by Kira Barker
“I don’t even know why I’m telling you this,” he admitted. “You don’t want to hear it, and although I can see that you’re starting to doubt, it won’t take you long to convince yourself that I’m the bad guy in this, and Darren’s a saint. Maybe I just want to screw with him a little because I’m getting tired of playing wingman, I don’t know. But if you have two working brain cells in that pretty head of yours, you should maybe start to question the things that happened to you a little more. Why does he do what he does? Why did he want you here, away from everyone else? And where will you draw the line when things get ugly? I’m not saying all his whores end up strangled in a ditch, but even emotional scars aren’t that pretty. Is being locked in a gilded cage really worth having your spirit broken?”
Looking over his shoulder to where the party was going on outside, he paused, then went on, his voice sober.
“I know what I’m talking about when I say that some compromises are worth it. Do you think it’s fun being Alison Moss’s husband? I was a hotshot in my younger years but also a damn good lawyer when I started out. I could have gone my own way, but I didn’t. Yet even in my most delusional, naive moments I always knew what price I have to pay, and am still paying to this day. You should make that calculation for yourself if you haven’t, and maybe factor in that little detail that there hasn’t been a Mrs. Darren Hunter yet, and no one out there believes that she will ever exist. Just some food for thought.”
He turned around and walked away, leaving me standing there with my stomach roiling and my skin crawling.
Did I believe him? No. But did he have a point? That question I couldn’t answer, and in many ways that scared the living shit out of me.
Chapter 25
I did my best to rejoin the party after my talk with Ray, but my head wasn’t in it. Twice in a row I used the wrong names for people, in one case apparently deeply insulting the woman in question. To avoid further altercations, I ducked back around to the catering tent, supposedly to check in on the restocking possibilities for the cake and pastries buffet, but mostly to hide.
Just my luck that some of the more inventive wives had already accosted the waiter bringing the last tranche of sweet delicacies, and they were all too happy to welcome me into their midst. Out of sight of the other women—I doubted their husbands would have minded—they seemed to feel free to stuff their faces with everything they could get their hands on, and I felt vaguely disgusted when I saw one of them make a grab for the waiter’s ass. The guy couldn’t have been more then twenty and was clearly not okay with that, and only too happy to hand over the tray to me when I offered. That drew even more attention to me, and the lucky boy had barely made it out of the mosh pit before the harpies descended on me.
“May I ask you a question?” the would-be cougar asked, not even pausing to let me answer. “Is it true that men get off on having a finger shoved up their ass while you give them a blow job? I was thinking, a woman with your experience would know.”
I’d wisely refrained from partaking in the pastry slaughter, or I would likely have choked on that bite now.
“My kind of experience?” I echoed—not because I didn’t know exactly what she was referring to, but because I thought I’d get a perverse sense of satisfaction out of forcing her to voice it. Turned out I was wrong.
“Why, as a prostitute, of course. Or what term do you prefer—call girl, escort, whore?”
Before I could open my mouth, another woman interjected.
“Is there a difference? That’s something I’ve always wondered.”
“Well, she doesn’t look like she’s doing thirty-buck numbers on the street corner,” a third observed.
I probably should just have excused myself, but now my defenses were up, and I’d rather face them down than run from a fight.
“Former escort, and yes, there is a difference, but most people use the terms interchangeably. And for thirty dollars, you don’t even get a smile from a girl of the level I was working at.”
There were some looks and murmurs exchanged, but as the general air didn’t seem too hostile, I let myself relax. Most of them looked like they were just in for the scandal and gossip, and maybe some tips and tricks if they could hide where they got them from.
“What differences?” the second woman asked, then added, rather belatedly, “If you don’t mind explaining.”
“Mostly the level of emotional involvement. If you just want sex, you’re likely not willing to pay the rates a girl charges for more extensive companionship. Then, of course, if you want something a little extraordinary, you’ll likely have to look for a more experienced girl who offers these services. It really depends on the client.”
“So you don’t just fuck them, you also go out with them? Tell them you love them?” That from a woman farther back, and I didn’t need to hear the anger in her voice to know that she wasn’t a fan of me or my previous profession.
“Lying is usually not part of the deal,” I tried to explain, hoping I didn’t offend her even more and thus tip the general mood against me. “Most men who shell out money for an escort do so because they want that different experience from what they usually have. Kind of like a treat, something you get once in a while, but it’s not something that sustains you. Sooner or later that becomes boring, too, and they move on.”
I knew I’d said something wrong when more than twenty pairs of eyes narrowed on me, but I tried hard not to cringe openly. I hadn’t seen any of my former clients out there, but I knew well enough that chances were good that Ray and Darren weren’t the only men around tonight who liked to indulge in such “treats,” and it was always easier to blame the dirty whore than the cheating husband.
Unexpectedly, the cougar came to my rescue, offering a fake but clearly amused laugh.
“Not even your profession, I mean, former profession is safe from the recession? What is the world coming to?”
I smiled politely and did something with my head that could have been interpreted as a nod, but I clearly wasn’t off the hook yet.
