PLAYER (21st Century Courtesan)

by Pamela DuMond

  Healing a damaged movie star might look shiny and glamorous but trust me it’s not. I’ll keep long hours and get spotty sleep. I’ll dig into his psyche, find his dirty secrets, willingly sacrifice my grip on sanity. I’ll do it to track down the core belief that’s murdering his mojo. I’ll do it to help him heal and in the process I’ll make a fortune.

  Healing broken men is filthy, grueling work, which is why it’s ironic that on the outside I look immaculate. I look fucking flawless. My body’s toned from hours of working out. My hair is glossy. My skin glows from the sugar scrub that makes it baby soft to a man’s touch. I’m a shiny fucking penny.

  But scratch the surface and you’ll sink through my very thin skin and light on the jangled, tangled mess of my nerves because some predator invaded my home tonight and left a jewelry box filled with a Bible verse and locks of cut hair on my bed.

  Instead of hitting the sack early and getting a good night’s sleep before I fly to L.A., I huddle outside my red brick, 12-story condo building and chew on what several hours ago was a perfectly manicured fingernail. My 70-something neighbor, Hazel O’Rourke and her scrappy dog, Ruca keep me company.

  “You’re young, pretty, and good hearted,” Hazel says. “You’re bound to attract your fair share of jealous friends as well as creeps. Trust me, I’ve seen my share of weirdos but this one takes the cake. The cops are finally here, thank God.”

  The police SUV parks right under the “No Parking” sign. Ruca, eight pounds of fierceness, yips up a soprano aria, as the uniformed cops make their way toward us.

  “Do you want me to stay?” Hazel asks.

  “Nah, I’m cool. Thanks for waiting with me as long as you did.”

  “No problem.” She plucks Ruca off the ground. “If you need anything, just knock.”

  “Will do.” I salute her. I answer the officers’ questions. Yes, I’ve received a handful of weird letters in the past, but it’s been about a year since the last one. No, I don’t have a clue who would want to do something like this. My work? I’m a ‘consultant for high end corporations’.

  This kind of intrusion isn’t normal in my profession. Does anyone have a key to my place? Hmm. Not since I moved six months ago. Fresh locks. Fresh keys.

  “I’ll walk you inside,” I say.

  “Best if we check out your place first,” one of the cops says.

  I hand him my keychain. “Unit 1211.”

  “It’s normal to feel scared,” says Detective Novak the female officer who stays behind with me. “It’s a violation. Do you have anyone you can call, Ms. Berlinger? Family? A friend?”

  “Yes,” I say, then think about it. “But they’re probably working.”

  “Night shift’s a bitch,” she says. “Stay here. One of us will be back in no time.” She walks inside, the door swinging shut behind her, leaving me all alone on a humid, big city evening under a hazy night sky. I pull out my phone and swipe the pictures I took of the letter the intruder left. And I read:

  Dear Evelyn:

  It’s been two years. I had hoped by now you would have grown your hair back. But there is no covering, there is no modest Evelyn, there is only boastful Evelyn. Proud Evelyn. Evelyn who flaunts everything she has.

  And this disturbs me.

  I’m not sure what to do about this. I’m weighing options. I’m just a mess inside and yet you sleep easily. Some days I can’t eat and worry gnaws at my bones.

  And I wonder — what if Evelyn doesn’t have a covering and some kind of sicko realizes that and picks a fight with her? Evelyn used to be awfully nice, but she’s changed. She shows off. She’s entitled. Now she’s putting herself out there. Right there in the crosshairs for just the right predator to come around and take, take, take whatever they want from Evelyn. Whatever they crave.

  What do you think they’ll take first, Evelyn? Your covering’s gone. I’m disappointed in you. So very disappointed. I’ve been silent a while, but I can be silent no more. I just had to say something. I hope you don’t mind.

  I only want your best, Evelyn.

