“I bet Ian Hudson is ruing the day he handed Lesley’s file to you.”
I shook my head. “She was a hot potato for Ian. He was itching to pass her along to someone else.”
“Someone like you—the new girl?”
I shrugged. “Who better than the person who can hunt down the best freshly-baked chocolate donuts on the south side of Chicago?”
“The chocolate glazed changed my life,” she said.
“The sour cream transformed them from a B minus into an A plus.” I moved to the city a year ago, rented a teeny apartment in a dicey neighborhood, and made ends meet as a dog walker, a Lyft driver, and a sexy pizza delivery chick. Yes, the latter was sad, but I scored tips as well as pizza rejects, the pies customers refused because someone screwed up the order and dispatched pepperoni instead of sausage.
I lived on pizza and tips until nine months ago when I walked a pack of pooches past a pretty storefront in Printer’s Row and spotted the ‘Girl Friday Needed’ sign in the window. I popped in and filled out an application for the assistant position at the White Glove Matchmaking Agency. I was vetted, hired, and put to work. I soon suspected the Girl Thursday position must have sucked even harder because ‘Girl Friday’ was simply a fancy title for the ‘Fetch me a latte and a gluten-free bagel’ chick.
I was the go-to person for snacks, cravings, mundane documents, and purveyor of information that could be Googled with ten clicks. I massaged tight, suit-clad shoulders, dropped off and picked up dry cleaning, and on occasion kids at soccer practice and ballet class. But my big break came when my boss decided he couldn’t handle matchmaking for his pal.
“Take Lesley Gable, I beg you,” Ian Hudson said to me, running his hand through his silver highlighted ash-colored hair.
“I thought she was your BFF.”
“More like my kind of friend. I woke up in her bed naked the morning after we went out clubbing on Halloween twelve years ago. I have no recollection if we fucked or not.”
“You feel guilty.”
“As charged. You need to research, put boots on the ground, and find Lesley a decent husband. Now fetch me a unicorn latte from The Coffee Station before they’re all sold out.”
“You’re the one with the possible sordid history. Why me and not you?” I said, foraging through his office for my purse. I’d tossed it somewhere in the stacks of paperwork, headshots, and bookcases.
“Because I’m gay. I’ve always been gay and I never should have ended up in her bed sans clothes. I blame the tequila. What if Lesley’s been pining for me all this time and I ruined her dating life? What if I’m the reason she never found the right man?”
“Not to underscore your everlasting deliciousness,” I said, spotting my purse and slinging it over my shoulder. “But most women don’t cling to the thought of the one naked guy who got away… for twelve years.”
“Fetch me the drink and find a husband for Lesley. I want the unicorn latte and I insist her husband be spectacular.”
Now Hailey and I paused in front of the ladies’ lounge outside the ballroom.
“The bride’s freshening up,” Hailey said. “She requested your presence, not mine. I’ve got to get back to the reception. Potential client at table five. I hope you can get the liquor out of that dress, Charlotte. I bet that will cost you three weeks’ pay if it’s ruined.”
I stood in the lounge’s anteroom while an attendant waved the blow dryer across the bottom of my gown. Lesley sat adjacent to me in front of the gilded mirror touching up her makeup. She was a pretty bride; black shiny hair styled in a chignon, eyebrows on fleek, dress upscale but not ostentatious.
“I appreciate your help.” I handed the tip to the attendant who accepted it with a ‘Thank you.’
“What happened?” Lesley asked, nodding at my dress.
“I ran into a waiter. He was packing.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Tell all.”
I shook my head. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh, honey, the servers at these types of events are over the moon beautiful. If I wasn’t deliriously happy with John, I might pick up one of those pretty boys too.”
“Trust me, this guy was far from a boy. Besides, your picking up a hot waiter at your wedding reception would be a scandal in my blossoming career as a matchmaker. I can practically see the TMZ headline now, ‘Stunning bride, Mrs. Lesley Biltenhouse caught topless with Paolo, the hot waiter, in the coat closet at her own reception!”