“Do they get off on that?” the curious one asked, bringing the conversation back to the start.
“Some do,” I offered, shrugging. “At least some of those who can be realistic enough to see that prostate stimulation doesn’t make them gay. A silly notion, if you ask me, but—“
“No one does, sweetie,” the cougar assured me, following up with another laugh. Closing my mouth mid-sentence, I waited for what would come next, hoping that they’d be done soon.
“How do you approach a man about asking that? Not you, personally. A decent woman, I mean, of course.”
“Of course,” I assured her, drawing another volley of glares. “You, not personally, just hypothetically, could just ask outright. ‘Honey, I heard that many men enjoy prostate stimulation because it’s supposed to be the equivalent to g-spot stimulation, would you like to try? Because I really love getting fucked real good and hard, and you might like that, too.’” That was clearly too much, but then I might as well provide them with the spectacle they were lusting after.
I earned myself a few gasps and aghast looks, but a lot less than I’d expected—a tough crowd tonight.
“It is really a shame that such a nasty person like you has your looks,” the already offended woman pointed out. “But it tells you again what superficial beauty means. Nothing.”
If she thought she could hurt me with that, she was plain wrong, although it still kind of stung. But judging from their previous reactions, I didn’t want to start the discussion where most of my clients had paid me not for my tits and ass but the whole package, including my charming personality.
“Thank you,” I said instead, smiling at her.
That seemed to have been enough, because they allowed me to extricate myself from them and slink toward the flap of the tent. As I peered outside, I noticed that the curious one had followed me, wringing a napkin in her hands. Biting my lip, I made myself offer her a real smile as I leaned
closer, and found that it wasn’t as hard as I’d expected.
“Suggest, carefully, that usually works. Or offer some mutual exploration, you might both get the best out of that.”
Red spots appeared on her cheeks as she blushed, but she at least didn’t look at me as if I was Satan’s little helper.
“Thank you. And I find it wonderful that you and Darren are trying to make things work despite, you know…”
And, just like that, sustaining that smile became hard. I wondered if I should explain about how things had started, but in his pep talk earlier, Darren hadn’t sounded as if he actually approved of me dishing out all the details.
“When you love someone, it’s easier,” I offered the most bland Hallmark card reply in my repertoire.
It seemed to have been the right answer as she smiled and ducked back into the harpies’ nest, my cue to beat it. And this time I didn’t linger.
I spent the remainder of the evening alternately hiding and by Darren’s side. When people started to leave, I lost my excuse for my infrequent breaks and had to remain in full sight, shaking hands and trading fake smiles with every single one of the women who’d so obviously not welcomed me as one of their own. A few less-than-sincere invitations for lunch were offered, but no one seemed to care about meeting me again. That was fine with me, but halfway down the guest list I got the sense that Darren was growing increasingly disappointed with me. I didn’t quite understand why—all they had for him were encouraging smiles and simpering comments, and not a single one of the men made a pass at me.
Ray and Alison were the last to leave, and even they ignored me as much as possible. With Ray that didn’t exactly hit me hard, but I’d kind of expected at least one snarky comment from his wife. As they thanked us for the wonderful party, she finally did draw me aside, but only to let me know that the coffee had been a disaster, and next time not to opt for the second-rate champagne.
I figured I should have been happy that I’d survived and no one had died of bad taste poisoning, but as soon as the door closed and I caught the look on Darren’s face, I knew that I hadn’t yet made it.
Without all the nonsense—and what I still hadn’t made up my mind over—that Ray had spouted, I would probably have gone up in his face, but with all that still tearing at my conscience, a tired sigh was the first thing that came out of me.
“Well, it wasn’t a complete disaster,” I offered, hoping that I could placate him with humor.
I got a tight smile in return, but at least it was a smile.
“I admit, I had expected more of you,” he replied, then shrugged. “But everyone makes mistakes.”
I had the distinct suspicion that he was referring to himself with that last part, not me. Biting the inside of my cheek, I swallowed my pride and took the fall.
“I’m sorry that not everything was perfect. The caterer came with glowing recommendations, and—“
“The problem wasn’t the food, or that god-awful champagne,” he said, his eyes now honing in on me. “You were the problem.”
“I?” I asked, absolutely clueless. “But I didn’t do anything!” Except scandalize a small portion of his guests, but the repercussions of that were likely still in the making when those women told their husbands; as far as I could tell, Darren hadn’t really been around most of their whispering and stares.
“Exactly,” he agreed. “Instead of entertaining our guests, you were always flitting around the edges, doing what anyone from the event planning staff could have easily done. And did you really tell the senator’s wife to shove a finger up his ass the next time they have sex?”
So that’s why she’d looked familiar; knowing that, I couldn’t hide a small smile.
“In my defense, she was curious, so I suggested she’d approach the topic circumspectly.”
Contrary to my expectations, Darren was not amused.