  I am, as always,

  Your Devoted Fan

  I shiver, shove my phone back in my purse, and slide down the brick wall until my ass hits the pavement. I stare east at the lights twinkling off the skyscrapers in Chicago’s downtown business district. By day the Loop is the working capital of the Midwest, chock full of lawyers, bankers, and money makers. I probably make more than eighty percent of those folks.

  I’m twenty-six years old and recently cracked seven figures a year. I didn’t invent a miracle drug that cures cancer. I didn’t configure a social media platform that went viral. I wouldn’t know how to build a hot money making app if it flew through the air and punched me in the eye. I earn big money because I’m a 21st Century Courtesan. Beautiful, broken, wealthy men hire me to help them heal.

  I’m empathic. I feel what they’re feeling in my body. Their core wounds twist through me and I identify the emotions behind them. What is rooting about in my belly? His shame. What’s the sensation compressing my chest? His heartache.

  The men I help are titans of their industries. When I serve up their fucked up belief — the thing that’s shutting them down – all neat and pretty tied with a bow on a platter – I offer them deliverance. I grant them absolution. Once they’ve got the keys to their kingdom in hand, they don’t need me anymore. And with the exception of Dylan McAlister, the first client I helped over a year ago – I never hear from them again.

  But right now, I’m not feeling all Glinda the good witch sparkly waving her wand about, dispensing magical ruby slippers. Right now, I’m just a scared twenty something girl huddling alone next to her building wearing leggings and a “Will Give Medical Advice for Tacos” T-shirt at night in a big city neighborhood. I desperately need family but that fantasy fractured a long time ago. I break down and text Amelia.

  Evie: You around?

  Amelia: Working. Can’t talk right now.

  Amelia: You OK?

  Evie: Yeah. Something weird.

  Amelia: Nothing with Movie Star, right? The L.A. gig’s still on.

  Evie: Nothing with Movie Star.

  Evie: No worries. Talk later.

  Amelia: K.

  Amelia: Text me if you need anything.

  I stand back up and pace a few yards in front of the building, practically carving a trench in the sidewalk. I’m not going to call Dylan my part-time boyfriend. I haven’t seen him in a few months. Over a year ago he thought that if I cut off all my hair I’d be safer. Better able to ward off whatever stalker problems I might have had. As much as I love this man, God, he can worry with the best of them.

  I can’t call my mom. She’s pissed off at me, huddled in her suite at the mental health Institute binge streaming shows because I canceled our vacation to the lake house. I also can’t call Ruby. She left Meth Head boyfriend, graduated to Married Man boyfriend, and is still tragically useless in the support department. I’ll be damned if I’m calling Madame Marchand unless my hair catches on fire and there’s no water available in a mile wide radius.

  But I really don’t want to be alone. I text Victoria.

  Evie: Hey. Good time to talk?

  Victoria: Perfect. What’s up?

  I text back so fast my thumbs are tripping over each other. I fill her in that someone broke into my place and left a jewelry box filled with hair on my bed.

  Victoria: Wait a minute. What? Holy shit on a shingle!

  Victoria: Someone left a jewelry box with hair on your bed?

  Victoria: That’s wacked.

  Victoria: On my way.

  Evie: Don’t --

  Evie: Seriously, the cops are already here.

  Victoria: Good. I would have called them if you hadn’t. See you in 10.

  She’s here in five. We sit cross legged on the sidewalk. “Who do you think would do this?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know but didn’t something like this happen to you?”

 
“Yes,” she says, lighting matches and blowing them out. “Did the weirdo leave a letter?”

  “Yes.” I hold out my phone to her.

  She swipes through the photos and shudders. “Jesus. This isn’t about me, but it brings back crappy memories. I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”

  The cops return 45 minutes later.

  “Ms. Berlinger,” Detective Novak says. “Nothing’s missing? Is that correct?”

  “Right.”

  “Plenty of times folks discover things missing later. Don’t hesitate to call me.” She hands me her card. “We’re taking the box to the lab and going to run it for prints. The lab will analyze the hair but I’m pretty sure it’s synthetic. I’ve known my share of weaves and wigs.”