“Stunning? Really?”
I nodded. “Love wears on you in a good way. You’re a beautiful bride. You shine.”
She dabbed a tear that welled at the corner of one eye. “Don’t make me ruin my makeup.” She pulled a white linen envelope from her glittery shoulder bag and handed it to me. “A little something. A small ‘Thank you.’”
I shook my head. “You paid White Glove a fortune.”
“Ian cut me a deal. For some strange reason he thinks we slept together twelve years ago. He puked on my shoes and passed out in my bed, but I have no problem taking advantage of his guilt.” She tapped my hand with the envelope until I reluctantly took it from her. “Open it.”
I edged it open with one finger and pulled out an embossed thank you note, and read the personalized words:
“If you ever need someone to help bury a body, I’m your girl. Thank you forever! Xoxo, Lesley.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “I’m holding you to this.”
“Midwestern girls own shovels you know,” she said. “There’s something else in that envelope.”
I pulled out a gold credit card. “Delacroix” was embossed in raised black cursive letters on the front. “I don’t understand?”
“The Delacroix not only hosts the best weddings with the handsomest waiters, it also has a gorgeous private gym and an immaculate spa. You’ll need a place to unwind when the White Glove taskmasters put you through your paces as junior matchmaker.” She blotted her lipstick with a tissue. “Ian said they can be brutal.”
I stared at the card. It felt firm in my hand. It had heft. “This is too much.”
“No, it’s not. I know all the work you went through on my behalf and the extra hours you spent on my case. I could practically sniff the midnight oil you were burning to find me the love of my life. This card gives you unlimited access to the gym and spa. Lift some weights, punch a few bags, burn some calories on the treadmill. Even better, you have access to the fun stuff: steam, sauna, mineral waters, eucalyptus room, as well as a healthy discount on services. Enjoy this for the next six months. Check in with me from time to time. Let me know if you run into hot waiter Paolo in a coatroom.” Lesley stood up and stared in the mirror one last time, smoothing an errant wisp of hair back into her chignon.
“Truth be told, I’m not sure I fit in at the Delacroix. I’m more comfortable at a bar and grill, pan frying a fish straight out of Lake LaBelle.”
“You didn’t underestimate me. Why do you underestimate yourself? I have to get back to business and toss the bouquet or the single women will rip me from limb to limb. These society chicks can be vicious.” She leaned down and bussed me on the cheek.
“Thank you,” I said, watching her leave, feeling wistful. I wondered if I should venture back to the ballroom in search of the hot waiter or call it a night. My phone buzzed in my clutch with the distinctive tone I hadn’t heard in almost a year, and I jumped, one hand flying to my chest. I plucked it from my bag and stared at the message.
Ryan: On my mind, Char. Saw Bear at End Zone. Let’s talk.
I hadn’t heard from Ryan in a year, and he picked tonight to text me? The first night I’d let my guard down. The first night I was able to relax and imagined being with someone else. I had a much better idea for Ryan. Let’s not talk. Not tonight. Not ever.
I deleted his text, slipped the phone back in my purse, and exited the lounge. I passed the entrance to the ballroom where the bouquet toss was taking place and heard the cheers of excitement. I paused, wondering if I
should join them. But hope had left me high and dry over a year ago. I bowed my head and kept on walking.
Chapter Three
Joe
A hundred years ago my great great grandfather, Lawrence Charles Delacroix, built the five-story French brick and limestone mansion a block from his namesake hotel to be his family’s private residence. Now the stately building was mixed use: first two floors housed a café, a few boutiques, and The Delacroix Historical Library. The top three levels consisted of condos. I occupied one unit, my cousin another, and my grandmother, Marte Bridget Delacroix, kept the penthouse.
Marte was eighty-three and sharp as shit, but her filter was long gone. She’d tell you if your coffee sucked, your underwear was jammed between your cheeks, or if she believed you’d voted for the wrong candidate. She topped out around five feet on a good day, thick, white curly hair crowning her head and high cheekbones framing her crystal blue eyes that twinkled mischievously, making her look like she was up to no good. Considering how many times I’d been told I was an asshole, I suspected I’d inherited my ‘no good gene’ from her.