“I know that I told you not to hide your past, but did you have to shove it into everyone’s face? When you disappeared that one time, one of my clients was wondering loudly if you were banging the waitstaff, seeing as they had started to disappear as well. Talk of my wife having a gang-bang with the help while I’m trying to put my feelers out about how the political climate of the upcoming months will impact my cases is not helping.”
I honestly didn’t know how to reply to that.
“It is not my fault that almost everyone out there was aware of my previous occupation,” I finally pressed out. “And last time I looked, I wasn’t your wife yet.”
Unsurprisingly, he didn’t like to hear that one bit.
“So you’ll spend the meantime behaving like a drunk sorority girl, jumping anything that has a dick?”
“I didn’t jump anyone!” I cried, throwing my hands up. “I behaved like a completely normal human being, but let me tell you, I think I was the only one! You say I didn’t entertain your guests? That bunch of scarecrows looked mighty entertained while they tore me a new one and put me in my place. What do you suggest I do differently next time, strip down and give everyone a lap dance?”
I was seething by then, and so was he, his breath coming in deep pants that moved his entire torso.
Of course, the butler had to choose that very moment to walk in, speaking directly to Darren.
“Will you be needing anything else, sir?”
Darren visibly pulled himself together until he looked almost like a civilized human being and replied with a pressed voice.
“Some common sense for my wife—oh, excuse me—fiancée.”
James didn’t even blink.
“I’m afraid that’s not something I can be of assistance with. Will that be all?”
Darren nodded and James slunk off, as usual taking his dismissal as if it had come with a heap of praise.
“Common sense, huh?” I sneered, then whipped around and started stomping up the stairs, or as much as I could stomp in high heels that had been killing my feet the entire evening. Halfway up, I slipped, then kicked the stupid shoes off and resumed my path. Let that snotty butler do his job and clean up after me.
Darren was hot on my heels, not even waiting until we reached the bedroom before he grabbed my arm and used my momentum to swing me around, forcing me to face him again. His eyes were wide and a frown appeared etched into his forehead, but at least he wasn’t shouting.
“Can you stop for a minute and tell me what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“With me? Why is everything that goes wrong my fault?” I shot back.
“Because you’re acting like a lunatic right now!” he replied, his voice rising. “You want me to take your side? Fine. Everyone was out to get you and they are all such meanies. Did one dare to pull your pigtails, too, or did they just shout that you’re a nasty girl?”
The absurdity of his words alone made me pause but also brought a more deep-set kind of anger roaring back to life.
“Very mature of you, Darren, bravo.”
He snorted in return.
“If you’re acting like a child, why should I be the adult?”
“I’m not—“
“Just listen to what you said!” he pointed out hotly. “Everyone knew, and everyone judged. So what? Let them judge. This can’t have been the first time you got a similar reaction. In fact, I clearly remember that you made the same exact sour face at the country club a few weeks ago. Why do you still care what everyone thinks about you?”
“Because—“ I started, then had to stop because I just couldn’t articulate what I was feeling. “Just because!”
“Because, deep down, in spite of everything I keep telling you, you still think that you’re a dirty whore?”
I knew that he didn’t mean that as it might have sounded, but it still cut me to the bone to hear him utter those words in reference to me. And it wasn’t an improvement that to some extent they were true.
“What else but that am I?” I whispered, my voice hoarse with unspilled tears. “They all know.” Then something else occurred
to me, and my strength returned. “How do they even know? Did you tell them? Did you shout it from the rooftops, or include it in the RSVP?”
A muscle ticked in his temple, but Darren sounded strangely calm as he replied.
“They know—as do you, I might add—that for a long time I haven’t been dating any women I didn’t pay for sex. But that doesn’t change the underlying issue one bit.”
“How can it not change—“
He interrupted me, his calm more potent than if he’d just shouted over me.
“People judge. That’s how life works. They hear escort, they think lying, cheating, nasty, despicable whore. They hear lawyer, they think lying, cheating, conniving, arrogant prick. Do I need to go on? We all judge, because when we meet someone, we have about three seconds to make our complete assessment of that person, and very likely it turns out incredibly wrong if their profession is all we base our opinion on. After that, it is your job to prove to them that you’re not just some random paper cut-out sock-puppet but a person, with strengths and flaws, quirks and unexpected hidden traits. After that, the ball is in their court; either they change their mind and see you for what you are, or you just tell them to go fuck themselves.” He paused, then stepped up to me so he could cradle my face in his hands, staring intently into my eyes. “Why is it so hard for you to accept that you’re so much more than some completely inadequate label? We keep having the same discussion over and over again, and it’s killing me to see you do this to yourself! Why can’t you just see yourself how I see you? As a wonderful, loving, caring, beautiful woman?”
His change in course was hitting me completely unexpected, and while I was vaguely aware that he was manipulating me, I couldn’t keep his words from going straight to my heart, bypassing the paranoid voice at the back of my head completely. As a consequence, instead of telling him what I really felt—that he could repeat those same words over and over again and they still were just that, words, if all he did was talk and never back me up with action—I started to cry, and from that point on I knew that it was a lost cause.
