PLAYER (21st Century Courtesan)

by Pamela DuMond

  “I am not a double jointed fire eater who can swing from a trapeze.”

  “Come on. At least try the trapeze for me?”

  “God, you’re demanding,” I say, swallowing laughter.

  He takes me to a five-star French restaurant where we eat delicately sauced dishes with names I cannot pronounce. We swim for hours in the aquamarine, warm waters of the hotel pool. We get a couples’ massage at the spa. Dylan hires a helicopter to take us far enough out into the dessert to see the brilliant night stars. I cling tight to his arm because heights freak me out a little.

  We play blackjack at one of the hotel’s casinos, when a suited-up security guard taps Dylan on the shoulder. “Mr. McAlister?”

  “Yes,” Dylan says.

  He holds a hand up to his ear and whispers into it.

  “Yes, I see,” Dylan says. “Tell him I’ll contact him shortly.”

  “Excellent. Have a good night.” The guard walks off into the crowd.

  “What was that about?” I ask.

  “A business opportunity. I’ll hit the guy up later.”

  We take in a concert. Center stage five rows back. “I loved this guy when I was a teenager,” I say, jumping up and down along with everyone else in the auditorium. “No one rocked a pair of purple tights, platform shoes, ratted hair, and eye liner like Johnny Stone did.”

  “Throw your bra on stage and flash him your boobs,” Dylan hollers over the din.

  I smack him over the head with a glo stick. “You just want to see my tits!”

  “Yes, please!” He waggles his eyebrows.

  “Dirty old man!”

  “Some things never change, baby.”

  He fucks me in the shower, pulling my hair back, wrapping it around his hand. The water beats down on us and he slaps my ass, his other hand curved around the top of my pelvis as he pounds me from behind. His cock fills me. His warmth envelopes me. He feels so good and I’m moaning.

  “You miss me, Evie?”

  “So much, Dylan.”

  “Not as much as I missed you.” He reaches a hand around and strums his fingers over my clit until I cry his name and arch and buck against his hand, pleasure coursing through my body. Pleasure comes in rocky waves, crashing everywhere within me. I bite my lip, hit the tipping point, and come in shakes and shudders – little earthquakes.

  When I can finally breathe again I grind back against his gorgeous dick, taking all of him deep, then deeper inside me. “Come for me, Dylan.”

  He roams his hands over my tits, pinching my nipples, his breath coming faster. I push back against him almost as hard as he’s taking me. It feels like we’re on a roller coaster and I think we’ve known each other forever. Maybe God created us to be together. Maybe this was God’s plan all along.

  “Do you want to go shopping?” he asks the next day.

  “Don’t care, old man.”

  “I’d like to get you something to go with the necklace.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “I want to.”

  An hour later I stare at all the brilliant baubles in the jewelry cases, the diamond horseshoe pendant he gave me resting comfortably on my breastbone.

  “Do you have any earrings that go with her necklace?” Dylan asks the clerk.

  “Happy to show her options,” he says, unlocking a drawer, pulling out small black velvet boxes and placing them on the glass countertop. “The round cut two carat studs would go perfectly with your necklace. Try them on.”

  I remove my earrings and put in the studs. “They’re gorgeous. Dylan. What do you think?”

  He’s wandered a few yards away. He’s staring into a different case. He’s looking at engagement rings. For a second I forget how to breathe and I tug on a lock of my hair, winding it around my fingers. “Dylan, what do you think?”

  He walks toward me, a funny look on his face. “About? Oh, the earrings. They look great. Do you like them?”

  “I love them.”

  He kisses me sweetly. “Sold. Ring them up, please.”

  Two days spin by in a flash. It’s laughter and sex. Glamour and sex. Affection and sex. We’re back in our ‘old married couple’s routine, finishing each other’s sentences, egging each other on.

  We lie next to each other on a king-sized bed in his suite at the WW Vegas boutique hotel and casino. Electric candlelight flickers from sconces across the thin green and gold pinstriped walls cocooning our suite. There’s a view of the Strip in one direction and the brilliantly lit aquamarine pool in the other. Vegas is the epitome of glitz but this place is elegant. And yet a part of me misses that that kitschy little motel in Sugar Grove.