I was her favorite grandchild, chaperoning her to family gatherings: birthday parties, weddings, and the occasional funeral. She’d hit the beauty parlor at the hotel, pick out something fancy to wear from her vast wardrobe that spanned Chanel to bargain store finds, and don a piece of pricey jewelry that grandpapa had given her. I’d escort her to the waiting town car, make sure she arrived safely at the event, and help find her designated seat. A few nights every week I’d take the stairs up to her place, make her something to eat, watch an episode of Golden Girls, and massage her arthritic shoulders when she complained that they ached due to the cold weather, warm weather, or just because it was Wednesday. My cousins were always nice to Grandma Marte at family and more formal events—as she was to them. But she never really sparked to them the way she did to me. I could live with that.
A casual observer might pull back the curtains framing my life, peek inside, and cast a judgmental eye, thinking I was an introverted trust-fund baby, waking up when I pleased, working out at a private fitness facility, attending black-tie events, and disappearing during the day at my family funded ‘jobs.’ As one of three heirs to the Delacroix family fortune, my life could be construed as cushy.
I wish it was that easy.
I didn’t work for six months after the accident. My family and friends accepted this as part of my recovery. But then nine months passed, and people who cared about me grew less tolerant. I made everyone happy by signing up at Loyola University, Chicago, finishing my MBA, and earning a Masters in Library Science. Two years later when the head of the Delacroix library left for greener pastures, Marte insisted I take the job.
I said no.
She said yes.
I said I’d think about it.
She said great because you’re starting on Monday.
And start on Monday I did. It’s hard to refuse her. I immersed myself in the job. Probably because it was the only thing I cared about. And was surprised when I found the energy to venture out and socialize once in a while.
I lived just blocks from Rush Street where there was a bar on every corner. There were always gigs in the social circles my family ran in. There were beautiful girls in every pub, willing, gorgeous women at every party and event. Now, three years after the accident I wasn’t ready to date but I was ready to get laid.
Bringing women to my home still felt too intimate. Instead, I used the library as my after-hours love shack. Aisle ten with the erotica collection was especially conducive to winning over hearts and minds. “I suspect you’re the kind of woman who appreciates a good book,” I said to whoever the beautiful girl du jour was.
I’d let her take my hand, watching as she laced her delicate, manicured fingers between my thick ones. “This place is amazing,” she’d say, eyeing the art on the walls, the stacks rising above us filled with books, new and old.
“Yes, it is,” I’d say, eyeing the same stacks where I’d fucked Megan McMalley last week, and Lauren Vanderveen three days before that, and Felicity Stein five days prior.
“But you know what would be more amazing?”
“No.”
“Why don’t I show you?” she’d ask, leaning in and kissing me, guiding my hand under her top until it rested on her breast.
It’s easy to let others take the lead when you don’t really care.
She’d run her hand across my dick that couldn’t help but strain against my pants, saluting her valiant efforts to seduce me and win the Delacroix fortune. The chances were excellent that each girl I brought back here fantasized she might be the lucky one.
She’d wonder if tonight would lead into us dating for eight months. Eventually I’d introduce her to my inner circle of friends. Take her to a family event. And then one magical evening I’d realize it was time to settle down and that it had to be with her. I’d bend down on one knee, extend a black velvet box with a huge ass rock inside, and ask her to be the next Mrs. Delacroix. The next Mrs. You Will Never Want for Anything Ever Again.
But first she had to win me over.
“I’ll make you happy, Joe,” she’d whisper, unzipping my pants, wrapping her hand around my cock and tugging it hard as heat flared between us.
“Sure,” I’d say, leaning her back against those musty old book stacks, lifting her skirt, pulling her panties down. I’d position my hands on her hips, close my eyes, and push inside her. For me the ride was hard and fast. I’d block out the gunshots I still heard in my brain with every thrust. I’d mute her moans, tune out the difference in the texture of her skin, the disparity of her touch, and I’d imagine she was someone else.
