Then, she walks out of the Penthouse, slamming the door behind her.
I follow Tinsley to catch her smashing the elevator button with vigor.
“Tinsley, please,” I ask. “Don’t do this. Don’t walk away.”
She stops smashing the elevator button for a moment.
“Noah…” She takes a deep breath.
“I love you,” I insist. “I love you, and we’re so close to making this work Tinsley. We’re so close you can’t give up on us now.”
Tinsley’s lower lip quivers for a moment.
“Tinsley, please.” I beg.
“Noah don’t you ever wonder if it’s supposed to be this hard?” Tinsley asks.
“It doesn’t need to be.” I take her hands in mine. “Come with me to Fiji, help me. I can’t do this without you.”
Tinsley’s eyes meet mine.
She knows I’m telling the truth.
“We need to put our differences aside to do this.” Tinsley agrees, she squeezes my hands back. “I’ll go with you.”
She presses her lips together, her eyes searching mine.
“Thank-you.” I whisper in her ear.
Despite the fact that we are somewhat at odds, I can’t stop myself from kissing her in the hallway for all the world to see.
We will work out.
We’ll be together.
This is the truth.
I’ll kiss the woman I love if I want to.
Somewhere far in the back of my mind, I know Elizabeth is watching.
So, I give the security camera the finger.
Exposure Bonus
Exposure
The Stone Billionaire Series
Book Two
A Special Bonus Excerpt
1
Ava
May 1, 2017
What the Elite Class in Manhattan call the "Breaking into the May" is my favorite part of the year, because the weather finally begins to warm up.
It's a time when the Elites abandon their brownstones and ultra-chic penthouses for immense compounds in the Hamptons, or more exotic locales like Fiji.
For a high-end escort, the work inevitably slows down. But, the play intensifies!
In most cases, the girlfriend experience I provide leads to a trip to the Hampton's, or Long Island. Wherever my date wants to go. I am just an accessory, something to enhance their lives.
For a typical engagement, I pack extra clothes, since I like to have the appropriate wardrobe for an evening, or weekend, or even an entire week. One never knows when they will be asked to accompany their 'date' to a concert, or a political event. I like to be prepared.
Today, however, as May begins its march towards Summer, I am dreading having to navigate the twenty or so blocks to Isa's state-of-the-art office, hidden in midtown. It feels too far from my apartment in Hell's Kitchen in the sudden May heat.
At almost three grand a month, my tiny one bedroom barely gets any use. I've loved it since I walked in the door with enough money to call somewhere my home. It's exposed brick walls, tiny kitchen, and terrace are filled to the brim with clutter.
Rarely does anyone visit, as I have no life outside of my demanding work schedule. It saddens me that my apartment is so lonely, but all of that is about to change.
In spite of my seniority with the firm, the grim-faced security guard pats me down extra slowly. He does this every single time, without fail. You'd think that they would realize by now that I've never carried a weapon in my life.
I wouldn't know what to do with a gun should someone stuff one in my hand!
And, if they ever found me trying to smuggle in a weapon, I suspect it wouldn't end well for me.
Not at all.
The whole routine is becoming tiresome, and I am weary of this kind of life. And so, because of all of this tedium, (the sleeping for men with money, the girlfriend experience), it's finally coming to an end.
I'm getting out.
Not because I found some rich man to marry.
Not because Isa has determined I'm no longer an 'asset' to her organization.
No.
I'm leaving on my terms.
When I started this whole game, I swore it was not going to define me. I promised myself I would leave whenever I had finally had enough. But, wisely, I also told myself I would not make a go of it before I could support myself on my own.
So, I saved.
I saved and saved, and eventually I had put enough away to give me some breathing space. A bit of room for me to plan how to get my shit together. I gave myself six months.
If I can't figure everything out in six months, then maybe I'll come back.
I can't, however, keep going on living a double life as Bexley Fabbraro and Ava James, because that's now the real me. I want to be who I really am, I want to feel the freedom of living on my own terms and not answering to anyone, including Isa.
There's so many options to consider.
What should I do with my newly-won freedom, and all that spare time?
Maybe I'll find my birth parents.
Maybe I'll travel to someplace I've never, ever been before.
I giggle.
That would prove a challenge!
There's not too many places where I've not been whisked away for some intimate hanky-panky and fun times!
Listen to me bragging! Naughty girl!
Maybe I'll fall madly in love with the first stranger I run across.
Or possibly nothing will happen to me.
At least I will know that I've done everything in my power to make sure I've given it an honest shot.
Who knows?
I might like trying to live an honest-to-god normal life!
But, I refuse to crawl back to Isa with my tail between my legs, just because I can't make it in the real world.
If it comes to that, so be it. That's fine. I will deal with those consequences when I get there.
But I have to try.
So, that's why I'm miserable.
Because I have one last job to do. One last string to tie up before Isa cuts me loose.
