful clothes. I stay in gorgeous homes. I converse with high powered, interesting people. Other times it’s crawl out of my skin uncomfortable. I wade through these men’s destructive feelings. I wear their pain. I cry their tears. I tremble with their fear.

  But I keep digging through their messed up beliefs and core wounds, doing my best to find the breakthrough they need. At the end of the day I don’t heal these men. They heal themselves. They just need a push in the right direction.

  Every few weeks Madame raises my rate as well as my clothing stipend. The work’s emotionally exhausting. And finally, three months later just when I think I’ll never hear from him again, Dylan McAlister contacts Ma Maison. He’s got a gig in Vegas and wants me to fly out, and join him for the weekend. I practically fall onto my knees and cast a prayer up to the heavens, thanking God for finally taking my call.

  “Madame?” I ask. “Did you give Mr. McAlister my new rate or the old one?”

  “New rate,” she says, toggling between two laptops on her desk.

  “Is he okay with that?” I clench one hand at my side, digging my fingernails into my palm, hoping he doesn’t cancel, because after everything we’ve been through now I cost too much.

  “He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t skip a beat.”

  Holy crap. I’m going to see Dylan McAlister again.

  15. Las Vegas

  LAS VEGAS

  I fly out a few days later and catch a ride to The Wolfe, the luxury boutique hotel where I’m supposed to meet Dylan. The irony’s not lost on me. It’s a weird coincidence that I’m reuniting with the guy I helped heal at a hotel carrying the same name as the boys I helped break.

  I pause along a cascading water wall at the far end of the lobby and pull a compact from my purse to apply a coat of lipstick, check my reflection, and run a hand through my hair. I’m wearing it down. Dylan loves my hair. He likes to tug on it during sex. He likes how it drapes across his body, tickling him when he’s naked and I’m straddling him, holding tight to his shoulders while he fucks me.

  I’m nervous. I haven’t seen him since that horrible, heart-stomping evening. We haven’t talked since I left him high and dry at that game in Dallas after I was blindsided by creepy Fast Food King’s bullshit one-upmanship and Patrick’s need to be in charge.

  I pinch the acupuncture spot on the web of my thumb to ground myself, take a few calming breaths, and gather my courage before I walk through the door of the darkened bar. The bar is crowded with people of all ages. My heart flutters in my chest like a teenager’s, my pulse building. But I don’t see Dylan.

  What if he doesn’t show? What if for some twisted reason this is some kind of revenge plot? There are so many people here. I crane my neck but I still don’t see him. What if this is a way to get me back for leaving him with no explanation? Where is he? My palms break out in a sweat and I glance around the bar.

  ‘He’s not that guy,’ Hope says. ‘He’s not petty. Keep moving. One foot in front the other.’

  I resume walking, past a bottleneck of people clustered at the bar, and that’s when I spot him. Dylan’s sitting at a small table in the far corner checking his phone, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. A bouquet of flowers rests on the table. Goose bumps sprout on my arms. I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited to see anyone in my entire life.

  I toss my hair over my shoulder, count three, two, one, and make my way toward him, my heart beating fast, practically carving a hole in my chest. “Hey, old man.”

  His eyes light up and he springs to his feet. “Evie.” He pulls me into a tight embrace. My breasts press against his hard chest, our hearts thump-thump. “God, Evie. You’re finally here.”

  “Finally.” I cling to him. He smells like hope and dreams. He feels like love lost and love found. I want to disappear into his arms forever, and it’s all I can do not to burst out crying.

  “I missed you,” he says.

  “I missed you back.” I inhale his scent and draw a hand over his neck. We fit together like long-lost puzzle pieces snapping into place. He wraps one broad, protective hand around my shoulders, the other around my head. He weaves his fingers through my hair and kisses me. He explores my mouth with his tongue, tasting me, claiming me, devouring me.

  I’m home, Dylan. Oh, sweetheart, I am home.

  He kisses me, tangling his hand in my hair. He shuts the door of his penthouse suite behind me with his foot. “God, I missed you, baby.” He feathers kisses on my forehead, face, lips and neck, and pulls at the zipper of my dress.

  I unbutton his shirt. My breath comes quicker. He shrugs off his shirt and I run my hands over his muscular chest,
and shoulders. I’m getting turned on by every muscular rip and swell. My cocktail dress falls to the floor and I step out of it. He palms my breasts through my lace bra, rubbing a broad thumb over first one nipple, then the other. They pebble under his touch. His breath comes faster. The muscle in his jaw ticks as he unhooks my bra. I inhale. My bra gapes opens and I shrug it off.