I always imagined they were someone else.
And after ten minutes or so of screwing the latest library girl, I’d disappear into my orgasm, time would slow for a minute, and that sweet release would be the good kind of explosion for a change. But reality would quickly follow.
Years ago I gave a fuck.
But I was all out of fucks to give.
Chapter Four
Charlotte
You know what a promotion at an upscale matchmaking agency feels like? Like your birthday when friends take you out to celebrate, surprise you with appetizers, drinks, cake, and presents. And then the asshat in the group (’cause there’s always one), decides you all need to go clubbing because, ‘We’re not getting any younger you know.’ The next day you wake up hungover, your tongue feeling like a slab of beef stuck to the inside of your cheek.
It looks like cappuccino delivered to your desk instead of slogging through a snowstorm and balancing a cardboard tray with five for everyone else at work. Sitting, spine aligned, in an ergonomically designed chair instead of the hard, plastic fold-out purchased from Offices R Us. Arriving at the office at 7 a.m. and leaving at 9 p.m. because, once again, you’re the new kid on the block.
But I wasn’t about to let a little hard work deter me. I vowed that fourteen-hour days would become my new normal. I would become a matchmaking goddess and deliver happily-ever-afters to well deserving couples if it killed me.
With the exception of Mr. Black— the thirty-something, too handsome for words guy who co-owned the agency—I was usually the last person out the door every night. He stopped by my cubicle my third late night after hours and dangled a key in front of my face. “Lock up on your way out.”
“You trust me?”
“No. I only asked because my life’s in the crapper and I need the insurance money when you abscond with everything I’ve worked so hard to build.” He tossed the key chain onto my desk. “Don’t stay here too late, Charlotte. This matchmaking business can suck all the life out of you if you let it. Gotta take care of yourself, you know. The clients pick up on it if you don’t.”
“Right, boss. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
He waved his hand in the air as he walked toward the door. “Steal it all, Charlotte. I’m tired. I’d enjoy a trip to the South
of France.”
Now, at the end of the night, I’d lock up, forgo public transportation if the weather was decent, and walk the half-mile to my pathetic apartment. I’d feed Benedict, my whiney but super cute cat, eat dinner while watching TV, collapse on my lumpy mattress, sleep, wake, rinse and repeat.
After a week of this routine I decided that being promoted to junior anything was simply code for getting the shittier end of the stick, whatever the stick might be. Case in point: my first two new clients at White Glove Agency seemed to be sweet people, salt of the earth—just not all that easy to match. Probably why no one else wanted to rep them and they were assigned to me.
Tyler Gentry was a dirty-blonde late twenty-something mama’s boy who looked good on paper as well as in jeans and a long-sleeved, fitted T-shirt that hugged the sharp planes of his lean, muscular chest. Per his request, I met him at a trendy billiards hall in River North at 3 p.m. to go over his application.
He leaned over a pool table aiming at the cue ball while I sat in an adjacent dark, red leather booth, sipping a daiquiri and reviewing his intake form. “It says here that you are looking for a nice, smart young woman of moderate virtue to settle down with and possibly move back to Texas some day. What do you mean by ‘nice’?”
“Legs from here to eternity. Smart enough. Likes sports.” He aimed the stick with precision, struck it with a long follow-through, and easily sunk the 7 ball. “Likes to suck—”
“Right. I’ll take that into consideration.”
“What about you?” He turned and eyed me, his gaze starting at my mouth and quickly sliding down to my boobs. “I don’t see a ring. You single?”
“Can’t fraternize with clients, Mr. Gentry. Big fat No-No at White Glove Agency.” I popped the pineapple-strawberry garnish in my mouth and twisted it. Upscale Chicago bars usually had fresh fruit in the winter, which was a total job perk.
“A shame.” He turned and focused on the 9 ball. “You’ve got mad oral skills. I wonder what else you can wrap your mouth around?”
The Client: A Playing Dirty Novel Page 2