  “Me too,” Victoria pipes up.

  “Feel free to call us or we’ll get ahold of you,” she says, steps back in their SUV and they drive away.

  My home has been broken into and I’ve been violated. Dylan was right and wrong all at the same time: a predator does have me in his sights and it does have something to do with my hair. It’s just not playing out exactly how he imagined. Violation and its first cousin, disgust, slither across me and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the need to shower with an entire bottle of disinfectant.

  I look up at my corner condo on the top floor. How in the hell did this creep get in? Maybe he went over the roof, took the fire escape down and shimmied over the ledge. I did it once when I was locked out. Scary, but not impossible. I’m going to have to call a locksmith and put extra security on the windows but I can’t do that tonight.

  My safety bubble has been slashed, air hissing out of formerly cushy tires. The keys, resting cool in my hand feel unfamiliar and that pisses me off. I’ve worked so hard to get to a place of balance, juggling my crazy mom, sister with the bad boyfriend picker, demanding job, and broken men. This feels like the last straw right at a time when I need to be strong because the biggest job of my life starts tomorrow. I clench the keys so hard the grooves dig into my skin and I don’t know whether to cry or scream.

  “You want to stay at my place tonight?” Victoria asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I do.”

  PRAISE

  “I FLOVED this book.It moves quietly along packing punch after punch.." Maura

  “a roller coaster of emotions and had me hoping that Jake Keller could be helped. “ arthistorygirl

  “Who wants to come to Hollywood and help a super-sexy movie star, who is also a really nice guy, regain his mojo? Oh, and it might involve glitzy parties, star-filled movie premieres, and lots of hot, juicy sex. Me me me!!” Beverly Diehl

  One click MOVIE STAR #2 now!

  MOVIE STAR: 21st Century Courtesan Book2 is © 2019 by Pamela DuMond. ~ All rights reserved.

  FREE — His Sexy Cinderella: A Crown Affair Prologue

  Dear Reader: Start THE CROWN AFFAIR with His Sexy Cinderella - A Crown Affair Series Prologue — FREE! THE CROWN AFFAIR is the steamy royal romantic comedy series about Vivian, a down on her luck cocktail waitress, who gets caught up in a love triangle between two hot princes. (NOT menage!) In the end — who will win Vivian’s heart? Prince Max — the spare? Or Prince Leo — the heir?

  PRAISE

  "Deceit, suspense, jealously, heartbreak, love, angst—it was like reading a contemporary version of The Crown. I could not put this book down." April Symes

  "I absolutely love Vivian and Max." Amy Stephens

  "...story is most certainly ramped up... thanks to the introduction of the very dirty mind of a very hot ginger prince." Rae Sonethyn

  "...heart all mushing, sexy and delightfully entertaining romantic comedy." A. Reviewer

  DESCRIPTION

  I, Maximillian Rochartè, am Prince of Bellèno, and I do the Crown’s dirty work. The monarchy borrowed millions from oligarchs and the loans are coming due. I unearthed a billionaire who will fork over a fortune in exchange for marrying his daughter, Lady Cici, to my brother the Crown Prince. But Cici has to delay and time’s running out.

  I hire Vivian – an out of work cocktail waitress, as well as Cici’s look-alike – to impersonate her for 10 days tops. I teach her how to dress like a royal, talk like a royal, impersonate a royal. Vivian’s so pretty, feisty, funny, smart. I haven’t had this much fun with a woman in years and I'm dying to get her in the sack.

  I, Maximillian Rochartè, am Prince of Bellèno. I can’t fall in love with an American commoner – or can I?

  Chapter 1

  VIVIAN

  “Yo, Vivian! What does a guy have to do to get a drink around here?” the Hulk Hogan look-alike grunted.