  He runs fingers down my neck, my chest, tracing circles around my breasts, pinching my nipples between his thumb and forefinger. I moan, electricity spreading in bursts to my arms, my fingers. He unzips his pants and kicks them off, then yanks off his underwear. His hard dick springs free, bobbing up toward his abdomen.

  He’s bigger than I remember. Dylan McAlister’s got a gorgeous cock. Tight balls. Flat stomach. Muscular shoulders. Be still my fucking heart. He pulls my lace panties down my legs and kneels in front of me, his breath warm on my abdomen. “Spread your legs, Evie.”

  I do.

  “So good.” He kisses my stomach, running a hand toward my core and I grow wetter. He reaches between my legs and circles a finger around my pussy. “My mantra,” he says. “Evie’s wet pussy.” He strums his thumb across my clit and eases two fingers inside me.

  I groan. “Your cock inside me, now, Dylan.”

  “I’m in charge tonight, baby.” He drops his mouth to my sex. He scrapes his teeth over my clit, the scruff of his beard tickling the sensitive skin on the inside of my thigh. He thrusts his fingers in and out and I moan. “Come for me. I want to watch you come.” He looks up at me. That muscle in his jaw ticks again. His eyes are heavy with lust, his cheeks flushed. He runs those talented fingers over my clit as my breath comes quicker.

  “Yes.” I grab his hair, threading my fingers through its thickness. I arch my pelvis, riding his hand that’s fucking me and I gaze down into his brilliant blue eyes. My orgasm circles and I’m panting by the time it hits me, strong in my core, tingles shooting down my legs, up my stomach to my breasts, my arms, my heart.

  He wraps his arms around me and smiles. “How you doing, Lucky Charm?”

  “Yeah,” I say catching my breath. “Yeah.”

  “Bed,” he says and points. “On your back.”

  I lie on the bed on my back. He grabs a condom from his wallet on the floor, rolls it on and then lines his beautiful cock up with my center and enters me. I am filled. I am whole.

  He fucks me, thrusting in and out. I want even more of him. “Harder, Dylan.” I wrap my legs around his back, moving with him as he pounds into me. I want to feel every inch of this man. I want to burn his memory inside me. Carve him in my bones. I claw the skin down his back. The world flies away somewhere I didn’t know existed before I met him. There will always be other clients. But there will only be one Dylan McAlister.

  “Evie.” He leans in and kisses me, then grabs my hair and pushes it back from my sweaty forehead. He curls my hair around his hand and kisses it, before dragging my hair down his neck, down his chest, down his stomach.

  He’s so fucking hot.

  “You’re gorgeous, Evie,” he pants. “I’m coming. I’m coming…” He holds onto that lock of hair as he shudders, his head tilting backward, and pushes even harder into me.

  He collapses on top of me, spent, and we catch our breath. I run a hand over his sweaty back. The longer I travel down this road, the more I get lost in the fantasy of what life would look like if Dylan and I were playing this game together for real. And I’m okay with that. I’m good with that, actually. Maybe all we really needed all this time was each other.

  We sit across from each other in a booth at a neon lit, crowded, casual trendy restaurant, two beers on the table. He holds my hand and turns it over in his palm. He runs his elegant fingers up and down the inside of my wrist. Sparks dance in the air around us.

  “Mom’s in remission,” he says. “It’s a bitch of a fight and yet she’s up for it.”

  “She’s a warrior. I’m so glad. I adore your mom.”

  “How’s your mom?”

  “Slow progress. Kind of hard to tell. I think she’s happier. Not as swingy.”

  A waiter drops off two mile-high burgers surrounded by sweet potato fries.

  “What’s going on with the church?” I ask.

  “Lighthouse is still Lighthouse,” he says and shrugs. “Frankly, it’s not my concern anymore. I put in my time. I served my eighteen-year penance. I cashed in my chips and I’m out of that game forever.”

  “Patrick?”

  “Bless his heart,” Dylan says.

  I cover a laugh.

  “My brother can fight over every last dime that’s squirreled away. Mom confided one night over a bottle of Jack that the will isn’t what Patrick thinks it is.”

  “Mom’s drinking Jack?”

  “Mom’s doing whatever the fuck Mom wants. She’s done with people telling her how to live her life.”

  ‘L’Chaim!” I hold my glass up in the air and we toast.

  “About the will. Patrick’s not getting the lion’s share that he’s been planning on. It’s going to an orphanage in Puerto Rico. The rest will be divided between the two of us when that day comes.”