I guess I really shouldn't complain, though.
Really, this is just another in a long line of pretending to be some rich, handsome dude's gal of the moment.
Did I mention that the pay is incredible?
That's the real problem, isn't it?
The money, the parties; it's all so tempting to just give in and lose myself in that world, to just dive in and never come back up.
To drown in excess.
Finally, past security, I walk to the elevator and press the button marked "Penthouse".
Then, I swipe my ID card in the slot.
The lights blink, and I watch the numbers decrease, as the car gets closer to the ground floor.
While I am waiting for the elevator door to open, I tap my fingernails nervously.
Frowning, I think about why I don't want to do this one last job.
I am trying to be practical, to be honest with my reasons for leaving.
But, I am coming up short, because that small voice in the back of my mind keeps saying I should just change my mind about leaving the life. The money is too good to walk away.
As the doors open, and I exit the elevator, I tell the small voice to go fuck itself.
Some of the girls here, the ones who know me as Bexley Fabbraro and not Ava James, think I'm insane for leaving.
They wouldn't dream of doing anything else.
And the rest of them?
They are just jealous. They don't have the desire, or the intelligence, to dream big.
Not one of them thought that I had the balls, (proverbial of course), to tell Isa I just couldn't do it anymore.
After all, an escort just doesn't waltz into her office and tell that viper of a woman that you want to leave her service.
Oh, no.
You get phased out, and you leave on Isa's terms.
Isa is a legend in the business.
She's an arrog
ant, brutally honest businesswoman, who superficially resembles a viper. Well, she doesn't really have scales, I suppose.
Isa is the brains behind I.S.A, Incorporated. International Sporting Affiliates, Inc.
There's nothing really sporting about it, actually. It's a front, a ghost operation that provides any of the Elite of Manhattan with their ultimate woman for a night.
For a 'modest' fee.
An outrageously high 'modest' fee.
Isa can also seem like the voice of reason, as she sits there, surrounded by her priceless paintings and objets d'art.
Seriously, it always amazes most of her clientele how refined her tastes run for a 'Madame'. Isa is cultured, and can keep up with the best of them in any category of conversation.
But, where her cunning really shines is in her business acumen.
Isa is always a secure and reasonable presence in the middle of the chaos and calamity that exists when you manage a gaggle of insecure, catty women, all of whom date men for money.
That's because she treats every single one of us like we are her daughters.
She talks to us like we are her family.
Or, I feel she acts that way in my case.
I have always felt like we somehow connect in that unique way. To be honest, I know it's weird for me to think of her as the mother that I never had. I mean, I don't even know her real name!
Though a part of me thinks it knows the real truth: I am, and always have been, one of her top sellers, which explains why she keeps me so close.
I suspect that if I didn't perform so profitably, she wouldn't treat me as well.
She probably wouldn't be phasing me out as I had requested.
Then again, maybe she's phasing me out because I'm aging.
I chuckle to myself, trying to convince that little voice, again.
But I'm only twenty-five.
That's hardly any impediment to this business.
Shut the fuck up, little voice.
I still remember that first day I met Isa.
I was applying for another part-time job at Bloomingdales. I already was working two other gigs, but I was coming up short financially.
Sighing to myself, I asked the counter-girl for an application. As I started to fill it out, I heard a woman calling to the girl behind the counter.
I noticed this elegant looking woman, perusing the perfumes at the counter.
Isa took one look at me, and then put down the tester she'd been sniffing.
I was wearing a pair of low-slung jeans that had seen better times, and a crop-top, because the heat was incredible outside.
She sniffed, and to this day I can't tell if it were from the perfume, or something else.
Isa looked me up and down, and then introduced herself.
I continued filling out the application, and shrugged.
She said that she thought I had exquisite bone structure in my face.
I looked at her, wondering what this woman was about.
Couldn't she see I was filling out an application? I was busy!
I entertained the thought that maybe she was gay, but she didn't look like it, really.
She offered her hand, and I shook it.
Then, she told the counter girl to bring over three of her most expensive perfumes.
She wanted to give them to me, as a gift.
When that didn't really bowl me over, she took my hand and confessed that she had an offer for me.
She told me she'd like to give me an interview for a modeling job.
Reaching into her Gucci clutch, Isa pulled out her credit card, and told me that she had was looking for models.
Me? A Model? A just over five three, I believed I was hardly model material.
I had to be eighteen or over, of course, but if I agreed to an interview with the client, she'd buy me a more suitable wardrobe, and also makeup.
I told her I'd just turned nineteen, but that I wasn't a professional model.
She smiled that lizard's smile, and told me not to worry.
She set me up for an interview for the next day on the spot, and instructed me to arrive promptly.
After making sure I knew where the address was, she also gave me some taxi fare.