  “Just need to ask me nice, Mr. Fitzpatrick.” I shouldered a large, round tray with a few dirty glasses and made a beeline to his four-top table on the right side of the bar. I cocktailed at Mugshots, a beer-scented, hard rock 'n' roll playing, leather jacket-clad bikers’ bar.

  Mr. Fitzpatrick and his buddies were in their late sixties with bandanas tied over their long, white hair. They were my favorite regular customers; rough around the edges but incredibly sweet. I picked up a few more empties. “What can I get you?”

  “Vivian, my angel,” Mr. Fitzpatrick said. “I need three Jack and Cokes and one fake lemonade with no sugar for Artie. He’s on the wagon.”

  “Got it. Artie. You okay? Not another ’bout of the gastritis?”

  “It’s a blood sugar thing.” Artie tapped the heels of his scuffed, black leather biker boots on the scratched, wooden floor. “My wife keeps asking, ‘Why don’t you stop riding? When are you going to stay home, watch Jeopardy and play with your grandkids?’ Seriously, Viv. I’m already retired. I spend twenty-two hours of almost every day at home. I hit the road with my buddies one afternoon each week and after that I feel alive again. I don’t think quitting our rides will affect my blood sugar.”

  “Those rides are good for you Artie,” I said. “Fresh air. Oxygen in your lungs. Getting out in nature is healing.”

  “When are you going to ride with us, Viv?” Artie asked. “We keep asking.”

  Never. I would never ride a motorcycle again.

  “I appreciate the offer, but life is so busy these days with school. One sugar-free lemonade coming your way my friend.”

  I weaved around the sober customers, the tipsy folks, and all the in-betweens on my way back to the bar.

  I hoisted my tray onto the counter and delivered my order to Buddy Paulsen, the bartender and co-owner. Buddy was thick around the waistline, covered in tats, and sported a ruddy Irish complexion. Fifty years ago he could have been the poster child for a Rebel Without a Cause. Now he was a businessman who desperately wanted to keep his waning crowd of aging bikers happy while he catered to the bar’s newcomers. I unloaded the dirty glasses onto a rubber mat.

  My BFF, Lola Consuela Campillio, she of the tall legs and the dangerous curves, strode up in the same uniform I too had recently been forced to wear: a tight pleather mini, a deep V-neck Lycra top, fishnet stockings and black pleather, thigh pinching, high-heeled boots. She rested her tray on the bar next to mine. “I’m filing an official complaint, Buddy. I hate these new uniforms.”

  “I second Lola’s motion.” I tugged my mini lower onto my legs to better cover my private girlie parts. “These outfits make us look like sluts from Slutsville and I fear I’m getting a bunion. How come we can’t wear our Mugshots T-shirts and jeans?”

  “You both know why. I’m not in charge of this place anymore. Mike Woodman is.”

  “Woodman doesn’t care that I have to change clothes in the bathroom because God forbid I go home wearing this and my kid wakes up and sees hooker mommy,” Lola said. “I’m putting meals on the table. I cannot deal with Child Protective Services.”

  “Lola, you gotta play nice with the new guys. It was sell a stake in the place or close the doors. I love Mugshots. It wasn’t an easy decision.”

  Buddy sold his majority share of the bar to thirty-something businessman Mike Woodman. He came from fami
ly money and parlayed his trust fund into making a shit-load more dough in the stock market. Woodman got bored and then bought up his favorite interests like they were Tonka toys. His purchases included a bowling alley, a Harley-Davidson dealership, a strip club, a Baptist church along with its charismatic leader, and finally, a biker bar—Mugshots.

  Which pained me.

  While I’d only worked here since the day I turned twenty-one—nine months earlier—I’d hung out here for far longer. My dad used to frequent the joint with his buddies. And before it was considered child-abuse to take your kid to a bar, he’d bring me along on the nights Mom was working.

  I hung out with the bikers, heard the stories about the rides, and the Sturgis’ outings. After my folks died in a motorcycle accident four years ago you’d think I’d want to get away from a biker bar. But the problem was this place felt like family. And I didn’t have a lot of that left.