  I trace Dylan’s freckles with my finger, drawing constellations on his high cheekbones. I know we’re only got this weekend. The time to let him go draws closer but I’m going to hold tight to him for as long as I can. I’ve never really experienced anyone like him. Because of Dylan I learned my biggest weakness could also be my strongest strength. My empathic reactions — my most tragic wound — is transformed into my super power. My life would be perfect if I could have Dylan in it every day go to bed with him every night and wake up every morning spooned up against him.

  Will I meet another man I’m attracted to as much as Dylan? Who knows? What I do know is that it’s finally okay for me to be empathic. No more pushing it away, no more keeping it under wraps. It’s mine to own. Using my empathic ability with clients is already a big messy stew of passion and sex and sadness. But if I can help heal these broken men, help them get their power back, I’m cool with that. I’m signing up for a wild ride, but I joined this ruthless rodeo when I was born into my crazy family.

  “We never actually talked about why you left me swinging in Dallas,” Dylan says, playing with my hair.

  “Yeah, about that,” I say, unsure if I should share the details.

  “Patrick told me he scared you off.”

  “He did?” Did Patrick also tell him what went down with creepy Glenn?

  “He said he gave you some kind of ‘Come to Jesus’ lecture about you not being the right girl for me.”

  I nod. “I’m sorry I left the way I did. Everything got overwhelming really quickly.”

  “You had to go, Evie. Ripping off the bandage was probably best for both of us. How else were you going to take care of your mom? Hey, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

  “What?” I say and tickle that spot under his ribs, the one that always earns a smile. I take a mental picture of the creases around his eyes, he way his long, brown lashes brush against his high cheekbones. I burn his laugh into my memory forever and ever, fucking-amen. I tuck that laugh inside my heart, in a file that reads ‘I Will Never Forget’ because I will never forget Dylan McAlister’s laugh. He’s water on a stifling hot summer day. He’s love on a cold, hard, mean winter day.

  He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “It’s going to sound weird.”

  Dylan McAlister’s the man who marked me with a diamond necklace. The first man to make love to me in years. The first man to make me come. He’s the real deal. I’ll give this man my soul. I’ll ink his name on my skin. He’s already burned in my heart forever. “Tell me what you want.”

  “Your hair,” he says. “I want to cut your hair.”

  16. Deceitful Bed

  DECEITFUL BED

  My body flushes hot, then cold, and somewhere in the middle my throat closes off. My hand flies to my waist-length ponytail, clutching it protectively. “What do you mean you want to cut my hair?”

  “I want you to cut your hair,” he says, and runs his fingers down the lock trailing over my breast. He grazes my nipple and it pebbles under his touch – damn my traitorous body – then he places his hand possessively on my waist.

  “Why?” I say, breaking into a sweat, my guts dissolving into a pool of panic. “I thought you loved my hair.”

  “I do. Look, it’s complicated. Trust me on this one, okay? I’ll take you to the best salon
in Vegas. We’ll do it right. You’ve got a gorgeous face. You’ll look terrific with short hair.”

  “No.” My stomach twists and I stumble out of this deceitful bed, putting distance between myself and the man who up until a few seconds ago I trusted more than anyone else in the entire world. “I’ve been growing my hair since I was thirteen.” Since the accident. But he doesn’t know that.

  Dylan sits up and glares at me, determination wearing on his face, resolve blazing through blue eyes. “You hide behind it.”

  “What’s gotten into you? I do not hide.” I slip behind the chair next to the desk and shove an upholstered armchair between us. “My hair is me. It’s my look. It’s who I am.”

  He climbs out of bed and pulls on his briefs. “It’s a liability,” he says. “You tip your head when you need quiet. A wall of hair slides in front of your face when you check out.” He seizes my hand, easily navigating the blockade I just erected.