Then she bought me more appropriate clothes for the modeling industry, sexy dresses, high heels, and even paid for a blow out! I was stunned! I had stars in my eyes the whole time!
She made me an entirely new woman! No longer was I plain Ava James.
Then, telling the counter girl to send her packages to "the usual place", she kissed me on the cheek, and walked away.
When I showed up the next day, I learned that it wasn't really modeling.
Of course.
Isa made it very clear that the job was being a professional escort, I was dismayed by this bait-and-switch tactic, but then Isa took me aside and introduced me to some of the other girls.
They all seemed happy and healthy, and they were all gorgeous!
I still had some hesitation about becoming a call-girl like that.
Isa patiently explained the way it worked, and all the perks we girls would get.
This was no low-end pimp palace.
There were checkups, and security. The clients were all very well-heeled, and screened for any potential problem areas.
None of the clients were allowed to mistreat the girls, for fear of being blacklisted, and socially ostracized. Many of the most powerful men, (and some women!) of the country were clients of I.S.A., Inc. Discretion was of the utmost importance, and the girls were schooled in the fine arts of deception and intrigue.
When I asked some of the girls if they minded doing what they did, one of them told me her perception.
"We get to meet interesting people, get wined, dined and, if we're lucky, sixty-nined!" she laughed.
The other girls laughed along with her joke.
"Plus," said another beautiful girl, "we get benefits! And, we make a very nice commission!"
It all seemed very professional, and I only wavered a bit more.
I didn't like the idea of having to fake interest in a man.
Most of my interactions, as brief as they had been, were crammed full of feelings and uncomfortable emotions.
I had some doubts that I could pull this off.
But, the way Isa presented it made it seem like I would be just pretending.
I would be an actress.
At this point, I was numb from being tossed from foster home to foster home, my belongings usually stolen from me, only being used just to collect the State's money and then neglected. I had lived like that for so long.
This gig was different and offered me an escape, so - I just fell into it.
I needed something real.
So, I became something imaginary.
Once I figured out the real game, I found I had a knack for it.
I would transform into whatever a man wanted for the night.
So, on one night Bexley Fabbraro was the girl who went to opera, to the Met Gala with fabulous red hair.
The next she was the fantastic arm-candy of the candidate for State Senator, his lucky charm for the evening, a woman who was fascinating and knew just how to interact with the political crowd.
And then over the weekend, she would be the giggling, naive girl seen tanning on the yacht of a famous actor, the paparazzi cameras busily at work.
But, still, she was completely anonymous. I was so careful to make sure Bexley Fabbraro was the name I gave them. She didn't even exist. Everyone would always wonder who I was.
I never had much to say, but I had enough to say that made people wonder how my date found such an exciting catch.
Of course, plenty of them wanted me for more than just a night.
There were a few proposals, but what did they honestly expect?
What could they possibly see in a relationship with me after having paid all that money for me to pretend to be their girlfriend for multiple dates? For weekends?
I mean, let's face it - I don't fall for men easily.
I find myself almost immune to this sort of thing after all these years of faking out these men and their friends and family.
Even now, as I smile across the room at the only motherly figure I have ever known, I can't wait to run away from her with my final assignment.
The elevator doors open, and Isa is sitting behind her desk.
Her face is illuminated by her computer monitor, and she's sipping some kind of drink.
"Corban Winthrop," she yells, as I walk over to the leather seat in front of her mahogany desk.
A priceless Tiffany lamp sits on its surface, surrounded by reams of paper. Mostly invoices, from what I gather.
I slide into the warm leather chair. It feels divine.
"Corban Winthrop," she yells again, even though I am now seated only mere feet from her.
"You heard he was possibly engaged to that horror show of a model?" she asks.
"Rowan something?" I reply.
My comment is a joke.
"Rowan" has suddenly decided her family surname has made her utterly famous, so in retaliation, she no longer uses it.
She thinks she is the next Adrian Lima. She also thinks she has talent.
Of course, she also claims she didn't have plastic surgery. Something her two plastic surgeons vehemently insist is not true since they are proud of their artistry.
I scoff at the idea of Corban Winthrop dating a shallow, mindless and plastic bore such as "Rowan" because anyone who would date someone like that is of no interest to me.
"Well," says Isa, "he wants to set the record straight."
She sips her drink, and smacks her lips.
"It seems he's as disgusted with her as you are," she continues.
"He wants a woman who seems worldly enough to stir up some rumors that he's engaged to someone else," she says.
I roll my eyes.
"So please, Bexley darling, just stir up some trouble for the weekend, and we'll call it a win-win. Incidentally, you get to wear this, and yes, it's Harry Winston before you ask," she rattles off.
She slurps the last of her drink as she tosses the box to me.
I catch it, and then I am shaking as I open the Harry Winston box, revealing the most beautiful pear-shaped canary yellow diamond ring.
Torrid Page 30