  “Good on the orphanage. Does Patrick suspect?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care.” He shakes his head. “And I’m not going to be the one to tell him. Ha.”

  “Tell me about the game.”

  “The one here? Private. High stakes. Got in with a big money guy I met in L.A. A good man. A little gruff.”

  “Gruff? Translation – asshole?”

  “No. A little rough around the edges.”

  “Good. Is it good?”

  “It’s very good, Lucky Charm. He owns this hotel, among other things.”

  ‘That’s weird.’ Queasy flutters in my gut. ‘Wolfe. Same last name as those brothers.’

  “So, the gruff guy who owns this hotel -- he’s like the CEO of a ginormous conglomerate or something?” I ask, chewing on a fry.

  “Yes on his being the CEO. No on the conglomerate. It’s a family-run company. He owns the majority share. He’s some kind of wunderkind. He had a weird accident in high school and it set his brain on fire. He was a multi-millionaire by the time he left Stanford. He brought his brother into the business and they expanded.”

  Queasy’s wound up like a Golden Retriever doing anxious laps around my stomach. And I know it’s one of the Wolfe brothers. The guy Dylan’s talking about is either Wyatt or Easton Wolfe. “What’s his name?” I ask, my palms sweating.

  “Easton Wolfe.”

  I stop chewing. The blood drains from my fingers. “Did you meet his brother?”

  “Nope. You okay? Is there something wrong with the food?”

  “The food’s great. I think I know the guy.”

  “A lot of people know Easton Wolfe. He’s got his finger in a lot of pies. He has companies all over the globe.”

  “This is different,” I say.

  “Different? Oh. He was a client? Did something happen? Say the word and we can change hotels. We don’t need to stay here. You’re more important than a comped room.”

  “Not a client.” I shake my head. “Just a guy I know from a long time ago. I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “And I doubt you’ll see him here, either. I’ve played a few tournaments at this hotel and I’ve never run into him. Easton Wolfe is constantly traveling. But it’s your call, baby. I’ll do whatever you want me to. I want you to feel safe. I want you to feel comfortable.”

  I hate lying, I’m shitty at it. I might be forced into the occasional white lie in the course of work but I will not lie to myself. Those days have come and gone. The universe has a fucked up sense of humor. I’ve circled back around to the Wolfe brothers. They just don’t know it yet. But I do. Can I live with that?

  ‘Yes,’ Hope says. ‘You are not a rickety shed. You survive when the storm blows through and this isn’t even a squall.’

  And I remind myself I’m not just here to have fun or be comfortable. I’m here for Dy
lan and I’m here for the job. “I’m okay. We can stay here. It’s fine.” I will deal with these feelings later.

  “Good,” Dylan says. “Not that it matters but my room’s comped. The food’s comped. A few shows are comped.”

  “Am I comped?”

  “No, darling. You’re definitely not comped.” He leans over and kisses me. He tugs my lower lip with his teeth. His breath is warm against my face, and I want his mouth everywhere on my body. My neck. My breasts. My sex. I give my head a shake. I’ve got to leave the pleasure zone and return to business. Get straight for the game. I reluctantly pull away from him.

  “By the way,” Dylan says. “Your rate’s doubled.”

  “About that…”

  He shakes his head. “I’m good. Don’t worry about me.”

  The waiter stops by. “Can I get you more drinks?”

  “No thanks.”

  “We’re good, thanks,” Dylan says.

  “I can’t drink before a game,” I say. “Probably shouldn’t have had this one. I’ll fall asleep and then I’ll snore. They’ll never ask you back.”

  “They’ll ask me back as long as I’m staked and capable of losing money. I forgot to tell you,” he says. “I already played the game. I did pretty good. A hundred thousand up.”

  “Dylan!” Tingles zip up and down my spine. I’m so excited I practically topple off my seat.

  He beams like a kid coming home with A’s on his report card. “I’m winning again. Winning fairly consistently. I’ve been meditating, drilling into that core wound we discovered, reciting affirmations, chanting mantras. My shitty old beliefs might derail me on occasion, but those fuckers will never own me again.”

  “Yes!” I mouth a quick, ‘Thank You’ to the heavens. “But, why am I here?”

  “To celebrate. Who else would I celebrate with, baby?”

  “Get out!”

  And that’s what we do for two solid days. We go to Cirque du Soleil, our seats ten rows back from the stage on the aisle. Close enough to see everything. Not so close to be overwhelmed. He leans in and asks, “Do you think we can do what they’re doing right now on stage?”