  I jerk away. “Not true.” I look at my suitcase, my purse. Should I stay and figure out what the hell has gotten into him or should I grab my stuff and run? Is this what Mom felt like right before panicked and split? Oh, holy crap, am I turning into Mom? Fuck. Fuck.

  “You mess with your hair when you’re nervous,” Dylan says.

  “I don’t.” My knees feel wobbly. The ground I thought was solid is shaking.

  “You do. It’s a tell to anyone who moves in these circles.”

  “A tell? Circles? You’re the only gambler I know, Dylan. The only player I’ve dated.” My pulse races so hard it could be trying out for the Olympics.

  “The circle isn’t just poker, Evie.”

  “Don’t treat me like a child, Dylan.” My knees knock. “Don’t you dare treat me like a child.”

  “The circle’s money. Big fucking money. Only people with money can afford to play games like this. Only people with big money can afford to hire a girl like you.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have sent them my way.” I jut out my chin defiantly.

  “I referred a few guys to Ma Maison who are like me. Good people you could help heal. They’re not the problem. Predators are the problem.”

  “Then don’t send me predators.”

  “Jesus Christ, Evie! You think I would knowingly send you assholes, let alone sociopaths?”

  “No.”

  “Listen to me. Predators love big money circles. They’re lions to zebras. Cons to marks. It’s out of my hands. Word’s out and it’s a fuck of a lot bigger than me.” He shakes his head. “You, Evie Berlinger, help powerful, rich men heal. You get them back on their game, help them regain power.”

  “So?”

  “Power’s money. I’ll bet the bank Ma Maison’s inbox is spilling over like a crimson fucking tide at an Alabama game. Filling up with inquiries from billionaires who want to hire you.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “I’m not.” He shakes his head. “I ran into a guy the other day who told me about you. Not the other way around.”

  “What are you talking about?” I’m shaking. My hands. My heart. My recently acquired belief in myself. “You’re talking like a crazy person.”

  “Listen to me. I knocked back a few drinks with this guy after a tournament a few weeks ago. I had two to his four. The more he drank, the meaner he talked. He asked if I had heard about the escort out of Chicago who helps a guy get his game back. I almost shit my pants.”

  “It could totally be someone else.” And yet the way my stomach’s twisting I know it’s not. I know that guy was talking about me.

  “Really?” He quirks an eyebrow. “‘People say she’s the real deal,’ this shithole said. ‘I think she’s some stupid bitch who reads tarot cards.’”

  “What’d you tell him?” My heart is pound-pounding in my chest so fiercely I fear it might break free and make a run for it. I glance at the door. Maybe I should be doing that right about now too.

  “‘Never heard of her,’ I said. He replied, ‘I’m going to get ahold of her agency – Ma Maison I think it’s called – and give her a spin. I’ll share her with friends, split the cost. She can suck my cock while someone hits her from behind and we’ll benefit from the tarot or palm readings or whatever crystal ball she has shoved up her ass. You in?’ he asked.”

  My throat squeezes shut and I hyperventilate. “He’s talking bullshit.”

  Dylan runs a hand through his hair. “Evie, I can’t take that risk. This guy is bad. Narcissistic, sociopathic, destroys lives kind of bad. His business that wasn’t doing all that well? Burned to the ground in a mysterious electrical fire. The business partner he was feuding with? Vanished one day, never to be heard from again.”

  “Tell me his name. I promise you I’ll never date him.”

  “It’s not that easy. For better or worse the word is out.” He wrings his hands. “All I can think is, what if he hires Evie? Will she be safe? Or will someone just like him mess her up?”

  “I know how to take care of myself. I’ve taken care of myself for a long time.”

  “A predator will watch you flick that long, beautiful hair. Watch you toy with it when you’re nervous. Figure out your weaknesses. Determine when and where, how and why you’re vulnerable. And then he’ll ruin you, Evie. Someone like that guy will fucking destroy you.”

  “Oh, come on.” Bzz. Bzz. Fear bores thin, painful holes in my bones. “How many people actually know all of this?” I’m in a sinking ship, ocean waters lapping over me. Ten seconds from now I won’t be able to breathe.

  “Doesn’t matter how many,” he says. “It only takes one. A narcissistic predator is as dangerous as cancer.”

  Tears rise, unbidden, un-fucking-wanted tears. “There’s stuff you don’t know...” A layer splits inside me, and I cling to its walls because I do not want to slide into the abyss. But I lose my foothold at the same time my tears decide they will not be ordered about. They defy me and trickle down my cheeks. “Why are you doing this? Are you mad at me for leaving you in Texas?”

  “Yes. No,” he says, looking tormented. “It’s not about Texas. It’s about being in love with you.”

  And I realize he is. Just as bad? I’m in love with him too. Holy crap, what have I done?

  “I looked at rings today, and for a second I dreamed. I went there. My heart and mind went to the cute house with the white picket fence, a dog, a cat and a jungle gym in the yard. But I can’t get down on one knee and ask you that important question right now, Evie. I can’t ask you to travel with me and be my girlfriend. That wouldn’t be fair.” He balls his hands into fists. “Someday my fortune might change. Then we’ll be playing a different game.”

  He looks so sad. Worse, I feel it within me and my heart cracks, grief mixing with disappointment, the bastard fruit falling off the tree of perpetual sadness, splitting open when it smashes to the ground. “I don’t need…”

  “Think about it for the future. But right now the thing I need most in the entire world? I need you to be safe.”

  “Safe?” I wipe away ugly tears.

  “Safe. I can’t give you a diamond ring but I can give you a bit of savvy. Some protection. I just want you to cut your hair, Evie. At the end of the day is it really that big a deal? Trust me. Please?”

  The snow’s falling again. It’s here in this hotel room, drifting down from the ceiling, melting in droplets from the electric candle sconces. It’s in the air outside our window, sifting onto Sin City in sand and silt and all the dreams that are born here, played, here, killed here. Soon I will be buried.

  “The concierge gave me the names of the best stylists in town,” Dylan says. “He’ll get us in to whomever you pick with one phone call. You’ll be in the best hands, baby. What do you say?”

  “Yes.” I grab his elegant hand and squeeze it. “Yes. Because I’ll be in your hands. You cut my hair, Dylan. Do it now before I change my mind.”

  17. A Million Pieces

  A MILLION PIECES

  I sit on the marble countert
op next to the bathroom sink wearing silk panties and one of Dylan’s long-sleeve dress shirts. He rubs my wet head with a thick, white towel. He lifts the towel, tosses it, and my hair tumbles down my shoulders.

  “We should brush it first, I think,” he says, fingering it.

  “Okay,” I say, the pulse in my wrist that I grip with my other hand feeling thin and threadlike.

  He gently pulls the brush through my hair in sections. I grew my hair long after we ran into the Wolfe brothers. It was a small thing I could control because I didn’t have much control over anything else. He pulls a pair of grooming scissors from his leather men’s toiletry bag resting on the countertop and leans into me. “My beautiful, brave Evie. Ready?”

  “No.”

  ‘Don’t you dare let the past control your life,’ Hope says. ‘Take a chance.’

  Fuck indecision. I grit my teeth. “I mean, yes. Do it.”

  He cuts.

  The slice is crisp, precise, surgical, but no one’s administered anesthesia and I shudder. A hunk of thick wetness smacks my shoulder, tumbling awkwardly down my breast. Fire grips my chest at the same time numbness settles around my ribs.

  It is a cold winter day. I am thirteen years old. Mom is manic again, tossing all kinds of crap into our SUV. I am panicking, but I’m not allowed to panic. I have to hold it together for my sister’s sake.

  He cuts.

  Chunks of hair drop chilly and wet onto my thigh. I shiver and peer down.

  I wear mid-calf length galoshes with dangling laces. I focus on the laces. If they can stay attached, I can too.

  “Breathe,” Dylan says, lifting a section of hair, tugging it toward him, angling the scissors.

  He cuts.

  Mom throws the car in drive and we pitch forward. Thick clouds bump across the open skies open, like the heavens unzipped them.